We Have Till Monday

I let out a laugh.

“You know, for claiming youse don’t entertain much, you’re kinda treating me like royalty,” I said. “I’m a simple man, King. No need to roll out the red carpet.”

“Like royalty?” He was going to argue with me… “I was just thinkin’ in the shower—I haven’t even had the decency to ask if you’re hungry.”

My turn to be dismissive. I happened to be hungry as fuck right now, but it hadn’t crossed my mind before. Besides, work was always too busy, and I hadn’t exercised, according to the shitty diet I’d been keeping since Nicky moved out. I could stand to lose a few.

“I’m just glad you’re thinking about me in the shower.” I met his grin with a smirk and stubbed out my smoke. “I’ll go get dressed. Be right back.”

I ducked inside the guest room and dug through my duffel for an outfit that would look decent next to King’s. I did have a black button-down that Nicky had bought me, which I could admit looked good on me. But jeans would have to do. I only owned a single pair of dress pants, and they were reserved for funerals.

Fresh socks, some extra deodorant, cologne, my watch, keys, wallet—where was my phone? Probably outside. I didn’t remember bringing it in with me.

Folding the sleeves of my shirt, I rejoined King on the patio, and he told me that he wanted to show me something.

“Do I need my shoes?” I asked, pocketing my phone.

“No, it’s inside.”

I followed him past the barbecue area and into the house, where he veered left. In front of me was a set of stairs that made me think about Camden. Was he really going to hide out upstairs all evening too?

King continued down a hall and didn’t stop until we’d reached the end. Then he opened a door and revealed a slice of heaven by my standards. They had a music room. Why was I not surprised?

My feet sank into the soft carpet as I eyed the guitars on the walls. At the center of the room was a baby grand with its lid open. I withheld my cringe and shifted my focus to the saxophones and mandolins by the window facing the front of the ranch.

Why collect instruments if you didn’t play them?

They were expensive models too. The Steinway alone went for almost a hundred grand.

Madonna mia, I’d never been so torn between grief and awe.

“Tell me this isn’t a rich man’s hobby to collect instruments you can’t use,” I blurted out.

King furrowed his brow at me. “I inherited every piece from my mother.”

That brought me a lot of relief. “Thank fuck.”

He became curious. “How do you know I don’t play them?”

“No guitarist worth his salt hangs a collection of Taylors on the wall like that unless he doesn’t intend to play them again.” I wanted to fucking cry. I walked over to the guitars and brushed a hand over one of them. They had to have a cleaning service around this place. There wasn’t a speck of dust. That was something, at least.

“How do you store your own instruments?” he asked. “You said you played several.”

“That’s different,” I replied. “I don’t own an instrument that I don’t use at least once a week.” I’d been thinking about turning my second bedroom into storage for my instruments, now that Nicky wasn’t using it anymore. So far, I had a pantry under the staircase that I definitely didn’t store food in. I also had a walk-in closet on the first floor that’d become a storage unit for my guitars. “You know how leather gets softer when you wear it? And how a cast iron skillet gets better the more you use it?”

“I’m surprised you know that last one.”

I chuckled. “My grandmother is Italian. Some shit rubs off, I guess.”

He smiled and sat down on the piano bench. “I think I know where you’re goin’ with this.”

I nodded. “Guitars are the same.” Touching a guitar was actually good, especially older ones that didn’t have a thick coat of glossy finish. The natural grease in our hands softened the wood and prevented it from cracking, and I explained that to the master chef.

“Duly noted. I should come in here every day and stroke the wood.”

I snorted and shook my head in amusement. Then I sat down next to him, only I faced the piano instead. “This is beautiful.” I ghosted my fingers over the keys but didn’t play them. “Was your mother a musician?” I searched the walls for clues; there were no pictures, but several vintage posters that’d been framed. Promotional posters for burlesque shows, classical concerts, and paintings of great composers. A wild mix.

“Nothing that went beyond singing in her church,” King answered. “But her second husband was a pianist, her favorite uncle toured in a blues band, and her brother—who died in a car accident in his twenties—was a guitar player. It’s his collection on the wall.” He got up from the bench and leaned back against a wall instead. “Will you play something?”