On the
sidewalk outside a pawnshop, Miller stopped and peered in. A beautiful acoustic guitar sat front and center on a stand. Scratches marred its pale wood but the deeper brown on the neck was rich and gleaming.
“That’s beautiful,” I said.
“It’s mine,” Miller said softly, to himself.
I swiveled to look at him. “What?”
His eyes widened and then he scowled. “Shit, nothing, never mind.” He started walking fast down the sidewalk, and I hurried to catch up.
“It’s yours? I didn’t know you played.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“I guess so,” I said, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. “Are you good? Have you been playing a long time?”
“Since I was ten. I taught myself how to play watching YouTube when we had a computer.”
“Can you sing?”
He nodded. “Mostly covers, but I write my own stuff too.”
I blinked at this new facet of himself unfolding in front of me. “Why didn’t you tell me? Is that what you’ve been doing in your notebook every night? Writing songs? You could’ve played for me—”
Miller stopped and whirled on me. “Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it? Jesus, Vi. Do you ever stop asking questions and helping and…meddling in my shit?”
I recoiled as if slapped. “I don’t…I thought…”
He carved a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have told you about the guitar.”
“Why not?”
“Because now you’re just going to go take your rich-girl allowance and buy it back for me. You’ve helped enough. You’ve done enough. I can’t take anymore.”
I stared at the intensity in his eyes that were miles deep and sucking me into him, where the pain was deep and dark. Where want and sacrifice and going without lived. Things that sleeping in a real bed after a hot shower and a meal had woken in him.
“I won’t buy it back,” I said.
“Promise me.”
I bit my lip, shuffled my feet.
Miller set his jaw. “It’s something I have to do for myself. Promise me, Violet.”
“I will if you answer one question. Is not having your guitar what’s made you sad lately?”
“I’m not sad…”
“It was a week ago, right? That you sold it?”
He nodded reluctantly. “But I didn’t sell it, I pawned it. There’s a difference. If it’s sold, it’s gone for good. If it’s pawned, I can get it back.”
“What if someone else buys it?”
Miller’s eyes widened, fear burning in them at the thought.
“We have to get it back,” I said. “Because you haven’t been yourself. Like a piece of you is missing, and I just think—”