Smoke and Lyrics

by Holly Hall

  “I believe you.” I drag in an inhale and rub my hand over my face. Like everything else, I’d abandoned the girl I just dragged out here to the woods. I blink once, twice, decide I’m ready to face the flames. Almost. “You go ahead. I forgot something in the truck. I think the salt rolled out of the bag or something.”

  Her mouth opens, then slowly shuts, as if she’s deciding whether she wants to call me out on my lie, knowing damn well we didn’t bother to get salt at the store. Then she takes the meat and goes outside without a word. I don’t feel good about it, but I need something to reroute my mind from the road it’s traveling down. I jog out to my truck, feeling around inside the console for the bottle of Coke I stashed there earlier. Or at least, that’s what it’d look like to anyone else—only I know it’s mostly whiskey. I chug half the bottle, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then use the travel-size mouthwash I keep there to rinse my mouth and erase any evidence of my slip-up. I hinted to Lindsey I had trouble with drinking, but as far as she knows, that was in the past. I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.

  Maybe forever.

  Lindsey

  I clean up our plates and leftovers inside while Jenson handles the grill. I have to admit I underestimated him; the steaks made for a better meal than cabernet and popcorn. I’m just glad Jenson returned from wherever he went when I caught him in the kitchen with that tortured look on his face. It took him a good few seconds to even realize I was standing there. Up until now, I didn’t know how deeply rooted his issues were, but that look gave me an indication. They’re beneath his skin and wrapped around his heart like wire.

  He spent the time it took to eat dinner with that faraway look on his face—present, but not. I’m not sure what it would take to get him back.

  I’m wiping my hands on a towel when I spot the guitar case resting at the bottom of the stairs. Armed with a bottle of wine and two cups to serve it in, I grab the guitar case and wrestle it out the crack in the sliding glass door. These past couple weeks have taught me that Jenson loves music more than just about anything. I’m surprised his heart doesn’t beat to the rhythm of his songs. If there’s any way to get his mind back here, in the woods, it’s this guitar.

  Jenson gives me a long look when I stop in front of him, holding his case. One ankle is resting across his opposite knee, black leather boots on display, and he rubs a hand across his hairy jaw as he considers my silent proposition. Then he leans over and takes the case from me, popping the clasps open and removing the guitar. I don’t know much about instruments, but her curves are beautiful, and Jenson’s slender fingers wrapped around the neck are probably more sensual than they should be.

  “What are you up to, silver lining?” He says, looking at me while he runs a thumb across the strings and adjusts the knobs.

  “I want to hear something.”

  “Something old or new?”

  I drag my chair closer and curl up in it. “I didn’t know you’d finished anything new.”

  “I’m sure I can think of something.” He plays a few chords, something swift and contagious, drawing me in. Then my eyes narrow as he starts to sing. The song is one he’s clearly making up as he goes, about a silver-haired temptress who sneaks her way into the beds of unsuspecting men and forces them to drink enchanted wine and eat shitty popcorn. It’s clear he’s not taking this seriously.

  “You should add that she’s a great dancer,” I say, loud enough to be heard over his voice.

  He effortlessly adds something in about her hypnotizing dance moves. And then he goes on about how she tastes good enough to make a man forget his own name. I blush and focus on my lap, pulling my hoodie down over my knees. It certainly feels like October, and summer has fully surrendered to fall. It’s the kind of weather that’s meant for company, and that thought warms me from the inside.

  When he finishes the song, he strums a few times in quick succession and gives me a devastating grin. I close my gaping mouth, feeling myself falling in lust until I remember I wanted to hear something serious. I know the guy is talented, but other than speaking a lot of charming words, I’ve yet to see proof of his songwriting prowess in person.

  “I want to hear something real.”

  He rests his hand in the dip on the body of the guitar. “That was real. I even mentioned the mole on the inside of your thigh.”

