He looks directly at me then, without removing them. “They bothering you?”
“Honestly, yes. I like to judge a person by what I see in their eyes.”
“Some reason you need to be judging me?”
“I don’t know. Is there?”
He lowers the glasses and gives me a long cool look. His eyes are blue, ridiculously blue, and his lashes are thick. I lean away from him like I’ve been struck by a jolt of electricity.
“He’s just lovesick,” Thomas says. “He’s harmless. Well, mostly. Depending on who you ask.”
“Shut up,” Holden says.
Thomas chuckles. “Oh, the tangled webs we weave in our wake.”
“Good thing you’re not the writer,” Holden mutters.
“I had a little alliteration thing going on there,” Thomas sings back.
I have to admit his voice is wonderful. Smooth and rolling like I imagine a really nice wine might taste.
“That’s about all you had going,” Holden says.
We’re off the interstate now, turning left at a stoplight before swinging into the Starbucks on our right. Thomas pulls the truck into a parking spot. “Potty break, anyone?”
“Okay if Hank Junior waits here?” I ask.
“Sure, it is,” Thomas says and then to Hank Junior, “you ever tried their mini donuts? No? How about I bring you one? Plain? Plain, it is.”
I watch this exchange with a stupid grin on my face and wonder if Thomas has any idea that the only thing anyone could ever do to make me like them instantly was be nice to my dog.
“I’ll be right back, Hanky,” I say, kissing the top of his head and sliding out of the truck on Thomas’s side. I don’t even dare look at Holden to get a read on his opinion of his friend’s generosity. I’m pretty sure I know what it would be. And that’s just gonna make me like him less.
Starbucks is crowded, tables and leather chairs occupied by every age range of person, their single common denominator the laptops propped up in front of them. The wonderful rich smell of coffee hits me in the nose, triggering a reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since my last PBJ at eleven-thirty this morning. Right behind that comes the awareness that I have no money.
I head for the ladies’ room, glad to find it empty. For once, the men’s room has a line, and I don’t relish the idea of standing in the hallway across from Grouchy Guy, exchanging glares.
A look in the bathroom mirror makes me wonder why those two bothered to give me a ride. My hair is a frizzy mess. What were wavy layers this morning have now conceded to chaotic turn screw curls that only need a BOIIING sound effect for maximum laugh value.
I pull an elastic band out of my skirt pocket and manage to tame the disaster into a ponytail. I splash water on my face, slurp some into my mouth and use my finger to pseudo brush my teeth. Looking up, I realize none of it has helped much but will just have to do for now.
I head to the front where Thomas and Holden are ordering. Line or not, they’re fast.
“What do you want?” Thomas throws out. “I’ll order yours.”
“Oh, I’m good,” I say, crossing my arms across my chest. “I’ll just go let Hank Junior out.”
Thomas points his remote at the parking lot and pushes a button. “That should unlock it. Sure you don’t want anything?”
“I’m sure.”
Outside, I open the truck door and hook up Hank Junior’s leash. He bounds off the seat onto the asphalt, already looking for the nearest bush. I let him lead the way, across a grassy area to the spot of his choice. My stomach rumbles, and I tell myself this will be a good time to lose those five pounds I’ve been meaning to work on.
Hank Junior has just watered his third bush when I hear a shout, followed by the rev of an engine roaring off. Thomas and Holden are sprinting from Starbucks. At the truck door, Thomas looks around, spots me and waves frantically. “Come on!” he yells. “They just stole Holden’s guitar!”
“They” are two guys on a motorcycle, now peeling out of the parking lot and hauling butt down the road. The guy on back has the guitar case wedged between them.
Hank Junior jumps in. I scramble up behind him. Thomas and Holden slam the doors, and Thomas burns rubber through the parking lot.
“You left the door standing wide open?” Holden shouts at me. He’s not wearing his glasses now, and I have to say I wish I’d never asked him to take them off. His eyes are blazing with fury, and it’s all directed at me.
