Hammers, Strings, and Beautiful Things

by Morgan Lee Miller

  Taking the first sip of my black coffee, I checked my phone and saw I had a message waiting for me.

  Reagan’s text read, Touring isn’t the same without you. I really miss our talks. How are you?

  Who needed coffee in the morning to wake you up when the girl you were a giant question mark with sprang out of nowhere and texted you? A text that had feelings hidden underneath. The kind of text message you’ve only been waiting two months for.

  As her text settled in me, Miles came up behind me and said, “So, another successful night?”

  “My head is pounding, but I guess.” I looked at him skeptically. “Why?”

  “Because I was awake. Thank you for the background noise.”

  I playfully slugged his arm. “Shut it.”

  “You know, when we’re back on tour, I’ve already decided to make a move on Ethan.”

  “Yeah, why haven’t you?”

  “Because the dude is so hard to read. At first, I thought I was going in blind with a straight dude, but now I’m not so sure? He’s been texting me this whole time.” He wiggled his phone, and this aching of jealousy zipped through me. “‘When are you coming back? Why aren’t you here?’” Miles said, reading his messages. “‘These British openers are fun and all, but you’re way cooler. Come back to me soon.’ Like, who says that?”

  “A guy who wants it. You really need to make a move. I think you got him all smitten.”

  He tossed his head back until it hit the top of the couch. “Ugh! It’s so far away.”

  “Or you can ask him out on a date like the grown-up you are when they get back.”

  He shot me a glare. “You’re one to talk. How long did it take you to make a move on Reagan? Didn’t she tell you she aged, like, twenty years waiting for you?”

  He cackled, and I punched his arm again. “I never made a move before.”

  “Oh, woe is you. You could get any girl you want, and you do, and you’re lucky all of them have just thrown themselves at you. It has to be the sleeve.”

  “That’s why I got it,” I joked.

  “So, when are you guys going to tell Corbin and Finn?” He smiled behind his mug, knowing I was going to toss him a glare, which I did. “Don’t you think the managers need to know about this?”

  “When it’s worth telling.”

  “You’re still mad about her comment?”

  “Yes, and the fact we only talk about nothing now. At least you and Ethan talk about how much you miss each other, so please, go ask him out. It’ll lessen the blow when Corbin finds out about us doing Reagan Moore and her crew.”

  I responded to Reagan. I’m feeling great now that the album is finished. When do you come back?

  Reagan texted back with, Next week. Can you believe?! Can I see you next Thursday?

  That’s our first late show appearance! Yikes!

  Oh my God! That’s right! That’s so exciting!!! I’ll make sure to watch it since I really miss your face.

  I looked back at Miles, who watched me the whole time.

  “You’re grinning,” he said with a smirk. “Must mean Reagan’s texting you.”

  A blush warmed my cheeks. “Do I smile when she texts me?”

  “All the freakin’ time. Is she sexting you?”

  “No, but she said she misses my face. You know, this is the first time she’s admitted that she’s missed me…or, you know, has slept with me, since Labor Day?”

  “Swallow the pride, Blair, and enjoy this moment. Now text her back something nice.”

  “If you text Ethan right now and ask him out. They’re coming back next week.”

  “Two completely different things.”

  “Wanna make out with him or not?”

  He rolled his eyes and picked up his phone, and I responded to Reagan, swallowing my pride like Miles demanded. I kinda miss your face too.

  Reagan: What about Saturday?

  Me: Can’t. We have a show in San Bernardino. What about Monday?

  Reagan: Can’t. I got album 4 recordings going on.

  Me: Ugh. Wed?

  Reagan: Flying out to Nashville to be with the fam for Thanksgiving. Going to spend time with them until the Asia shows in Jan.

  Me: Well…this really sucks then.

  Reagan: I know. Now I’m in a bad mood.

  I was too. Now we had to tack on two more months to water down the raging chemistry we had during the summer. Would anything still be left when we resumed our American shows in February?

