More Than Friends (Kingsley #4) (16 page)

The guitar was, of course, still sitting exactly where he had left it the night before, in the old battered case it had been purchased with when Michael had been a teenager. He had mostly taught himself to play, and he could mimic songs he liked pretty well, but he had no idea at all whether he was any good or not, because no one had ever heard him play before. Not even Nicolette. Still it had always felt good to sit down and prop the old thing on his knee, with music blaring from the radio as he plucked the strings. Sometimes he even played without the radio, using his remembrance of the lyrics to help his fingers play along the chords.

The clasps of the case clicked loudly as he hit the buttons to release them, and his breath felt strangled in his chest as he thought back on all the grief his unwillingness to play in front of other people had caused him over the years. To begin with, there had been no end of grief from his parents, who had chided him for spending his money on a guitar they believed he never played. Even Cameron and Drew had teased him for "wasting" his money, while Harmony and Evan had been much more focused on trying to play with it themselves. It had nearly been broken during one such attempt, when the two youngest Kingsley siblings had sneaked into his room and fought over who could play with it first.

He had had a girlfriend when he'd first bought the guitar too, a young girl he had known all his life. They had both known from the start that the relationship was temporary, as she had had big dreams of leaving their small city to head east and become a dancer and Michael had always known that he would stay put. In the beginning, the knowledge of their eventual separation had given them both freedom they might not have had otherwise, freedom for each of them to truly be themselves without fear of driving the other person away. But as time had gone on and they had grown closer, they had begun to resent each othe
r
– she because Michael still planned to stay, and he because she still planned to go.

She had begun dancing more, turning to the peace that dancing gave he
r
– and Michael, left alone but still invested in the relationship, had turned to learning the art of mechanical repair. Under the hood of his mother's car, he had fallen in love with the guitar riffs that littered the old classic rock tracks he'd listen to while he worked, and it had
n’
t taken him long to want a guitar of his own.

He had loved learning to play, and she had loved the idea of having a musician for a boyfriend. For a while, things had been good between them agai
n
– until she had wanted Michael to play for her. She had gotten it into her head that it would be
romantic
for him to play her audition music when she competed to attend a prestigious dance school, and she had been furious when he refused, afraid that his inexperience with the chords might cost her the audition.

"You just aren't being supportive,"
she had said accusingly, tears sparkling in her eyes.
"I thought you cared for me."

"I do, that's why I don't want to mess this up for you."
Michael had retorted, angered by her words.
"But do I want to help you leave me? No, I don't."

Furious, she had broken up with him then, and Michael had buried himself even more in music and mechanics; by the time he had graduated high school, he had been halfway through with his ASE certification, and it hadn't taken him long after that to be working in a shop in the mornings and attending mechanics courses in the evenings. The guitar that had cost him that early relationship had been relegated to the back of his close
t
– until he had met Nicolette, and music had begun to have personal meaning to him again. In those days, the guitar was a guilty secret; he played because he loved it again, but he kept it to himself because he loved Nicolette.

She had discovered the old guitar case by accident as she searched for odds and ends to decorate the attic with, and had asked about it then.
"I didn't know you had this,"
she had said, smiling. Her eyes had crinkled softly at the corners, and she had popped the case open to look inside.
"Can you play this?"

"I can,"
he had answered, embarrassed.
"Not well, though, and I haven't played in a long time."

Nicolette had watched him quietly for a moment, and then closed the case with a soft click.
"Okay, well, if you ever want to pull that back out ... You could probably bribe me into listening."
  He had wanted to play for her then, had wanted to hear her sing along. And it had been easy, in the days and weeks afterward, to imagine their house full of music and love and laughter. Would the sound of music in the house have been enough to mask the absence of children's laughter? Would it have been enough to make her stay? He would never know now; even though she had hinted many times, he hadn't found the courage to play for her before she had left.

Now, in the wake of his memories, his fingers trembled on the clasps of the guitar case.  Would he have the courage to play for any woman? For Renee? He had no idea. Music, or at least his attempt to create music, was something that touched his soul, something that opened his heart and left him vulnerable in ways he had never shared with anyone. It was therapeuti
c
– but his desire to keep it to himself had cost him greatly. It was such a large part of so many different times in his life, but as far as he knew, no one even knew Michael still owned the battered old guitar.