“I was just a few yards away,” I say. “I didn’t think–”
“Something you’re clearly not used to doing,” he accuses between clenched teeth.
“Hey, now!” Thomas intervenes. “Y’all shut up! I’m planning on catching the sons of bitches.”
And he’s not kidding. Thomas drives like he was raised on Nascar, gunning around and in front of car after car.
“What’s in the case?” I ask. “Diamonds?”
“Might as well be to Holden,” Thomas says. “His lyric notebook.”
My stomach drops another floor if that’s possible. “Your only copy?”
“For all intents and purposes,” he says.
By now, I’m feeling downright sick. I can feel Hank Junior’s worry in the rigid way he’s holding himself on my lap. I rub his head and say a prayer that we’ll live to laugh about this. Every nerve in my body is screaming for Thomas to slow down, but a glance at Holden’s face is all I need to keep my mouth shut.
“There they are!” I yell, spotting them up ahead just before they zip in front of a tractor-trailer loaded with logs.
“Crazy mothers,” Thomas shouts, whipping around a Volvo whose driver gives us the finger.
I never liked thrill rides. I was always the one on church youth group trips to sit out the roller coaster or any other such thing designed to bring screams ripping up from a person’s insides. I’m feeling like I might be sick at any moment, but I press my lips together and stay quiet.
“They just took a right,” Holden barks. He unbuckles his seat belt and sticks his head out the window, yelling into the wind. I can’t understand what he’s saying, although I’m pretty sure it involves profanity.
“Why don’t we just pull over and call 911?” I suggest.
Thomas ducks his head to see around a produce truck loaded with bushel baskets of tomatoes and cabbage. “They won’t catch them before we do.”
I have to admit we’re gaining on them. I can now see the way the guy holding the guitar case keeps throwing looks of panic over his shoulder. He’s making scooting motions, too, like he can force the motorcycle to go faster in doing so.
I drop my head against the seat and close my eyes, forcing myself not to look for a few seconds. That only makes the lack of control worse, so I bolt upright and hold onto Hank Junior tight as I can.
We’re two car lengths behind them now, and the motorcycle driver has taken his craziness to another level. He zips past a mini-van, laying the bike so low that the end of the guitar case looks like it might touch the pavement. I hear and feel Holden yank in a breath.
Thomas cuts around the van and lays on the horn. We’re right on the motorcycle’s tail now and, in the headlights, I see that both the driver and his buddy are terrified. The front of the truck is all but touching the license plate of the motorcycle, and I don’t dare think what would happen if they slammed on their brakes.
“Slow down!” I scream, unable to stand another second. At that same moment, the guy holding the guitar case sends it flying out to the right of the bike.
It skitters on the asphalt, slips under the rail and disappears from sight.
“Stop!” Holden yells.
Thomas hits the brakes, swings onto the shoulder and then slams the truck into reverse. Suddenly, we’re backing up so fast my head is spinning.
“Right here!” Holden shouts and before Thomas has even fully stopped the truck, he’s jumping out the door and running.
“There’s a flashlight in the glove compartment,” Thomas says, le
aning over me.
I’m too stunned to move, and so I sit perfectly still, willing my reeling head to accept that we’ve stopped. Hank Junior barks his approval, and I rub his back in agreement.
Thomas hauls out, flicking on the flashlight and calling for Holden. Within seconds, he’s disappeared from sight, too. I tell myself I need to get out and help look, but a full minute passes before I can force my knees to stop knocking long enough to slide off the truck seat. I hold onto Hank Junior’s leash as if my life depends on it and teeter over to the spot where I’d seen them hop over the guardrail.
The drop off is steep, and vines cover the ground. I can’t see much except in the swipes when cars pass and lend me their headlights. I catch a glimpse of the light way down the hill. I hear Thomas’s voice followed by Holden’s.
“Are y’all okay?” I call out.
“We got it!” Thomas yells.
I’m so relieved I literally wilt onto the rail, and send up a prayer of thanks. Hank Junior and I wait while they climb up. Holden appears first, looking as battered as his case. Thomas is right behind him. As soon as they reach the top, they both drop down on the ground, breathing heavily.
