Page 45 of Songbird
“Hm?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything.”
“But will you answer?”
“Rosie.” I hold another berry to her lips and wait until she sinks her teeth into it. “After what we just did, there’s not a shot in hell I’ll deny you anything.”
It’s terrifying how much I mean those words. How they twist like roots and embed themselves deep in my chest. But by the bright excitement that lights up Rosie’s face, she’s got no idea I just promised to give her everything.
“Why didn’t you tell me you could play the guitar?” she asks.
I’m relieved that of all the pieces of me she could choose to hold up to the light, she starts with the one with the simplest pattern. “Why doesn’t an art student tell Monet he knows how to hold a brush?”
Rosie drops her head, and her eyes soften. “You think I’m Monet?”
“Yes, and in case the analogy wasn’t obvious, I’m the preschooler with his fingers in the paint.”
She shakes her head like I’ve made a bad joke, but I’m serious.
“Can you read music?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“And can you play any other instruments?”
“Nope.”
She hums. “Have you tried?”
“Haven’t had the chance.”
Rosie takes another strawberry from the basket, but she plucks at the leafy green stalk instead of eating the fruit. “Have you ever performed for anyone?”
I take a slug of water, then lie back on the pillows, one hand under my head as I look up at the vaulted ceiling. “I’ve never been on a stage, if that’s what you mean,” I say. “My six-year-old niece, Izzy, is learning trumpet and we’ve had some jam sessions.”
I smile to myself at the idea that our lessons could be called jams, but she loves them and so do I. Rosie catches the curve on my lips, and her mouth mirrors mine with a curious smile.
“We played together at one of our family nights a few months ago,” I add. “And I’ve played with people nearby to listen. In high school, in the military, at home, on the road, but I never cared if people paid attention. I played for me.”
Rosie returns her berry to the others, moves the basket and chocolate to the end of the bed, and then lies down beside me, hands tucked under her cheek as she studies my profile. I’d turn to look at her, too, but it’s easier to be honest with the faded drywall than her eager eyes.
“I love that,” she says. “I didn’t realize how much I missed playing for myself until I started writing here. I mean, I get time alone to be creative at home, but there are always people waiting and watching—figuratively if not literally. Fans. Producers. Label execs. Chip.” She sighs. “It’s been wonderful working on material without any of that outside noise. It’s like accessing all this untapped inspiration I never even knew was there.”
Now I turn my head. “I’m glad something positive has come out of this situation.”
Her lips curve up in a gentle smile. “That’s not the only thing.”
The energy between us feels easy and natural, and I reach over to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Finn?” she says.
“Yeah?”
“Would you play something for me?”
My muscles tense. A reflex action, but the near memory of Rosie on my bed, head tossed back, breasts bare, legs open and her hands everywhere, softens me again within seconds. Rosie performed for me. She was vulnerable when I asked her to be, and as uncomfortable as I am at the idea of Rosie being disappointed in my musical aptitude, I can’t ask her to trust me with the things that scare her if I don’t trust her in return.
