Page 14 of Tracing Holland (The Hold Me NSB #2)

“It’s complicated,” she mumbles, and something about her tone unnerves me. There’s history there, deep history that is going to impact more than I can imagine I think.

I glance away. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m used to it,” I mutter.

She seems hurt by that for some reason. “You shouldn’t be. It’s not fair that you have to be.”

I try not to react. “Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”

She nods. “Yeah, among other things. Luke…” She pulls us to a stop and faces me.

“I know I don’t really know you and you don’t know me, but I want to make sure you understand something.

I don’t, I won’t , judge you for your past. I know all about the rumors and perceptions of how you were before, but I believe in the present.

I want us to be friends.” She quiets and meets my eyes.

“I respect you as an artist. I’m glad you’re back sharing your gift with the world. ”

I just stare for a moment, not sure how to respond to any of that. I’m filled with so many conflicting emotions I don’t know where to start. So, as usual, I go with nothing.

“Thanks. You’re very talented too,” I manage finally, totally weak, but it’s all I’ve got. She grins and shakes her head.

“Am I now?” she muses, moving forward again, the brief cloud lifting. This time she takes my arm, which still feels completely natural for some reason.

“What? You’re not?” I challenge.

“Oh, I am! Incredibly talented, actually.” I love her playful expression.

“So what’s so funny?” I ask.

“Nothing, just us.”

I laugh. “Us?”

She returns my grin and leans against me a little as we walk. “Yeah. Our conversations. The open book talking to a piece of granite. I pour out my soul and get ‘thanks,’ ‘ok,’ ‘sure.’”

I laugh again and meet her gaze. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I advertise myself any differently?”

She scoffs. “No, my friend. You are exactly as advertised.”

“Holy crap, you’re terrible!” Holland laughs as I hit the limit on yet another hole. Thankfully, the final one.

“I told you I never played before,” I return.

“Yeah, but the 7-stroke max was meant as a limit, not a goal!”

I give her a mock glare. “Oh, really. Then I suppose I should stick to fronting a highly successful rock band instead of smacking a ball through fake alligators.”

“Crocodiles.”

“Huh?”

“Um yeah, pretty sure those are supposed to be crocodiles.”

“Oh, whatever! I’m hungry anyway. Let’s grab some food. What’s the final score?”

“I have no idea. These tiny cards are way too small to keep track of all your strokes.”

“Hilarious,” I mumble, following her to the equipment stand to return our clubs. The girl in the booth is looking at us strangely, and I try to ignore it. She thinks she recognizes us. She does, but is too shy to risk being wrong. I’m fine with that.

I buy Holland a hot dog and drink at the snack bar, and we settle onto a painted cement ledge surrounding the tables.

We’re quiet as we eat, enjoying the warm evening air and rare moment of “normal.” A couple of teens strum some rough versions of popular songs on a guitar nearby, and I can see Holland’s look of amusement as she watches them.

But her smile isn’t critical, only content as she takes in these kids’ love of music and fearlessness at expressing it.

Something strange happens in me as well as I study them.

Watching the two boys treat that guitar like it’s the answer to something in their lives.

That was me once. Hell, that was me most of my life.

There was a time when that was all I had.

I jump up from the ledge, startling Holland, startling myself, but my brain has latched onto an idea and won’t let go. I move toward the boys and notice their surprise as I approach with a warm smile.

“Hi, I’m Luke,” I say holding out my hand.

The boys’ jaws are on the ground as they shake it. “Wait, are you…”

“Oh, shit! You’re Luke Craven!” the other one cries.

I exchange a smile with Holland across the snack area, suddenly filled with something I can’t identify. Joy, maybe? I don’t know what it is, but my heart is warm as I turn back to the boys and absorb their awed expressions.

“Mind if I play with you?” I ask, motioning toward the guitar. They don’t even move at first, as if my request made no sense to them. Finally, one of them nods, eyes wide, and grabs the guitar from his friend’s hands and holds it out to me.

“Thanks,” I say, taking it into my own. I already know from listening to them earlier that it’s grossly out of tune.

The strings are dull and should have been replaced ages ago.

It’s actually not a bad guitar once I get it balanced in my arms, and for rocking the snack bar at Pirate’s Adventure Mini Golf, should do just fine.