“Man,” Thomas says. “What I wouldn’t give for the chance to beat their tails!”
They gulp air for several seconds before Holden fumbles with the latches on the case and pops it open. Thomas points his flashlight at the interior, and my heart drops.
“Well, that’s not good,” Thomas says, his big Georgia voice dropping the words like boulders.
Holden picks up the guitar. It hangs limp and useless, broken in three places. He holds it the way a little boy would hold a baseball glove that got chewed up by the lawn mower. His expression is all but grief-stricken.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Thomas consoles.
“Then whose fault is it?” Holden snaps, his blue gaze lasering me with accusation.
“Those two butt-wipes who stole it,” Thomas says tightly.
“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t insisted on stopping to help her!”
“Man, what’s wrong with you? Her car was on fire. Chivalry ain’t that dead.”
Holden hesitates, clearly wrestling with a different opinion. “We didn’t have to give her a ride to Nashville.”
“No, we didn’t,” Thomas agrees. “But that ain’t who we are.”
I stand and dust off my skirt. I walk to the truck, Hank Junior trailing behind me. I climb up on the back tire, reach for my guitar and return to where the two of them are still sitting. I pull out my own lyric notebook and the flash drive that contains the only two song demos I’ve been able to afford to have made. I stick that in my pocket, close the case and hand it to Holden.
“You take mine,” I say. “I know it won’t replace yours, but maybe it’ll work temporarily. Y’all have been real nice to me. I’m not gonna ask any more of you. Thanks a lot for everything.”
And with that, Hank Junior and I start walking.
Holden
I don’t want to stop her.
I mean, what the hell? You don’t need to be a friggin’ genius to see the girl’s nothing but trouble.
“You just gonna let her walk off into the night?” Thomas asks, looking at me like I just destroyed every illusion he ever had about me.
“If she wants to go, who are we to stop her?”
“You know dang well she thinks, knows, you don’t want her riding with us.”
“Do we really need another card stacked against us? She’s a walking disaster!”
Thomas throws a glance up the highway. “Yeah, right now she is.”
“See. You’re already trying to figure out how to fix things for her. Every time you find somebody that needs fixing, we come out on the losing end of the deal.”
“If you’re talkin’ about Sarah, that’s your doin’, man. All I ever agreed to do with her was sing. You’re the one who got involved with her. Nobody made you do that but you.”
I’d like to tell him to piss off, as a matter of fact. Except that he’s right.
I get to my feet, slap the dirt from my jeans and yank up both cases, one containing my broken Martin, the other holding the piece of crap CeCe MacKenzie probably bought at Wal-Mart.
“You keeping the guitar?” Thomas calls from behind me.
“I’ll toss it out the window when we pass her,” I say.
“Oh, that’s mature.”
I put both the guitars in the back, giving lie to what I just said. I climb in the truck and slam the door. Thomas floors it, merging into the oncoming traffic.
Thomas hunches over the steering wheel, looking for her. I’m starting to wonder if, hope, she’s hitched another ride when I spot her up ahead, her skirt flouncing left to right as she walks, that ridiculous floppy-eared hound trotting along beside her.
“Well?” Thomas throws out.
“Pull the hell over,” I say.
He looks at me and grins but knows better than to say anything. Wheeling the truck to a stop in front of her, Thomas gets out and walks around back. I force myself not to look in the side mirror. I crank the radio, lean against the seat and close my eyes.
A couple of minutes pass before the two of them walk to the driver’s side and climb in.
Hank Junior licks my face and I jerk forward, glaring at him. “You have to write her an invitation?” I ask. “We’re supposed to be in Nashville in an hour and a half.”
“Ain’t no problem,” Thomas says. “We’ll be there with warm-up time to spare.”
Thomas grabs his Starbucks bag from the dash where he’d flung it earlier. He pulls out a plain mini-donut and offers it to Hank Junior. “Believe I promised you that.”
