“Shit,” I all but yelled.
Layna was already there, looking up at the guitars lining the walls. I hadn’t heard her come in. She had slipped in silently without my noticing.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, her voice ever soft, glancing over her shoulder.
“No. I just didn’t hear you come in. Have you been here long?” I asked, tossing my trash in the bin behind the register.
She was studying one of the guitars intently.
“This is one of yours,” she said, lifting her finger and letting it hover over the shiny wood. She didn’t ask, she stated.
“Yeah, it is. It’s one I just completed last week actually.” I was surprised she could know that this particular instrument was of my creation. She didn’t know me. She had no idea of my style. Yet somehow, someway, she knew.
It was eerie. It was flattering.
I was unsettled.
The acoustic guitar she indicated had taken nearly three weeks to complete. I had meticulously sanded down the rich rosewood that composed its body until it sheened. The Canadian spruce top shone in the dark. I was proud of it. More so than any of the guitars I had made before.
There was something personal about this piece. I felt as though I had bled myself dry when I had made it, giving it everything I had. There were elements of the real Elian within the guitar that were inconsequential to anyone but me.
I hadn’t wanted to put up for sale. I had even argued with George about it.
“My shop, my product. You used the tools I own to make it, it belongs to me. This will make us both a pretty penny. Stop being such a wimp about it,” he had barked, annoyed when I suggested we keep it as a showpiece instead.
I had wanted to hit him. Smash his face into a dozen, bloody pieces. But I had swallowed my fury and backed off.
It’s what Elian Beyer would do.
The slopes and lines were reminiscent of the guitar my sister had left behind. Her favorite. The same guitar I kept in its case beneath my bed to this day. The guitar that hadn’t been played since I was twelve years old.
I had fashioned the headstock from a recognizable symbol.
A nautical star.
The same symbol I now had tattooed on the center of my back for reasons that were mine and mine alone.
“It’s beautiful,” she said genuinely. She carefully traced the line of the star, barely touching.
Her appreciation caused something warm to unfurl in my gut. Hot and liquid it spread with the beat of my heart through my veins.
“Do you play?” I asked, noticing the covetous way she regarded the guitar.
“Never,” she said quietly, her fingers recoiling from the wood as though stung.
“Would you like to hold it?” I asked, reaching around her to lift the guitar off its wall stand. My front pressed, ever so slightly, into her back. She stiffened instantly.
My arms, encircling her body from behind, but not touching, held the guitar. “Here,” I told her. She slowly took the offered instrument, and I moved back, only a fraction of an inch.
She held the guitar naturally. Her left hand clamping down on the neck, tips of fingers pressing down on the strings. She didn’t struggle with the weight, though I knew it was heavy.
She lifted her hand and lightly touched the strings. I noticed that she was shaking and I wondered about it. But I didn’t ask. I wasn’t in the habit of prying into people’s business. I knew the importance of secrets.
Her face darkened suddenly and she jerked her hand down viciously. It was an abrupt, violent squealing of strings. The discordant tone echoed around the empty shop.
For the first time I saw true and honest emotion on her face that had nothing to do with sadness or desolation.
It was anger.
It was longing.
It was unquestionable hatred.
It was love as deep as the ocean…
“Take it,” she said, her voice cracking and broken.