  * * *

  I needed a distraction. Craved a distraction. I turned to Paige, and we went out with Miles to the gay clubs of West Hollywood. We drank, we danced, and Paige surprised us with some Molly, so the three of us took it and waited for our bodies to feel blissful. The music, the lights, the hot girl in front of me; my body felt so warm and overjoyed, and then Paige started grinding on me on the dance floor, fully enthralled by the high of the Molly. The carefree and weightless feelings of lust reacquainted with my body. I missed those. I needed more of those. Not the timid, heavy feelings that I felt whenever I saw Reagan’s face on the internet or that face cream commercial that always played or whenever the thought of her popped in my head.

  The morning before Thanksgiving, a few hours after Paige left my bed, my eyes felt as if they were almost glued shut. The downfall of the Molly, feeling as if I hadn’t slept in days and my body was hit by a truck. I met Miles out in the kitchen with that same long sulk, knowing we both had to regain all the serotonin we used up the night before. He recapped his bathroom stall rendezvous with a guy he found on the middle of the dance floor when my phone chirped and stole my attention away from the juicy details. Seeing Reagan’s name sent a jolt through me, the shot of espresso that I really needed at the moment came from just seeing her name light up my phone screen.

  Well, scratch the whole going home to Nashville for Thanksgiving. My flights were just canceled.

  I frowned as I typed back, What?!

  My flight got canceled because of that stupid blizzard Nashville’s getting.

  Her next text was a screenshot of the radar in Nashville. The whole area was covered in deep blue to signal the blizzard, expected to drop over a foot of snow. In my thirteen years living in Nashville, I could probably count the number of times we got more than over two inches. We never had a blizzard, and any of my sledding experiences involved blades of grass poking through the thin layers of snow.

  She responded again. I’m so upset. I really was looking forward to meeting my niece. I bought her all these adorable clothes and toys and everything.

  Me: I’m so sorry. You should come spend it with me and my mom so you’re not by yourself.

  Reagan: I don’t want to intrude.

  Me: Oh, stop it. You’re not intruding. I don’t want you to spend it by yourself, and I kind of really want you to come.

  Reagan: Aww, really?

  Me: Really. My mom is going all out this year. It’s the first time she’s making a whole Thanksgiving meal in her first home ever. She’s really excited. You can be my date.

  Me: Also, please save me because I’ll be third wheeling it with my mom and her boy toy.

  Reagan: Your date?! I really want to be your date!

  Those butterflies unleashed again.

  Reagan: And I’ll gladly save you from being the third wheel.

  Me: Then be my date. It can be our first date…if you want it to be…

  I decided why the hell not. There was nothing to lose, right? So why not take the risk and ask. Plus, if she said no, I’d go to Paige…even though she wasn’t as beautiful or funny or talented or mesmerizing or exciting or as great a kisser as Reagan.

  I held my breath as I watched the typing cloud appear and disappear and then appear again.

  Reagan: I want it to be.

  It was a date. A real date. With Reagan. I had to learn to breathe through those thoughts.

  Now that I had a date for Thanksgiving dinner, I was actually looking forward to it more t
han I was before. Even though Mom was excited to host her first Thanksgiving, the emptiness of where Gramps should have been sitting with his Johnnie Walker would haunt the dinner table. Then, on top of worrying about being the third wheel to Mom and Greg, I was planning on drinking lots of wine and eating lots of turkey to put myself into a coma to save myself from their honeymoon phase. But now that I had Reagan coming over? I was shocked that I was really looking forward to the day I’d been dreading. The empty space for Gramps would be less noticeable with her there.

  She was right on time. I told her to come over at two, and she knocked on Mom’s front door at five after two in dark blue skinny jeans, black boots with heels, and a dark maroon sweater with a maroon, mustard yellow, and orange scarf around her neck. Her hair was down in slight waves, and two tote bags dangled from her arms.

  She was just as beautiful as I remembered. Must have been all that face cream.

  I couldn’t believe this was my Thanksgiving date. It was a real shame that she had to skip out on going home because of that blizzard, but I was the real winner for her flights being canceled. And when she beamed at me as I opened the door, I felt pinned to my spot with a tight chest.

