The Duet(48)

Mid-way up the stairs, I leaned over the banister and hollered to LuAnne. “Do you need my help with anything? Cleaning? Dusting? Flipping through magazines!?”

“No, you go on ahead and get your writing done. I’m all good,” she said, and then she turned the vacuum on, drowning out any possibilities of using her as an excuse. Dammit. She’d been my last option.

With the speed of a barely-mobile elderly person, I grabbed my guitar from the case in my room and then went out to look for Jason on the patio where we’d tried to write the first time. He wasn’t there. For a second, I was confused and assumed he’d ditched me for greener pastures, but then my eyes widened. His room. He was in his room and I’d finally get to see it. I practically ran to the third floor, tripped up the stairs, and then softly knocked on the door with as much composure as possible.

“Come in,” he said.

I turned the handle and pushed the door open, holding my breath in anticipation. I knew that taking a look inside Jason’s room would be like getting a peek inside of his soul. It was where he created music, where he sat and thought and wrote and played for hours at a time, and when I stood in the doorway, I wasn’t disappointed in the least. It was so Jason. The furnishings were all dark-oiled wood and clean, modern lines. The drapes were drawn to let in the early morning light from the large window that led to the third-floor balcony. To call it a room didn’t do it justice.

On one side there was a giant four-poster bed that was, of course, unmade. I stared at the pillow where his head had undoubtedly rested the night before and I had a strange longing to lie down in that exact position so that I could get a sense of how he slept.

Next to his nightstand, there was a bookshelf half-full of books and half-full of random trinkets that looked like they were souvenirs from various places around the world. There was a miniature Eiffel Tower holding up a guitar manual and an oriental elephant painted rich, vibrant colors.

Across the room, where the window opened to the balcony, there was a small sitting area. Jason was already leaned back on a leather couch, facing the window. There was an overstuffed armchair across from the couch, and since he made no move to greet me, I walked over and took a seat there. I could feel the sun on the back of my neck and I knew the view from where Jason sat would have been amazing, but I was not going to sit on the same couch with him. He’d probably push me off.

“I started playing around with a few opening bars that I think could work for a duet,” he said, absentmindedly playing his acoustic guitar as he watched me take a seat. He was strumming a rhythm, soft and smooth. His guitar’s body was faded around the sound hole and pick guard, but the sound was clean. I wondered how many years he’d played on that guitar, how many songs he’s created using that fretboard.

I started nodding my head to the rhythm he repeated over and over. It was simple, with a beat and pulse I could feel. He hit the bass string, followed with an upstroke, downstroke, upstroke. He held the note for one extra beat and then opened to a C chord. Am, Em, F, C, G. Chord after chord, and I was completely mesmerized by the finger-picking pattern he repeated on the strings.

I couldn’t unlock my guitar case fast enough. Two more times listening to him strum the same rhythm, and then I started strumming along, mimicking his chords and picking the strings of my guitar until we were both working off one another.

We started and restarted a hundred times, experimenting with the rhythm he’d created. Then finally, he closed his eyes and started singing softly. His gritty, soulful voice sent a chill down my spine.



Don't want you to stay

Can’t tell you to go



He kept his eyes closed and I kept the rhythm for the two of us, praying he’d keep singing.



But if there’s one thing you outta know

You’re a designer queen

A corporate machine

A cold-hearted crow



His lips twisted up after his last line and I knew he was teasing me.

“Wow, tell me how you really feel,” I laughed, continuing to pick my guitar strings. “How about I go now?”

He opened his eyes and smiled. The first real smile he’d given me in days. “Go for it.”

I waited for the chords to repeat from the beginning while my mind sought out lyrics. This wasn’t how I usually worked. My songs were crafted, slowly and thoughtfully, but there was something fun about drawing lyrics from the tip of my tongue, seeing what I’d produce. I licked my bottom lip and swallowed, preparing my voice before I started to softly sing.



You want me to go

You hate the status of my quo



He smiled wider. His dark eyes watching my fingers move over the strings with noticeable admiration.