  I’m not sure how he remembers that. It was late, and dark. “You know what I mean. If you can sing about bullshit, I’m sure you can come up with something else. Literally anything else.”

  He focuses on his guitar, then, feeling the strings like he’s testing the waters. “You’re going to make fun of me, but when I first write a song, I run it past my mom. She gives me the yay or nay, and off I go. I’d be breaking tradition.”

  I press my lips together, fighting the smile he put there. I’d laugh if his tone wasn’t so reverent. “And how’s that worked out lately? Has she given her approval on anything?”

  There’s a hitch in his movements, a missed beat between chords. “I guess it isn’t working.”

  I send him a pointed look and get comfortable, wrapping my cup of wine in both hands. Then Jenson begins to play something slow and alluring. “Tell me about the dead flowers,” he says. I’m not sure I heard him correctly.

  “What?”

  “Earlier, you came home with a handful of dead flowers. What’s that about?”

  I chew my lip, debating my answer. I don’t think he’s expecting to hear something morbid, but I’ve always associated the scent of live flowers with funerals; death and decay. Never mind how backward it is. Forgoing a long explanation, I say, “They don’t smell.”

  “I thought that was the point.”

  “Forget the flowers,” I say in a way that leaves no room for argument.

  “Ahh. Okay.” Jenson’s hands still on the guitar. “Forget the song.”

  I tilt my head. So I’m not the only one who can be petty. “What else becomes richer in death? I like the colors better. I like how they become more beautiful, even at the end. Is that emo enough for you?”

  His fingers begin to move again, and I tear my eyes from them to see him looking back at me, pleased. Then he shifts forward, hunching over his instrument and giving it his undivided attention. He bobs his head for a while, trying a few different combinations of chords before he settles on one. I like it. Then he starts to sing. This time the temptress has been forgotten, and he sings about a lonely girl in a teal dress who’d rather collect dead flowers than live ones. He might’ve been played on country radio, but his voice has a soulful undertone. Like chocolate and whiskey, smooth and dark, with a smoky rasp on the back end that makes my legs go weak. It’s a poor way to describe the effects of a voice like his, but that’s how it feels.

  Sometime in the middle, I let my head fall back so I can watch the smoke from the fire as it disappears among the stars in the inky black sky. I find contentment in this rare moment of still and quiet. Maybe happiness really is as simple as a girl in the woods, the buzz of nocturnal wildlife all around, and a man with a guitar who’s slowly finding his way back to his great big love.

  All is silent when he finishes, and a smile I can’t stop spreads over my face. “I’ve heard some of your songs, Jenson, but I’ve never heard anything like that.”

  Flames dance in his eyes as he watches me, waiting for . . . what? More validation?

  “You should write that down before you forget it.”

  “I won’t forget it. There are some things that just don’t leave you.”

  I move before I can comprehend my intentions, and I’m standing and walking to him, empowered by the richness of his voice, the assuredness of his words. When I’m as close as I can get without being on top of him, he slides the guitar off his lap and into the case, scooting it aside with his foot just as I slide my legs over him. Straddling his lap and slipping my arms around his neck, I’m struck by the thought that the novelty of looking at him hasn’t yet worn o
ff. I discover a new shade of brown or gold in his leonine eyes every time I see them up close. Combined with the reflection of flames, they’re almost sienna. Fire eyes.

  “What are you thinking about?” he breathes against my neck, pressing his lips to my collarbone.

  “How surprised I am that I’m not tired of you.”

  That makes him laugh, the bursts of air sending a chill down my back. When I go to kiss him, he pulls away like he’s not done with me. “I’ve wondered the same—when you’ll get tired of me, that is.” And then his hands are beneath my hoodie, and he’s running them up my belly and my ribs, peeling it off me. I let him, placing my own freezing palms under his white tee. He inhales sharply and smiles when he kisses me, pulling my lip with his teeth, then he runs his hand up into my hair, sandwiching me between the warmth of his chest and the warmth of the flames at my back.