  “Wow,” I said, still studying her and her beautiful, thick blond hair.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said with a bright smile that warmed my face. “I almost forgot what you looked like.”

  “Hopefully still hot and charming?”

  A light blush dusted her cheeks, and God, it made me feel so great knowing I could do that to her. “Definitely still hot and charming.” And as my face heated, she looked down at her tote bags and said, “Okay, so I didn’t know what kind of wine you guys like. Which is completely silly because I should know if you like red or white wine. So, I decided to buy all the wine—cabernet sauvignon, pinot grigio, and rosé. Oh, and I brought pumpkin pie…but I don’t know why I did that since you bake. That was stupid. You probably made a killer pumpkin pie.”

  After speaking a million miles per hour, she finally looked up at me, and I laughed by how adorably nervous she apparently was for this dinner. If she really didn’t have that much to lose with me, why did she talk at the speed of light?

  The overanalyzing gears in my brain kicked in.

  “Okay, one: I made a dessert, yes,” I said, “but a pumpkin pie is greatly appreciated. And two: you didn’t have to bring over three bottles of wine—”

  “You didn’t have to invite me over, and your mom didn’t have to make extra food for me—”

  “Three: she was going to make extra food anyways because she’s super excited about her five-burner gas stove and her brand-new Williams-Sonoma pots and pans. Four: we love all wine, so any wine you would have brought over would have been perfect. With the exception of blue wine, so thank you for not bringing that. And five: you look really beautiful. Like, amazingly beautiful.”

  I watched the worry leave her eyes, and her gaze became so soft. “What? Really?”

  “Oh, really. If you catch me staring for too long, you know that it’s because I’m caught up in all of this.” I motioned to her face. “You’re gorgeous.”

  I thought I lost the ability to properly speak around her because I was so nervous about where we left off. But saying those words felt so comfortable that I didn’t even get embarrassed when I realized I put my feelings out there.

  It could have been that first glass of wine too. Maybe it was a combination of both.

  “Wow, thanks, Blair. God,” she said, shaking her head as it fell to the ground. “Now you have me blushing, and I haven’t even walked in yet.” She wiped her cheeks as if that was going to erase the deep red soaked into her skin. “You look good too. As always.”

  “Now that we have turned ourselves bright red, come in and let’s show it off to my mom.”

  The smells of roasted turkey, thyme, sage, and rosemary scented the whole condo in wonderfulness. Inside the kitchen, Mom and Greg split up tasks of making sour cream and chive mashed potatoes. Greg chopped up the fresh chives as Mom skinned the potatoes. She stopped when she saw Reagan next to me. She tossed the potato on the chopping board and reached her arms out for a hug, luckily not seeming to notice the blush still heating my neck, face, and ears.

  “Oh my gosh, hi, Reagan!” She gave Reagan a tight squeeze as if they were long lost best friends.

  Reagan gladly reciprocated the embrace. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Ms. Bennett.”

  Mom pulled away and waved a casual hand. “Oh, please, call me Karen. I’m so glad you’re joining us today. And this is Greg.”

  I was glad I wasn’t the only one blushing in the kitchen. When Reagan noticed Greg, it didn’t matter if he was in his forties, he knew who Reagan Moore was. If he had any daughters, there was a ninety-eight percent chance they were Reagan Moore fans, much like the rest of the female population. So, Reagan Moore even had the ability to cause middle-aged men to become starstruck.

  “Hi, Greg. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Reagan,” she said in her seamless charm. “I’d like to take partial credit for the shoes Karen wore on your first date.”

  “It’s nice to meet you too,” Greg said with a shy smile. “And she really looked beautiful. I approved of the shoes.”

  “I had to ask Reagan because I don’t trust my own daughter’s judgment,” Mom added with a playful grin to me.

  “Hey, I think I look pretty damn okay for Thanksgiving dinner, thank you very much,” I said, gesturing to my dark gray cashmere sweater.