The dog takes it as if he’s royalty sitting down to tea. He chews it delicately and licks his lips. “Good, ain’t it?” Thomas says, pleased. “Got you one, too, CeCe.”
“That’s okay,” she says.
“Go on, now. Hank Junior and I can’t eat alone.”
She takes the donut from him and bites into it with a sigh of pure pleasure. “Um, that’s good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
CeCe sits straight as an arrow, Hank Junior curled on top of her again. She’s yet to look at me, and I can imagine her pride has taken a few more pokes in agreeing to get back in here with us.
“I’m real sorry about your guitar,” she says in a low voice. “I mean it about you taking mine. My uncle used to play with a group called The Rounders. He gave it to me before he died.”
“The Rounders?” I say, recognizing the name. “They wrote ‘Wish It Was True’ and ‘Long Time Comin’?”
“Yeah, those were their biggest songs,” she says, still not looking at me.
“That’s some good music,” Thomas says. “I’ve had both those tunes in my sets.”
“Me, too,” CeCe says.
I stay quiet for a moment. “Which one was your uncle?”
“Dobie. Dobie Crawford.”
“Good writer,” I say, not sure why it’s so hard for me to release the compliment since I really do mean it. “I didn’t realize he’d died.”
“Two years ago,” she says.
“What happened to him?” Thomas asks.
“Liver failure.”
“That’s a shame,” he says.
“Yeah,” I add. “It is. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” she says, looking at me now with surprise in her voice. “He was a good man. Aside from the drinking, I mean.”
“He teach you how to play?” Thomas asks.
“He did,” she says. “I was five when he started giving me lessons.”
“You any good?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
She shrugs. “He thought I was.”
We’re looking at each other now, and all of a sudden it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time. I realize how unfair I’ve been to her, that I deliberately set out not to see her as
anything more than a noose around our necks.
“What do you think?”
“I think I’m pretty good. Not nearly as good as he was.”
“Not many people have a teacher with that kind of talent.”
“I was lucky,” she says. “Who taught you?”
“I mostly taught myself,” I say.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Thomas says. “He’s got the gift. Plays like God Himself is directing his fingers.”
“Wow.” She looks at me full on, as if she’s letting herself take me in for the first time, too, without the conclusions she’s already made about me getting in the way. I’m uncomfortable under her gaze, and I don’t know that I can say why. An hour ago, I didn’t care what she thought of me.
“Thomas just likes the fact that he doesn’t have to pay me to play for him,” I say, throwing off the compliment.
“That’s a plus for sure,” Thomas says, and then to CeCe, “but I still ain’t overselling him.”
“I’d like to hear you play,” she says, glancing at me again.
“Good,” Thomas says. “’Cause he’s gonna have to take you up on that guitar of yours. We’re onstage in less than an hour.”
“Okay then if I come watch?” she asks in a cautious voice.
“Sure, it is,” Thomas says.
CeCe looks at me, expecting me to disagree, I would guess. But I don’t. “I don’t want your guitar. To keep, I mean. I’ll borrow it just for tonight.”
“You can keep it,” she says. “I owe you.”
“I don’t want your guitar.”
“Okay.”
♪
WE DRIVE THE REST of the way into Nashville without saying too much of anything. Thomas has gone quiet in the way he always does before a show, playing through lyrics in his head, gathering up whatever emotional steam he needs to get up in front of an audience and sing.
We’ve been together long enough that we respect each other’s process, and when it comes time to leave each other alone, we do.
I air guitar some chord patterns, walk through a new tune we’re doing at the end of the set tonight, wonder if I could improve the chorus lyric.
CeCe’s head drops against my shoulder, and it’s only then I realize she’s asleep. Hank Junior has been snoring the past ten miles. I look down at CeCe and will myself not to move. I don’t know if it’s because she’s clearly dead tired or because her hair is so soft on my arm. I can smell the shampoo she must have used that morning. It smells clean and fresh, like springtime and honeysuckle.
The Heart That Breaks Page 13
