Again, But Better

Be outgoing and act normal
. “You were
able to bring your guitar here with you?” I say softly.
“Oh yeah, of course! I can’t go four months without playing.
I carried it on the plane.”
I feel myself smile. “Does she have a name?”
“What, my guitar?”
“No, your bed,” I quip.

---

He looks at me nervously and I feel my cheeks redden, oh
my god. 
Oh god.
“Yes, your guitar!” I add quickly.
“Hmm.” He considers for a moment. “She doesn’t have a
name, but now that you mention it, maybe she deserves a
name.”
“She deserves a name,” I agree. “My computer is Sawyer.”
He laughs. “As in Tom?”
“As in James Ford, the con man with a heart of gold, who
changed his name to Sawyer, as in Tom Sawyer.”
Pilot narrows his eyes in confusion.
“It’s a 
Lost
thing.”
“Ohhh,” he says, understanding dawning. “I never watched
that show.”
I put on my best snob voice. “It’s only one of the greatest
shows of all time.”
He purses his lips. “I’ll add it to the Netflix queue.”
“So, your guitar?” I prompt.
“So, my guitar.” He rests it on his lap so it’s facing upward,
and runs a hand reverently along the edges. “I’m thinking she
feels like a Lucy.”
“‘In the Sky with Diamonds’?”
“‘In the Sky with Diamonds,’” he confirms with a half
smile.
There’s a beat of silence. My heart rams nervously. “I
listened to Porcelain Trampoline yesterday,” I blurt.
His eyes light up. “And…”
And—why didn’t I prepare a beautifully thought-out
review? I’m not quite sure what to say. I liked it, but I’m still
upset about last night, and it’s making me wary of
complimenting him.

---

“It was really good. I rated it four out of five stars.”
His grin stretches. “Four out of five? Why not five out of
five?”
I stammer for a response. “Uh, with five out of five, there’s
no room to grow! Maybe next time will be five stars.”
He laughs. “It’s okay, I’m just kidding.”
I nod and focus on the guitar instead of his face. “Are you
working on new stuff?”
“Yeah, like I said, hoping to put out that next album while
I’m here.”
“Oh, yeah! So, the five-star album is already in the making.
Has London inspired you?” I say teasingly.
He blows out a breath. “Actually, a lot of family stuff,” he
says more quietly. The way his demeanor changes throws me.
Guarded. I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question. I
falter for a second. 
Change the subject
.
“You should start a YouTube channel so people can hear
your music!”
He picks up the guitar, strums something, and stops. “I don’t
know, maybe,” he muses unconvincingly. “Anyway, new
album’s almost done. I’m just adding in little things here and
there, and then sending it to Ted so he can make final tweaks.”
“You almost have two albums under your belt. That’s
awesome…” I trail off as he starts to play again, and back away
toward my own room, not wanting to impede on his guitar time.
“Shane,” he calls out, as I’m shoving my key into the lock. I
pivot around.
“Yeah?”
He’s smiling now. “What time are we playing cards
tonight?” The fuzzies bubble again.

---

The Skype call I scheduled with my parents rolls around before
I’m ready for it. At 4:00 p.m. I dial them, swallowing hard at
the nervous lump in my throat. Seconds later, their pixelated
faces swim up in front of me—nicely framed, I may add. My
how-to-frame-a-photo lectures have paid off. We exchange
hellos and basic pleasantries. My palms are sweating.
“So, how’s it going?” my mother probes excitedly. “How’s
class? Are your roommates on the premed track? I was looking
at that brochure today and it sounds like it’s gonna be tough—
you should make some friends in your program.”
My parents have a