Fearless (Forever 7)

BAM! With a huge crash, the flow of notes stopped and exploded into a brief, tuneless twang that made my heart stop.

I flung the door open, terrified that Jax had somehow injured himself again while playing.

What I saw scared me even worse. Jax was nowhere to be seen, but the aftermath of his playing was everywhere: tuning knobs scattered like marbles next to smashed fretboards, curled-up strings streaming limply from splintered wood. My stomach churned. If Jax had started this guitar massacre while the band was still in the house, it was no wonder they'd decided to leave.

Stepping gingerly to avoid the wreckage, I made my way through Reed's massive living room. As I walked past a curved wall covered in a large painting with a huge rip running through it, I spotted Jax standing in the furthest corner of the room, still holding a guitar neck in his hands.

When he saw me, he froze, the anger in his face mingling with a sudden flash of pain. He said nothing, but looked down at the pieces in his hand and threw them dismissively into a corner. His eyes looked haunted, like they had last night.

I swallowed hard. This was clearly about something more than guitars. Something had pushed him over the edge, and now he was destroying Reed's house, upsetting the band, and tormenting himself. Whatever the reason, it had to stop.

I took a deep breath. "Need any help smashing stuff?" I asked, stuffing my hands deep into my pockets as I tried to force my voice into nonchalance. "I've got a pretty good arm."

He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths before responding, and in the tightness of his jaw I could see he was fighting to let go of his anger. When he opened his eyes again, the fury in them had diminished, but the pain still lingered. "It's all such shit," he said with quiet intensity. "I can't fucking stand it today."

"What happened?" I asked, hoping half-heartedly that maybe there was an easy explanation for this carnage after all. "Did the roadies mess the guitars up?"

"No, I messed it up," he said, gritting his teeth. "Every time I play, I sound like shit."

I looked into his eyes, and saw fear suddenly mixing with the pain. Was I wrong about Jax not being broken by his dad? He was a survivor, it was true, but somehow at that moment he looked just as broken as the guitars on the ground. I could tell he needed help. But how could I possibly give him what he needed when I had no idea what it was?

I walked over to one of the unsmashed guitars and ran my hand over the neck before picking it up. "Maybe you just don't remember what sounding like shit sounds like," I said, trying to stay nonchalant as I slung the strap over my shoulder. "Now, me, on the other hand. . ."

I gripped the frets awkwardly and strummed my fingers over the pickups, creating a noise that sounded like squealing tires, only less pleasant.

Jax flinched at the discordant notes, but he didn't say anything.

Looks like you need a little more convincing. "Compared to me, your worst day is like Clapton." I started playing air guitar and did my best impression of the guitar riff from "Layla." "Doodle-deedle-doodle-dee, deee doo doo doo dooooo . . . see, that's you."

He closed his eyes and swallowed, as if making another effort to get hold of himself. "You're not even holding that right," he said at last.

I raised an eyebrow. "Not all of us can be rock stars."

"Here, just . . ." he stepped toward me and adjusted the position of the guitar neck in my hand, moving my thumb until it was under the neck instead of over it. "If you hold it the way you were, you'll never get a good sound."

"Oh," I said, relieved I'd been able to make Jax think about something else, even for a minute. "So now I just . . ."

I strummed once more . . . and immediately winced. This time, the sound wasn't quite as horrible—but it wasn't exactly music, either.

Jax cringed, clearly unready for how bad it sounded. "Have you really never played a guitar before?"

"Is that really so surprising?"

He shook his head as if the thought had never occurred to him. "I guess I've just been in the industry too long."

I suddenly felt a little embarrassed. It was easy to forget, sometimes, what different worlds Jax and I lived in. If anyone at my office had ever so much as picked up a guitar, it would have been news to me. "I know you're not going to believe me," I said, grimacing, "but I'm not even a hundred percent sure what a chord is. I'm musically hopeless."

For the first time all morning, the barest hint of a smile traced across his face. "Here, I'll show you one," he said, and put his hands on mine again. This time, he moved them more intricately, and the warmth of his fingers as they subtly positioned mine over the frets sent a thrill coursing through me.

"Good," he said, when he was satisfied with my hand's new position. "Now, strum it again."

Preparing for the worst, I ran my hand over the strings again. This time, what came out of the guitar was definitely more harmonious, even if I wouldn't exactly have wanted to listen to it on CD. "Hey, cool," I said, strumming the notes again.

"That's a C chord," Jax said. "Or it would be, but you have to not pluck the last string when you play. Here, take a pick, it'll make things easier."

I tried again, this time skipping the sixth string with the guitar pick. "Wow," I said. "It's actually music." Fascinated, I plucked the strings over and over, pleased that I could make something that sounded okay—even if it was only one chord. Even with the broken guitars surrounding us, I was starting to feel a little bit better.

"Funny how that works," he said with a wry smile. "You're not bad, for a beginner. Want to learn another?"

I laughed in spite of myself. "How many of these are there? I don't even know if I'll remember how to play this one."

"A lot," Jax admitted. Then, smirking, he said: "But you really only need three, maybe four to start a band."

My lower lip curled with skepticism. "Three or four? That doesn't sound right."

"Here," he said, grabbing another unbroken guitar from the wall and strapping it on. "I'll prove it to you.

A music lesson wasn't what I'd planned on, but if it made Jax's eyes light up that way again, it was more than worth it. He positioned his fingers identically to mine. "This is C, like you just played," he said, then moved his hand to a new spot. "But now this . . . is D."

I squinted at his callused fingers. How many times, I wondered, had he made these same chords, practiced them into perfection? Ten thousand? Millions? Awkwardly adjusting, I tried to put my hand into the same new pose. "Like this?"