Page 174 of The Havenport Collection

Sylvie

T he bartender was staring at me.

I had been playing for close to two hours, and he never once took his eyes off me.

He poured beers and bussed tables and did all kinds of bartender-y things.

But from my vantage point on the stage, it looked like he was on autopilot.

His body was doing those things, but his mind and soul were with me on stage.

And it wasn’t like I could take my eyes off him either.

He was tall and thick, with broad shoulders, messy dark hair, and a thick beard.

From all the way across the crowded bar, I saw the amazing hue of his piercing blue eyes.

He wore a flannel shirt over his Binnacle Brewing T-shirt, and he looked like the type of guy who threw axes as a hobby.

I had never seen him before, which was strange.

Havenport was a smallish town, and I knew most people by sight if not by name.

But this handsome lumberjack was entirely new to me.

And I found him just as interesting as he found me.

Midway through my set when I played “The Sound of Silence,” he walked over and stared at me, with no self-consciousness.

His gaze was focused, intense, and made me feel invincible.

This was one of the reasons I loved music—it connected people on emotional and spiritual levels.

It pushed past all the bullshit and got to the core of a person.

While he stood there, I saw him. Not the burly, masculine exterior, but the kind and gentle heart beating beneath that flannel shirt. And I wanted to know more.

His presence urged me to level up. I changed my set list, mixing in some slower love songs along with the popular covers I always sang. My voice soared, and my fingers danced over the guitar frets and the keys of my keyboard. Every note filled me with hope and excitement.

That was the power of music, its ability to build bridges between people, to share ideas and emotions.

It was so powerful. And tonight, standing on this stage in the brewery, I felt that power flowing through me.

As good as this felt, it also showed me what I was losing.

What I was giving up. But there was no turning back now.

After almost five years of teaching and playing music for a living, I was starting a corporate job in three weeks.

My parents were beyond thrilled that I was finally getting a “real” job.

I fought them, I cried, and I spent a lot of time wallowing.

But they weren’t wrong. I made a decent living teaching music lessons and performing, but I had to be really careful with my money.

There was no health insurance, no 401k, and no long-term plan.

It was for the best. I would just enjoy this moment and soak it up as best I could.

After several hours, I closed out my set and headed over to the bar where he had been working hard for hours. He watched me as I walked toward him, and suddenly I felt self-conscious. Without the power of the stage and my guitar, would he still be interested?

I wasn’t ugly by any stretch, but I wasn’t exactly a great beauty either.

I was short and had big hips and thick thighs.

I didn’t wear a lot of makeup, and my hair just kind of hung there.

I was not a “pretty girl,” and I was usually fine with that.

Why waste time on makeup when I could be writing a song?

Or enjoying some fresh air? Or helping my friends?

But this was one of those moments I wished I were different. I wished I were tall and confident and worldly so I could go over and knock that handsome bartender’s socks off. But I wasn’t any of those things. I was just me. Sylvie. Wannabe songwriter and semi-employed musician.

When I got closer, I caught his eye, and his entire face transformed. He smiled, revealing dazzling white teeth and what looked like deep dimples underneath his thick beard. His eyes crinkled, and he gestured to the taps.

“What can I get you?”

“Water, please.”

He filled a glass of water and handed it to me. The pint glass looked tiny in his massive hand.

“Thank you.”

“I really enjoyed your set. You are super talented.”

I blushed slightly, never comfortable hearing praise for my natural gifts.

“I’m Wyatt.” He held out one of those massive bear paws.

I shook his hand, reveling in the warmth and strength of his grip.

“I’m Sylvie,” I said softly.

We stood, awkwardly shaking hands for what felt like minutes. My heart was pounding, and I felt dizzy and clammy. I had the strangest urge to jump behind the bar and throw my arms around him.

We had barely exchanged ten words, but I knew in my bones that he was good and decent and kind. I knew that he was protective and sweet and maybe a little dirty. How I knew this was inexplicable. But I felt something. And I think he felt it too.

This was something. He was something.

Too bad I wasn’t in the market for something. I was leaving and soon. Whatever this was, I didn’t have the time to pursue it.

But I couldn’t stop myself from smiling at him.

I was jittery and excited from his presence and the music I had just made on stage.

Nights like this made all the years of practice and rejection worth it.

Feeling the music in every cell of my body and forging that connection with a group of strangers—there was no better feeling in the world.

But if I was being honest, it was really the connection with one stranger that excited me the most. I should have packed up my gear and headed home. But Wyatt’s pull was too strong. And so I sat at the bar and chatted because I didn’t want this magical night to end.