He still held the guitar. The frets were well worn. The rest of the instrument gleamed like it was brand new.
And expensive. It was a Yamaha FG-75—he read the sticker on the inside of the case.
“What can you play?”
She shrugged. “Lots of things. But I only play for me. I’m not, you know, good or anything.”
“What kind of stuff do you play?” he asked again.
“John Denver stuff. I don’t know, other things.”
She stood there at the end of the bed, looking happy and worried at the same time. And he couldn’t help thinking about her there at night, all alone, without her clothes on . . .
He handed her the guitar. “Play something for me.”
“No, really, I’m not that good.”
“I don’t care. I just want to hear you. Please?” He looked her straight in the eye, and it was like something happened. Like they said something without using any words. Weird.
What in the hell was going on?
Whatever it was, Tara took the guitar and climbed up on the bed. Her jeans stretched across her thighs as she crossed her legs Indian style and settled the guitar across her lap.
She strummed a couple of times, staring down at the strings, and then started to play strings individually.
“There is . . . a house. . . .” When she started to sing “The House of the Rising Sun,” he didn’t move a muscle. He couldn’t look away, either. She played like someone who was plugged in to a different place, like no one was in the room with her.
She’d lied.
“That was really good,” he said a couple of seconds after the room fell silent.
“Thanks.” She didn’t look at him, putting the guitar back where it belonged.
He’d been planning to kiss her, had been fantasizing about it on and off all day, but he didn’t. They hardly made out that day at all.
He was still glad he’d gone.
Five
I’D NEVER BEEN HAPPIER. NOT EVER.
Nothing in life—not summers with my best friend in all of the world, not horse camp when I was twelve, or the trip to Disneyworld when I was fifteen, not even coming home from work to find a new car waiting for me in the driveway all wrapped up in ribbons and bows— compared to being Tim’s girlfriend.
I wasn’t Tara Gumser anymore. I was part of a couple.
I kept reminding myself of that fact the Saturday night after Tim had met my dad. I was sitting in the car Tim had borrowed from his twelve-years-older-than-him—and married—brother.
The Ford station wagon wasn’t like anything I’d ever been in. It was pretty new, like Mom’s car, but my folks only drove GM products.
The car smelled like cigarettes. My folks had quit smoking forever ago.
We were on our way to Tim’s house on Maple Street. He was going to show me his weights. I was going to watch him work out.
“You sure you want to do this?” Tim asked, taking his gaze from the road long enough to look at me. He had on a black jacket and blue jeans and just looking at him made those feelings come back between my legs.
“Yeah, of course I do.”
It felt so right, sitting there with him in a family car. Like we were a couple who were going to have kids to fill up those backseats.