He popped the clips and lifted the lid, staring down at the dusty instrument. His fingers itched for the feel of the strings, and he could almost feel the weight of the guitar on his knee already.
It was almost reverence, the emotion that filled him as he lifted the weight of the instrument and began to wipe away the layer of dust that had slipped through the protective barrier of the case. In the bottom of the case was a wadded rag, clean but much-softened with age and use, and Michael sighed as he lifted it.

The routine of cleaning and polishing the old guitar calmed him just as much as it always had, and his hands were steady again by the time he tightened the last of the strings. Leaving the case open on the table, he carried the now clean instrument into the living room and settled himself on the couch. The guitar seemed to find its own place on his knee, and he cleared his throat softly in preparation as his fingertips settled on the frets. Settling down with the slight weight on his knee, his elbow propped comfortably on the round body, Michael plucked the strings gently, tentatively, allowing the vibration of the strings and the easy rhythm of the chords to guide him as he tuned the guitar. Before long, he was playing again, the words and the music flowing out of him as smoothly as they always had, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Michael felt peac
e
– mostly.

Now and then as he played into the silence of the house, his eyes drifted toward the stairs, his mind moving up toward the mess still waiting for him in the attic; he hadn't been back up there to finish cleaning
everything yet,
and the memory of Nicolette's letter lying under the wreckage still haunted him. He tuned his mind more determinedly to his music, only to have it wander back again; when his mind wasn't lost in the music or focused on
the
mess in the attic, it was flickering hopefully over the blank screen of his cell phone, still stubbornly refusing to light up with Renee's call.

Glancing over at the clock on the wall, Michael shook his head and resolved to ignore the tightness of anxiety that had settled in his chest and shoulders. He played harder, his fingers beginning to ache as the vibration of the guitar strings traveled up into the bones of his hand, and he left the sweetness of the old classic rock ballads behind, moving instead into the sad and lonesome songs that better fit his current mood.

Soon enough, the windows had darkened with the twilight, the evening was half over, and his phone was still dark, still silent.
When would she call? She had finished her last class over an hour ago ...

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he slipped the guitar from his lap and left it resting on the couch as he stood. "Well
,
” he muttered bitterly. ''If I'm gonna spend the whole night staring at the phone like a bitch, might as well get up and put on a damn dress. Or clean. Or fix my damned lipstick or something." Scooping the phone from the table, he swiped his finger over the screen to check the volume of the ringtone, knowing even as he opened the screen that that wasn't his true intention. His stomach tightened in anticipation and his mouth twisted with dry humor as his hungry eyes scanned the notifications for missed calls. Zero. She hadn't called. "Oh my God, I'm such a bitch."

When his phone finally did ring, Michael missed the call. He had packed his guitar back into the case, but hadn't been able to bring himself to hide it in the shed again. Instead, he'd tucked it into the small coat closet under the stairs. He had emptied the dishwasher, had run the vacuum. He had debated just taking charge and calling Renee over a dozen times, each time discarding the idea. Now that he had opened himself up and taken a step with Renee, Michael was dying to see what would happen next; was he facing rejection and the loss of his most valuable friendship? Or was he on his way to something exciting and new?

"Hey. Sorry I missed you a while ago," he said breathlessly into the phone when he called her back.

"No problem, I had time to check in on your mom," Renee laughed. "She sounds good, but you sound like you were running a marathon. You okay?"

"Yep, I'm all good," Michael panted. "Just got done wrestling an old broken table out to the truck."

"You have an old broken table?"

Michael laughed, raising one arm to wipe sweat from his forehead. "Yeah, up in the attic. But it was a really old one, from back when furniture was built to last
.
” He listened to her murmur of encouragement, the tension in his shoulders slowly seeping down through his chest and into his stomach. She did
n’
t seem ready to get into things just yet, so in an attempt to follow her lead, he went on
.“
It did
n’
t look that sturdy, but it was pretty solid
.
”

“
Mmm, it must have been heavy
,
” she said quietly. He could imagine her face, thoughtful as she worked through things she was
n’
t saying. Her brows would be woven together, with a slight wrinkle just between; her mouth would be pursed, the smallest hint of a dimple just beside her mouth on one side. And her eyes ... sh
e’
d have those beautiful eyes lowered, probably watching her hands wring themselves the way they did when she was nervous.

