A Different Blue(61)
“I know I can be an asshole. I drink too much, I say things I shouldn't, and I get mad too easy. But you could have told me.”
“I should have,” I acquiesced. We stood awkwardly, looking everywhere but at each other.
“It's better this way, Mason,” I suggested softly. He looked at me then and nodded.
“Yeah. I know. But maybe someday you'll give me another chance.”
No. I wouldn't. Mason was part of a past I didn't want to repeat. But I nodded noncommitally, grateful that there was peace between us.
“Take care of yourself, Blue.”
“You too, Mason.” I turned and made my way to the door. Mason called out behind me, and his voice seemed awfully loud in the almost empty courtroom.
“I never pictured you with a guy like Adam.”
I turned and shrugged. “Neither did I, Mason. Maybe that's part of my problem.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Why is your recliner in the middle of the floor?”
“I like to sit under the vent.”
“Are you cold? Don't be shy about turning up the thermostat. This little space isn't exactly expensive to heat.”
“Wilson. It's August in Nevada. I'm not cold.”
“So . . . why is the recliner in the middle of the floor?” Wilson insisted.
“I like hearing you play at night,” I admitted easily, much to my surprise. I hadn't planned to tell him. “The sound travels through the vent.
“You like to hear me play?” Wilson sounded shocked.
“Sure,” I said easily, shrugging as if it was no big deal. “It's nice.” Nice was an understatement. “I just keep wishing you would play something by Willie,” I teased.
Wilson looked crestfallen. “Willie?”
“Yes, Willie,” I insisted, trying not to giggle. “Willie Nelson is one of the greatest songwriters of all time.”
“Huh,” Wilson said, scratching his head. “I guess I'm not that familiar with his . . . work.”
He looked so flummoxed that I couldn't help myself and burst out laughing. “Willie Nelson is a country singer – an old-timer. Jimmy loved him. Actually, Jimmy kind of looked like him, just with darker skin and less scruff. Jimmy had the braids and the bandana, though, and he had every album Willie had ever put out. We listened to those songs over and over.” I didn't really feel like laughing anymore and abruptly changed the subject.
“There's one song you play that I especially like,” I ventured.
“Really? Hum a bit.”
“I can't hum, sing, dance, or recite poetry, Wilson.”
“Just a bit, so I know which tune you like.”
I cleared my throat, scrunched my eyes closed, and tried to think of the tune. It was there in my head, like a cool stream of water. Beautiful. I attempted a couple of notes, and gaining confidence, hummed a few more, still with my eyes closed. I felt quite pleased with myself and opened one eye to see how my humming had been received.
Wilson's face was bright red, and he was shaking with laughter. “I don't have a clue what song you're humming, luv. Maybe you should hum a few more bars until I have it.”
“You . . . jerk!” I fumed, slapping at him as he laughed harder. “I told you I couldn't sing! Stop it!”
“No . . . really, it was brilliant!” he wheezed, warding me off. I gave up with a huff and started dragging my recliner from the middle of the floor, indicating I wouldn't be listening anymore, now that he'd gone and embarrassed me.
“Come on, I'm sorry. Here. I'll hum now so you can poke fun at me.” He pulled the chair back directly under the vent. “Sit right here and put your feet up.” He pushed me down gently into the chair, and lifted my feet so they were propped on the recliner's footrest. “Even better, I'll run up and get my cello, and I'll bring it down and I'll play for you.”
“Not interested,” I lied. The thought of him playing his cello for me made me feel slightly breathless and lightheaded. Thankfully, he just laughed and jogged out of my apartment. I could hear him flying up the stairs and his door bang above me. In minutes he was back, carrying the huge cello case. He snagged one of my armless kitchen chairs, sat down in front of me, and pulled out his shiny black cello. He proceeded to tune and tighten his strings as I watched, trying to hide my anticipation.
“Perfect.” Apparently satisfied, he began to run his bow over the strings, finding a melody. His eyes met mine. “When you hear it, tell me.”
“Why don't you just play . . . the way you do when you're alone. I'll just listen.” I gave up any pretense of not being interested.
“You want me to practice?” He stopped playing abruptly.