  “You do,” Reagan said, softly enough to probably get away with Mom and Greg not catching it. But just as I thought that, Mom studied the two of us for a split second before Reagan said, “Please, let me know what I can do to help. It’s the least I can do after you took in a Thanksgiving dinner orphan. I really appreciate it.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t worry about it. I’m so sorry you can’t fly home to your family, but I promise we’ll make tonight a close second. We’re happy to have you here.”

  “I have no doubts about that. I brought a few things. I didn’t know what bottle of wine everyone liked so I have three options.”

  “I like her,” Mom told me. “She comes prepared.”

  “And I brought a pumpkin pie, but I don’t know what I was thinking since Blair is the baking queen. But, you know, just in case we want to be traditional. Pumpkin pie from my favorite bakery and Cool Whip right here. But I already know I’m going straight for Blair’s pie and not this one, so consider this a treat for after Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh, great!” Mom said and took the pie and Cool Whip container and placed it by my dessert in the fridge. “Blair made a simple caramel apple pie with apple cider whipped cream. So, we have options now, but I love me some pumpkin pie.”

  She let out a laugh and faced me. “Oh? A simple caramel apple pie with apple cider whipped cream? Doesn’t sound simple.”

  “Try making macarons, and then you’ll think it’s simple,” I told her.

  “Oh, I got you a present,” she said to me and dug one last thing out of her tote bag as Mom checked on Greg’s chive dicing. She pulled out a small rectangular gift wrapped in shimmering blue paper with a white bow on it.

  “You got me something? Why?”

  “Because I thought of you,” she said and then took a step forward, and it was as if we stepped back into our old world. Smelling the designer perfume flowing off her and the lack of space between us lifted that weight off my chest that I’d been carrying around since Gaslight Shores.

  I glanced behind her shoulders, and Mom and Greg were now checking on the turkey roasting in the oven. Mom was really worried about messing up a recipe. All the recipes, actually. But mostly the turkey. No matter how many times Greg and I told her that everything was going to taste fine, she continued to worry and kept checking the oven to make sure the turkey was cooking to a nice brown roast.

  “Karen, stop checking on it,” Greg said every time, a smile in his tone. “It’s fine. Stop letting the hea
t out.”

  “I just don’t want it to be too dry.”

  “I thought of you a lot, actually,” Reagan continued, and I snapped my attention back to her as she assessed the gift in my hands.

  Whatever unfamiliar place we were in prior to this moment, we shifted right back to the days of acknowledging the mysterious force between us. A grin spread across her face, and it was small enough to clue me in that it was just for me. A grin that told me she was so genuinely happy to see me. My eyes widened when her confession settled in me, and I remembered what I was up to two days prior, making out with Paige on the dance floor, high on Molly, and rolling around with her naked in my sheets. Now came the guilt. I knew that was the feeling choking my chest. Reagan thought of me a lot while she was gone, and what did I do? I found myself another sex friend because I didn’t think she would miss me, and I was wrong the whole time.

  If it meant anything, I thought about her a lot too.

  “You thought of me a lot?” I asked just in case I heard it wrong.

  “Of course. Glad the feelings were mutual.” She nudged me in the arm. “I found this at an adorable used bookstore in London. I couldn’t believe they actually had this tucked in the back corner of the store. I also don’t know how I found it, but I guess it seriously was meant to be, so I knew I had to get it for you. I hope it’s not too much.”

  “Why would it be too much?”

  I couldn’t stop my curiosity at that point. I ripped the bow off, placed it on her head, and laughed when she let it sit there, a nervous smile finding her lips. Underneath the blue wrapping paper was a dark green book that had seen better days. The binding was worn, the pages aged in a dark yellow tint, each page emanating the smell of all the years that it collected. On the cover was a gold outline of a little boy with a fishing hook next to a small golden outline of a small bear with his paws up.

  My stomach plummeted.

  “If it’s too much, then I’m sorry,” she said in that nervously fast voice, the same voice and speed that she gave me at the front door. “I thought of what your tattoo means and how much you miss him. So, if it upsets you, then I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just thought—”