We’ve gained a lot more attention, and I can feel the crowd gathering as I give the instrument a quick tune.

The action on the guitar is rougher than I’m used to as I test out some chords, but it reminds me so much of my own beater I’ve been carrying around since I was eleven that I feel a strange air of familiarity.

My “Percy” is in my hotel room now, beside my bed, waiting to hold me and comfort me like it always is.

Like it had since the day my father gave it to me and told me to take care of it after he was gone.

I had. It was the only thing I ever took care of.

I draw in a deep breath and start to play.

I cast a quick look toward Holland and love the moment when her face ignites in shocked recognition.

Her smile is priceless, the way her eyes dance as she shakes her head, staring at me in disbelief.

I almost lose my rhythm as my grin widens and I have to look away to concentrate.

“Wait, that’s ‘Perfect Storm’!” Someone in the crowd announces. “Tracing Holland, right?”

“Oh! They’re in town with Night Shifts Black later this week, I think! My sister has tickets. Is that…”

“Yes!”

“I can’t believe it!”

“Oh my gosh! Look!”

I hear the murmurs as the news filters through the spectators.

They’re starting to realize who I am, who she is, but I don’t let it bother me for once.

It’s the music that makes it ok. I can never stop it once it starts.

My fingers navigate the strings with an expertise that comes more natural to me than eating or sleeping.

When I play, it just happens and makes the rest of the world fade away.

There’s no painful past in my music, no history, no nightmares or baggage, just breathing, just being. I close my eyes and start to sing.

“ You and me, babe, a tidal wave I never saw coming.

You and me, and that hurricane we can’t outrun.

It shouldn’t have been, but there’s no fight against the wind.

It all blew in, too fast, too hard, the Perfect Storm.”

Then, there’s another voice. A beautiful, edgy harmony layering with my melody. It gives me chills in its perfection, the way it wraps itself around my notes and turns them into something entirely different, something breathtaking.

“ You and me, babe, still afraid but locked into fate.

You and me, losing all the reasons to run.

Oh sweet ecstasy of defeat, forgive me now.

It all blew in, too hard, too fast, the Perfect Storm. ”

We continue the song beyond its expiration, taking it in new directions, even improvising a stunning bridge that shocks me in her ability to read my lead.

She’s always there, every note, every rhythm change, every incidental I throw in to add that extra spark of magic to a song that’s already stolen the hearts of the crowd; her own talent and brilliance catch me off guard.

I knew she was good, but you never really know how good someone is until you strip away the show, the performance, and see what music is actually in their soul.

Hers is full, like mine, and together we’ve just uncovered an entirely new level of beauty.

“And I will fight through the waves

To get to you, to get to you

And I will scream through the dark

Against the lies, against the lies that overtake me”

I don’t want it to end, I sense neither of us does, but there’s only so much time you can spend in another place before the dream dumps you back in the present.

The small crowd erupts with applause and cheers when we finally bring the show to a reluctant close.

Still, we barely hear them as we exchange a smile, our eyes speaking volumes about what just happened.

An inexplicable protectiveness and warmth is washing over me as I force my gaze away and hand the guitar back to the boys.

They are still in shock, but no more so than I am as I try to make sense of these new, tender feelings seeping into my darkness.

I’m not sure I’m allowed to feel this way. For so many reasons.

I swallow hard, actually grateful for the cloud of mini golf scorecards that are suddenly shoved in my face for autographs. Nothing distracts from reality like playing the rock idol.

Holland grins and follows my lead, immediately transforming into her celebrity role.

I find myself watching her every chance I get, admiring her casual grace as she interacts with her fans.

Her authentic smile and sincerity is addicting, and there are several times I have to force myself to tear my eyes away to satisfy my own fan obligations. She’s mesmerizing.

It’s a good hour before we’re finally able to make a clean break and head back to the hotel.

I open the door to the lobby for Holland when we reach the entrance, but she doesn’t go inside. Instead, she hesitates, looking up at me with an expression that tugs at my heart.

“Can we not go in yet?” she asks quietly.

Confused, I nod and follow her to a bench near the entrance. She grasps my hand as we sit, pulling it close to her in a protective embrace.

“Is everything ok?” I ask, concerned by her sudden mood shift. I’m pretty sure her sad smile is supposed to soothe my fear, but only causes me to brace myself.