Page 67 of Composed
Hendrix sits hunched on the other side of the room, the pencil in her hand flying across paper as she notes down every chord I strum. Hair spills down her face, the humidity in the air curling the silky strands.
“Go back,” she tells me, not looking up. “The minor six-nine. Play that again, but slow it down so it holds into the fourth beat.”
I do as she says, dragging my pick down the strings.
She rolls her pencil in her fingers, before beaming at me. “Yes! That’s it.”
“You think?”
“Are you doubting me?”
Never.“And you said you were rusty.”
“I am.” She slaps her palms on her thighs. “Right, I need tea. My brain is frazzling. Then we can run it back once more. But honestly, I think this is a great place to be in right now. We have something to work with.”
I place the guitar on the carpet and jump up. “I’ll make the tea.”
“I don’t mind doing it.”
I grimace. “Rixie, the last time you made me a cuppa, it tasted like sewer water.”
“Hey!” She scowls. “I’ll have you know my tea-making has come a long way in recent years.”
I snort. “Still, I’ll handle the drinks. You just sit there and scribble away.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head before going back to the sheet music spread out before her.
I grab two clean mugs and flick the kettle on.
Music curls around me as Hendrix fiddles with the guitar.
I press my hands to the counter and close my eyes.
For a woman who claims to have not done this in a while, she’s slipped so easily into the routine. It’s hard to imagine this isn’t what she does for a living. It’s what sheshouldbe doing—what she should have always been doing.
She plucks the strings,Stand By Mepouring through the room.
I chew my lip, holding back my chuckle.
This shouldn’t be so easy.
It also shouldn’t be so hard.
The kettle clicks.
I make the tea quickly, and hand it off to her.
She hugs the mug in her hands, eyes dipping as she breathes in. “Yeah, you can make the tea.”
“I know.” I grin as I grab the Hummingbird and settle it into my lap. “Hand the sheet music over and let’s get this going.”
She does and I fill the silence with my haunting strums.
I sink into playing, my fingers moving slowly as I flick the pick over the strings. I’ve come along with the guitar over the years—still can’t playEruptionwith my eyes closed, though.
I’m about to tell Hendrix just that when a shrill ringtone slices through the music.
She glances down at her smart watch, hissing. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’ve got to take this.”
