The Deal

“No. I just have better things to do.” I give him a pointed look. “Like help you pass your midterm.”


“We’re almost done with postmodernism. All the hard stuff starts next session.” His voice takes on a teasing note. “C’mon, we’ve got time. Let me hear it.”

Then he flashes that boyish grin, and damned if I don’t cave. He really has mastered that little boy look. Except he’s not a little boy. He’s a man with a big, strong body and a chin that lifts in determination. Teasing grins aside, I know Garrett will harass me all night if I don’t agree to sing.

I accept the guitar and plop it in my lap, giving it a few test strums. It’s in tune, a bit tinnier than the acoustic I have at home, but the sound is great.

Garrett climbs on the bed and lies down, resting his head on a mountain of pillows. I’ve never met anyone who sleeps with so many pillows. Maybe he needs them to cradle his massive ego.

“Okay,” I tell him. “This is how we’re doing it now. Pretend there’s a guy joining me in the first chorus, and then singing the second verse.”

I know a lot of singers who are too shy to perform in front of strangers, but I’ve never had that problem. Ever since I was a kid, music has always been an escape for me. When I sing, the world disappears. It’s just me and the music and a deep sense of tranquility that I’ve never been able to find anywhere else, no matter how hard I try.

I take a breath, play the opening chords, and start to sing. I don’t look at Garrett because I’m already somewhere else, lost in the melody and the words, wholly focused on the sound of my voice and the resonance of the guitar.

I love this song. I truly do. It’s hauntingly beautiful, and even without Cass’s rich baritone to complement my voice, it still packs the same punch, the same heart-wrenching emotion that MJ poured into the lyrics.

Almost immediately, my head clears and my heart feels lighter. I am whole again, because the music has made me that way, just like it did after the rape. Whenever things got too overwhelming or painful, I’d go to the piano or pick up my guitar, and I’d know joy wasn’t out of reach. It was always within my grasp, always available to me as long as I was able to sing.

Several minutes later, the final note lingers in the air like a trace of sweet perfume, and I float back to the present. I turn to Garrett, but his face is expressionless. I don’t know what I was expecting him to do. Praise me? Mock me?

But I hadn’t expected silence.

“Do you want to hear Cass’s version?” I hedge.

He nods. That’s it. A quick jerk of the head and nothing more.

His shuttered face unsettles me, so this time I close my eyes when I sing. I move the bridge to where Cass argued it should be, add a second chorus like he insisted, and I honestly don’t think I’m biased when I say I prefer the original. This second version drags, and the extra chorus is overkill.

To my surprise, Garrett agrees with me once I’ve finished. “It’s too long when you do it like that,” he says gruffly.

“I know, right?” I’m thrilled to hear him validate my own concerns. God knows MJ can’t speak her mind around Cass.

“And forget the choir. You don’t need it. Hell, I don’t think you need Cass.” He shakes his head in amazement. “Your voice is…fuck, Wellsy, it’s beautiful.”

My cheeks heat up. “You think so?”

His impassioned expression tells me he’s dead serious. “Play something else,” he orders.

“Um. What do you want to hear?”

“Anything. I don’t care.” I’m startled by the intensity in his voice, the emotion now glittering in his gray eyes. “I just need to hear you sing again.”

Wow. Okay. My entire life people have been telling me I’m talented, but other than my parents, nobody has ever pleaded with me to sing to them.

“Please,” he says softly.

So I sing. An original piece this time, but it’s still rough so I end up switching to another song. I play “Stand By Me.” It’s my mom’s favorite song, the one I sing to her every year for her birthday, and the memory carries me away to that peaceful place again.

Halfway through the song, Garrett’s eyes flutter shut. I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, my voice cracking from the emotion behind the lyrics. Then my gaze travels to his face, and I notice a small white scar on his chin, bisecting the stubble shadowing his jaw. I wonder how he got it. Hockey? An accident when he was a kid?

His eyes stay closed for the duration of the song, and as I strum the last chord, I’ve decided he must be asleep. I let the last note trail off, then set down the guitar.

Garrett’s eyes pop open before I can rise from the bed.

“Oh. You’re awake.” I swallow. “I thought you were sleeping.”

He slides up into a sitting position, his tone laced with sheer awe. “Where did you learn to sing like that?”

I shrug awkwardly. Unlike Cass, I’m far too modest to sing my own praises. “I don’t know. It’s just something I’ve always been able to do.”

“Did you take lessons?”