Page 76 of Dark Breaker

“Let’s hear what you can do,” I tell her.

She begins playing a ballad. Spanish chords. I’m not sure what’s more beautiful: her, or the song she’s playing. I settle on equally beautiful.

She really puts herself into it, heart and soul, letting emotions flow into the song. I feel those chills running down my spine that I told her about in the restaurant. And near the end, when the song crescendoes in volume, she’s literally attacking the guitar. I know how hard that is on the fingers, how painful it can be, but she doesn’t care, she’s letting go. For me.

When she’s done, she looks up at me with moist eyes. I’m holding back tears of my own, but I don’t dare shed them, don’t dare show her how vulnerable I am. I can’t let myself. My pride won’t let me. I want her to believe I never cry. That I’d never let something as simple as a song get to me. That I’m too strong for that.

I take a moment to recover and when I’m sure my voice will be steady, I ask her: “What was that?”

“It’s called Asturias,” she says. “A Spanish piece I’ve been practicing for a few months now.”

“You play it like you could perform for an audience,” I tell her seriously.

She shrugs, and sets the guitar aside. “Music is only a hobby for me. I leave it to professionals like Angela to make the real stuff.”

“Again, comparing yourself to Angela,” I tell her. “You’re better than you realize.”

She smiles patiently. “Sure, but I never really thought music would be something I could succeed in. I don’t have the dedication for it.”

“But you have the stage presence,” I tell her. “You should try doing a livestream sometime. You’d have guys mesmerized.”

“That’s the thing,” she says. “I don’t want them to be watching me because they like what I look like, but rather, because they like how I sound.”

“I’m afraid, with most popular musicians, it ends up being a little of both,” I tell her. “They come for the looks but stay for the song.”

“So you’re saying I should reel them in with my good looks and keep them there with my music? Bait and switch sort of thing?”

“It’s not a bait and switch if you’re good,” I insist.

“Well, we’ll see,” she says. “Maybe I’ll feel like opening up my own psychology practice when I graduate. Or maybe I won’t.”

“You don’t really know, do you?” I ask.

“No,” she admits. “But I’m hoping you’ll help me discover my passions.”

I consider that for a moment. “I’m not sure you need my help.”

She lowers her gaze. “Maybe I want it,” she says quietly.

I head toward my storage closet and retrieve my own electric guitar. I slide it over my shoulder by the strap, then grab the amp and speaker. I haul them into the hall and plug everything in.

Then I sit on the speaker. “I can play a Spanish song, too.”

“Really?” she sits up eagerly.

I clear my throat and begin playing El Mariachi from memory. She seems absolutely captivated by me the whole time, despite all the mistakes I make. And when I begin singing in time to the music, her eyes are practically glowing with amazement. And hunger. I don’t ever think I’ve seen her want me more.

I relish in that gaze, and it only makes me play all the stronger. It’s the best performance of the song I’ve rendered in my life, all for her.

By the time I’m done my throat is raw and my fingers throbbing painfully, but I’m happy I pulled it off.

Rosa claps. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in my life. You’re really good. Like panty-wetting good.”

I can’t answer her. My throat is too dry after all that singing. I need a drink.

I unplug my guitar from the amp and let it rest from my shoulder by the strap. I head to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. I drink it all down.

I hear Rosa enter the kitchen behind me.