Page 64 of Smoky Mountain Dreams

Jesse sat on the sofa and propped his feet up on theimmaculate coffee table across from it. “Something of yours.”

“Mine?”

“You’ve got songs don’t you? From when you went to Nashville?”

He did, but he hadn’t played them in years now, not sincethe songs had become their own kind of humiliation. “Let me see. It’s been awhile. Here’s hoping I don’t mess up or forget my own lyrics.”

The opening chords were louder than he intended, and hebacked off to something warm and tender. He glanced over his shoulder at Jesse,who sat on the sofa with his gaze trained warmly on Christopher, anticipationand encouragement in his expression.

“I wrote this one when I was seventeen. It was for my Gran.It’s called ‘Boy With a Paper Heart.’”

He played the opening chords a few times, working up hisnerve to expose himself in a way he hadn’t in some time. Finally, he opened hismouth and the words came off his tongue like he’d sung them just yesterday and notthree years prior during his last miserable show in a no-name bar where peopleplayed the jukebox over his singing.

The lyrics were about the meaning of love, the shapes andsizes it can come in, and the human need for it. As he progressed through the verses,he closed his eyes and gave up trying to hide anything from Jesse. That waswhat music did for him—made him visible, made him show himself—and what hadbeen so heartbreaking in Nashville when no one cared to see what he revealed.

Finally coming to a close, he lifted his fingers from thekeys, the last notes reverberating into silence. He waited for Jesse to applaudor speak, but he didn’t.Lord, was it that bad?WhenChristopher turned to him, he was met with tender eyes and a gently open mouth.“Well, that’s the one I wrote for Gran,” Christopher murmured helplessly,embarrassment or worse starting to open in his chest.

“Play it again,” Jesse said, his voice hoarse. “Please. I’dlike to hear it again.”

Christopher nearly protested or suggested he do a differentsong, but the expression on Jesse’s face was so earnest that he simply turnedback to the keyboard and gave him what he asked for. When that song was over,instead of stopping altogether he played a little bit of music he’d neverwritten words for, and then transitioned into another song—a lullaby he’dtweaked from one Jackie had made up for him as a little boy.

When that song was done, he took a deep breath and murmured,“And I wrote this over the last few weeks. I normally do it on guitar, but…let’ssee…” He started to sing.

“The sky outside my window

is blooming up with dawn,

and you’re the one I’m breathing in,

you’re the man I want…”

The rest of the song came out easily enough, full of clichésand always short of truly good, but it felt right to be singing it for Jessewhen he was the one who’d inspired it—the one who was bringing Christopher’smusic back to him. When he finished, he lifted his hands from the keys andlowered the cover. His heart hammered, anxiety and embarrassment threatening.Why had he made himself so vulnerable so soon?

Vulnerability is a gift, baby. A giftnot many are brave enough to give.

Not now, Gran.

He turned to Jesse and discovered he was on his knees closeto the piano now, his eyes closed and head tilted back, his hands palm up onhis thighs and an expression of surrender on his face. Christopher swallowedthickly, his heart clenching at how open and trusting Jesse looked.

“I wrote that one about you,” he whispered.

Jesse swallowed, and Christopher watched his Adam’s applebob up and down. He didn’t move, though, like he was waiting for somethingelse, something more, or maybe something again.

“Do you want me to play it again?”

Jesse nodded, and Christopher once more uncovered the keysand tenderly moved his way through his song for Jesse—and that seemed like agood title for the piece.

They kissed in the living room after Christopherfinished playing his songs. Jesse wasn’t an idiot. He knew they weren’t hits,and he understood why Christopher had never been able to make it in Nashvilleand never would. But they were wonderful songs, and each one held a kernel ofsomething beautiful—something that made Jesse want to bury himself inChristopher and never come out again.

They felt safe and warm, and tender and open. They felt likethey were on the verge of going feral, but too self-conscious to ever run wild.They were a lot like Christopher in bed, only so much less confident, and thatmade Jesse want to hold each song close until he’d loved it whole.

It made him want to hear them again.

Christopher was so pliant in his arms, eager and hot, butthe storm of children’s feet brought their make-out session to a halt. Jessepressed a kiss to Christopher’s cheek before turning to make his way out intothe hallway, calling, “What do we need now? More popcorn? Pizza?”

He understood when Christopher didn’t immediately followthat he needed a minute to get himself together. He’d had to adjust his owndick as he walked to the kitchen, happy that it was under control by the timehe arrived to witness FJ, Will, Brigid, Charity, and Meredith digging thevarious flavors of ice cream out of the freezer.

“Gonna make floats!” Will said, tugging the cookies-n-creamfrom Brigid’s hands and tossing the butter pecan to Frankie-Jones.