Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Lily wants you to teach her guitar.
I’m honored. When?
Today? If you’re really free.
I’ll make myself free. Your place or mine?
It’s a simple question but it carries weight. His place means his world, his space. Our place means letting him further into ours.
“Who are you texting?” Lily asks, trying to peer at my phone.
“Darian.”
“Are you asking about lessons?”
“I am.”
She does a little dance right there in the kitchen. “Really? Really really?”
“Really really.”
“When?”
“Maybe today.”
The squeal she lets out could probably be heard three houses over. “Today? Really really?”
“If he’s available.”
“He said he would be. Last night he said weekends are good for him.”
Of course she remembers that. She remembers everything when she’s interested.
Our place, I type. If you don’t mind coming here.
Send me the address. What time?
I glance at the clock. It’s only eight-thirty. Too early, but Lily’s practically vibrating with excitement.
Is eleven too early?
Eleven is perfect. See you then.
I set the phone down and look at my daughter, who’s watching me with hopeful eyes.
“Eleven o’clock,” I tell her.
The second squeal is even louder. She launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Thank you thank you thank you! I’m going to be the best guitar student ever. I’m going to practice every day and learn all the chords and maybe we can start a band!”
“Slow down there, rockstar. Let’s see how today goes.”
But her excitement is infectious. And underneath my careful parental management of expectations, I’m excited too. Not just about guitar lessons, but about what this means. About choosing to move forward instead of standing still.
“Can I clean my room?” Lily asks. “I want it to be nice if he sees it.”
“You want to clean your room? Without me asking?”
“It’s important.” She’s already heading down the hall. “First impressions matter.”
First impressions. She’s already had hers, and it was good enough that she wants to make another one. Wants him to think well of her, of us.
I follow her down the hall and watch from her doorway as she straightens her desk, arranges her books, makes her bed with more care than usual. She’s humming something, happy and focused.
“You really like him,” I say.
She pauses, considering. “He listens. And he didn’t laugh when I asked if guitars have feelings.”
“Do they?”
“He said musicians think they do. That each one has its own personality.”
Of course he said that. Of course he took her question seriously and gave her a real answer.
“Mom?” She smooths out her comforter. “Is he your boyfriend?”
The question catches me off guard. “No. He’s a friend.”
“But he could be. Your boyfriend, I mean.”
“Why do you think that?”
She shrugs, arranging her stuffed animals on her pillow. “You acted differently around him. Good different.”
“How did I act?”
“Like yourself, but more.” She frowns, searching for words. “Like when you’re really into a book and you forget I’m there, but in a good way. You’re just . . . you.”
Sometimes she sees too much. Understands too much.
“Would that be okay with you?” I ask carefully. “If he was more than a friend?”
She thinks about it. Really considers the question. “Would he be around more?”
“Maybe.”
“Would he teach me guitar?”
“Probably.”
“Would you be happy?”
The question hits somewhere deep. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Then okay.” Simple as that. “As long as he’s nice to you. And me. But mostly you.”
I cross the room and pull her into a hug. She tolerates it for about three seconds before squirming away.
“Mom, I need to finish cleaning.”
“Right. Sorry. Carry on.”
I leave her to her preparations and head to my own room. If we’re doing this, if I’m really letting him into our space, our life, I should probably change out of my pajamas.
My closet offers too many options. This isn’t a date. It’s guitar lessons for my daughter. But it’s also Darian coming to our house, seeing where we live, how we live. It matters, even if I pretend it doesn’t.
I settle on jeans and a comfortable sweater. Casual but put together. Not trying too hard but not looking like I just rolled out of bed.
The next two hours pass slowly. Lily practices sitting with good posture, holding an imaginary guitar. She watches YouTube videos about finger positions. She writes down questions in a notebook she’s designated her “Guitar Journal.”
I clean the kitchen, straighten the living room, try not to watch the clock. This is normal. Just a friend coming over to teach my daughter guitar. Nothing more.
Except it is more, and I know it. This is me choosing to let him in. Choosing to see where this goes. Choosing to trust not just my instincts but Lily’s too.
At ten-fifty, Lily takes her position by the front window.
“He’s not going to be early,” I tell her.
“He might be.”
“Don’t press your face against the glass.”
“I’m not.” She is.
At ten fifty-eight, a car pulls up outside. Lily squeals.
“It’s him! He’s here!”
She’s at the door before I can tell her to wait. But she does wait, bouncing on her toes, for me to actually open it.