Oh God, yes. Please. Because I’m afraid my voice will reveal pure breathless glee, I just nod.
Shane goes back to his bedroom and returns with the battered guitar he was playing in the music room. He tunes it with a few expert thrums and I focus on his hands: long fingered, scars on the knuckles, hard but graceful. I’d imagine lacing our hands together but I might hyperventilate.
The song is haunting, and he plays with his eyes shut, head tilted back. After a few bars, I recognize it as one Aunt Gabby plays sometimes—“Collide” by Howie Day. I’ve never listened to the lyrics so closely before, but when Shane sings it, I find it impossible to do anything else. His acoustic cover is quiet and slow, a hint of melancholy, so it feels like a breakup song, though I don’t think that’s what it’s about. The line about being tangled up with me? Yes. Please. By the time he strums the final note, holding it until it feels like a touch, I suspect I’d agree to anything.
“You’re really good,” I say.
Understatement.
“Think so?” And he’s not asking for an ego boost. For a moment, his heart shows in his eyes. I’ve seen yearning before, but never so raw, and this isn’t for me. He wants to be good, probably for the same reasons I push for good grades and lots of clubs. Like me, he needs to get out of here; he’s running toward something bigger and brighter.
“The best I’ve ever heard, who wasn’t already getting paid for it.” That’s actually not saying much. My car issues mean I don’t go to many concerts. But I’m sure he’s talented.
“I’ve got some original songs, too, if you’d like to hear one sometime.”
“Sure,” I say, as if I’m not inwardly screaming that he wants to see me again. On purpose. But the last thing I want is to get him in trouble. “Do you need me to head out? What time’s your dad—”
His fingers clench on the neck of his guitar and he gives me a measuring look, before apparently deciding to spill. “I won’t see him again for a while.”
“Where is he?” That’s not what I want to ask, and he knows it.
“He’s a truck driver. He didn’t even have a place until the court dumped me on him. He just put up at short-term motels between long hauls.”
Judging by the crappy accommodations, Shane isn’t close to his dad, as the guy didn’t go out of his way to provide. “I shouldn’t even say anything, but—”
“Don’t say it. I’m not reporting him.”
“Why?” I demand. “He can’t get away with hurting you.”
“I made him a deal,” Shane says, surprising me. “He bought this place … and signs off on any paperwork. In return, I look after myself.”
“But … your face…” I really thought his dad had hit him. But he’s not even here?
“You’ve seen the front porch. Try going out the door when you have an arm full of stuff.”
“You’re trying to convince me you fell.”
He smiles. “I really did. I promise. After I broke my history project, I said screw it.” So it’s the project in the trash, not liquor bottles? “I didn’t feel like going today. My dad is many things … and a good father isn’t one of them, but he doesn’t punch me in the face. He’d just rather not see me.”
“Why not?” I ask, despite my resolution not to pry.
He shrugs, but the careless gesture reveals a world of vulnerability. “I remind him too much of my mom. It hurts, I guess.”
“Because she’s gone.” I have no idea what that means, though. Did the woman move to California to find herself, or—
Before I can speculate, he says softly, “Yeah. Her funeral was the worst day of my life.”
Wow. So, forever gone.