  The combination of sensations, between the nip in the air and the fire that is him and his mouth—warm, warm, cold, hot—intensifies everything, and when we’ve worked each other up long enough, he goes to stand, holding me to him, carrying me across the deck to the sliding glass door. Then he’s inside, and we shed the rest of our clothing in the moonlit living area.

  We make it as far as the couch before we have to find somewhere to land.

  Chapter 11

  Jenson

  We spend the next day hiking—scouting, Lindsey calls it—around the campgrounds and the edge of the lake, stopping when she says so. It’s a little awkward maneuvering my guitar case through the trees, but we manage it without banging her up too bad. Lindsey laid out every outfit from my duffel and selected what I’m now wearing—a flannel over a white tee, jeans, and my most beat-up pair of boots. She said the white tee beneath the shirt looked unassuming, and the boots had history. I liked that, about the boots. She isn’t wrong, either. I was wearing them when I survived the fire that killed my future. My feelings toward them are bittersweet.

  I expect to do less—like staring stoically off into the distance—but Lindsey sets me up on fallen logs, and against tree trunks, and asks me to play for her. I’m not much of a natural in front of the lens, so I do need some direction, but once she reroutes my mind from photoshoot-mode to music-mode, I’m lost in it. The shutter clicks away, and I take it as a good sign that I need no more direction.

  We make hotdogs for dinner and eat by the fire, and Lindsey prods me for more songs. This time I sing her the one she sparked at the club. She has the grace to look bashful, saying most of that performance was for my benefit. I suspect she enjoys torturing me. I give her plenty of material, and in exchange she does the same. She climbs into the tub during my shower and wraps her slick, soft body around mine. I gladly trade in my brooding for something a lot more inspiring.

  Later, while we’re in bed and her head is on my chest, I look down at her and say, “This is a good thing.” I don’t know what made me say it, but it felt like it needed to come out. In a fraction of a second, I feel her pliable body stiffen against me, a physical wall to match her emotional one. Then she’s sliding out from beneath the sheets and bending to sift through our clothes. I give her a few minutes to herself after she pads down the stairs, before pulling on a pair of shorts and going to find her.

  She’s sitting in one of the chairs on the back deck, wearing only my flannel shirt. If it weren’t for the look on her face, I’d be hard all over again.

  “Am I that miserable to be around, that sitting out here in the cold seems like a better idea?”

  She looks startled to see me standing there, and she winces when she looks at me. I don’t get it. Just when I think I’m getting a grasp of who she is, what we are together, she freaks.

  “You’re not miserable,” she says, and I find myself wholly unsatisfied. That’s when I realize I’m looking for an answer to a question I’m not sure even exists.

  Stepping up to her chair, I reel in my thoughts and squat down so the sight of me chasing after her isn’t so daunting. “What is it?”

  I follow her gaze to her bitten fingernails. “I just . . . I don’t want you thinking—”

  “Stop. I’m not thinking. I especially wasn’t thinking back in there,” I interrupt, nodding my head toward the cabin. “I wasn’t thinking, and I wasn’t expecting anything.”

  “Then why am I here? I appreciate the break, I do, but I don’t understand it. You could’ve picked anyone else and they would’ve come.”

  I rest my elbows on my thighs, wondering what I could say to make her understand without making this out to be bigger than it is. I like her, sure, but I don’t fully understand her. I don’t want to make the mistake of thinking that means more than it does. “I have fun with you. I feel like I can trust you. What about that are you so afraid of?”

  “You’ve been through a lot, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Are you worried I’m going to think this is a relationship or something?”

  She wrestles with that. “A little bit, yes.” At the unspoken question in my expression, she says, “Because of what you said.”

  “Because I said this is a good thing?”

  “It sounds innocent, but I don’t want to get your hopes up. You have to be okay with just this part of me, or nothing.”

  I take in the worry lines on her forehead, how goddamn terrified she looks to be having this conversation. “This is going to sound fucking depressing, but I don’t put much hope in anything anymore. I don’t expect anything. But I’m not going to say I’m completely devoid of feelings.”

  “Believe me, I was very disappointed to learn you weren’t just another emotionless douchebag,” she says dryly, before turning more serious. “Because of where I want to be, and who you are, it just wouldn’t be a good idea. People would talk. I don’t have anything here but my reputation, and I won’t let myself lose that.”

  I bite back a smile. Her vulnerability is showing, and I don’t want to shame her into hiding it. “I admire that, and more importantly, I respect that. You don’t have to worry about my feelings, but you should know that I say what I mean. Would you not agree that was good?” My grin is full of insinuation, and though she rolls her lips between her teeth, I can see the dimples from her smile. Still, she’s wary. I take her hands and blow on them to warm them up, running my thumbs over her jagged nails. “I think there’s more you’re not telling me.”

  After clearing her throat, she opens her mouth a few times before she speaks. “I guess I’m kind of terrified of having someone depend on me. Being stuck in a cage of my own making. Limiting myself because of my own decisions. You name it.” As she speaks, her breath stirs the strands of hair in front of her face. I brush them aside so I can see her better.

  “Did someone hurt you?”

  “No. I guess that’s the worst part; I haven’t really experienced total heartbreak. But I’ve seen it happen—people let themselves fall so hard they’re destroyed when no one’s there to catch them. My cousin, the photographer I told you about? He lost his fiancé in an accident. He was known worldwide for his photography, had documented the most beautiful places on Earth, and then Grace died and all of that disappeared. He became a ghost. He’d seen and smelled and tasted the world, and none of it was enough to bring him back. I haven’t even scratched the surface of what I could be. Now imagine if I invested my heart in something temporary, like another person. What would bring me back?”

  I study her, trying to make sense of fears she’s only seen from afar and never experienced. She’s on her way to building her own cage now, and she doesn’t even see it. Then again, I dive into everything head-first, and look where it’s gotten me. “I know I’m not exactly the poster child of success, but holding back yourself . . . your heart. . . It’s like keeping a ship in a bottle. There are some things that are meant to sail. But is this why you’re afraid—that you’ll be hurt one day?”

  “No,” she says sharply. “I’ve just seen the capabilities of love, and they’re not great enough for me t
o put my life on hold to take a chance on it.”

  Sensing her bitterness, I force myself to nod. There’s more to this story, but this moment is fleeting and fragile. I don’t want to break it by forcing anything. And if she’s so consumed by self-preservation, that means she feels something, no matter how much she wishes she didn’t—not just toward me, but life in general. In order to create, you have to feel all the things. She’s not as untouchable as I thought.

  A snippet of an earlier conversation involving pain and regret being the flavors of life enters my mind. Something tells me she won’t be so quick to accept her own advice, though.

  I stand and offer her my hands. “You worry too much. This doesn’t have to be a whole big thing. It just is what it is, and that’s okay with me. Now come back to bed before I freeze my balls off. What good would I be then?” I’m rewarded for my less-than-eloquent speech with a genuine smile. That’s Lindsey; she doesn’t demand perfection, she just wants real, no matter how broken and used-up it is. And I’m about as broken and used as it gets. But she unfolds her long legs and accepts my hands.

  “Hey, what ended up happening to your cousin? Did he ever come around?” I ask once we’ve crossed the deck.

  Lindsey turns to face me, leaning a shoulder in the doorway. “Yeah. His life took a completely different path, but he’s good.”

  “Good,” I say, then I take her by the shoulders and steer her back inside and up the stairs.

  Chapter 12

  Jenson

  This weekend was like hitting the reset button on my ragged soul, but more than that, it was strangely enlightening. I didn’t expect to see the softness lying just past Lindsey’s bold, take-me-as-I-am façade. I don’t think she meant to give me a glimpse of it, but I’m not sure she expected me to admire it, either. Whoever she lets in will be privileged to experience all those layers.