“
It was
,
” he said. His breathing was
n’
t heavy anymor
e
– at least, not from the physical labor of muscling the heavy tabletop down the narrow attic stairs. He could
n’
t tell if the goose bumps that raced up and down his arms and shoulders were from the night air as his sweat cooled, or from the anticipation of finally having this conversation.

"I've been thinking," she said, when the silence between them had grown heavy. Her voice was soft, and he could hear her breath catch as she spoke. Was it excitement? Or nerves?

"I figured," Michael answered. He leaned back against the porch railing and looked out into the night; the stars lit the yard in front of his house, and through the screen of trees, he could see the lights of the other houses nearby, comfortably close but still securely at a distance. "What you been thinking about?"

"You."

"Me. Okay." He swallowed against the feeling that he was suffocating, and took the leap. "Any chance you wanna share those thoughts with me?"

"Probably," she teased. "I did call you to talk, after all." He heard the telltale beeping of her microwave in the background and smiled; Renee was addicted to popcorn and only rarely spent an evening at home without a bowl of it beside her reading table.

"So you did," he said smiling despite the churning in his stomach. "But you're making me work awfully hard for it, you know. And eating popcorn without me, to
o
– that's just mean."

Renee laughed. "Guilty. But you aren't here," she teased. "So ... no popcorn for you. You miss out." By the time she'd finished talking, the teasing note had gone from her voice though, and she was speaking very softly.

Tipping his head in surprise, Michael stared down at the phone in his hand before bringing it back up to his ear. A thousand times, Michael had teased Renee for having popcorn without him, and a thousand times, she had responded by telling him sassily that he knew where his kitchen was and how to work a microwave. Maybe the deviation from their usual banter meant nothing, maybe it was only the result of her nerves as the dynamic between them took on a new and unfamiliar shape. But maybe ... No. She wasn't the kind of girl to drop hints like that.
Was she?
"Hmm. That's sad," he said, trying again. "I hate being the guy that misses out. 'Specially if it's popcorn."

The microwave beeped again in the background, a long shrill tone that was quickly followed by the rattling sound of shaken popcorn. Michael listened as she tore the bag open and sniffed. "It's all buttery too
,
” she said. "I bet you're really sad to not be sharing this with me, huh?"

"Meanness, Renee Keaton," Michael answered, pretending to pout as she crunched, laughing, on a piece of popcorn. "That right there is just pure meanness. It's not nice to show someone what the
y’
re missing and then rub it in their face."

She laughed again as she poured the popcorn into a dish, a few unpopped kernels pinging loudly as they fell against what he assumed must be a glass bowl. "Well, Michael," she said, "if you hear the ice cream truck coming, and you see it stop at your house, and you know you like ice cream, but you don't go get it, you can't pout if someone else eats the one you wanted. It's the same with popcorn. You want some, get some."

Is that a dare?

Standing there, with a breeze still blowing over his bare shoulders and the hardwood of the porch rail at his back, Michael shook his head, his eyes on his truck as an idea took root in his mind. "What if it's too late for popcorn? I think all the stores are closed by now."

"I guess that depends on how bad you want popcorn
,
” Renee answered. "Where there's a will, there's a way."

Nodding in acceptance of her unspoken challenge, Michael slipped his keys from his pocket and stared down at them.
Alright, then, let's see where this goes.
Steering the conversation in a new direction, Michael stepped quietly back into the house, his keys still in hand. The tone of disappointment in her voice as he kept the conversation light made him smile as he made his way through the house; she clearly thought he had decided not to follow the original line of their conversation, and he waited to see if she would choose a more direct approach as he turned off the lights and snatched his t-shirt from the couch. They chatted about her yoga classes that day as he pulled his shirt on, and he asked if Harvey had shown up to class. As Michael sat down to tie his shoes, Renee told him that no, Harvey had not come to class. His wife, however,
had
come – bearing apologie
s
– and had been a model student in her husband's place.

"I'd have tossed her out of class and told them both not to come back," Michael grumbled as he headed for the door. He did
n’
t like the idea of people who had scared her having that kind of access to her. The thought of her vulnerability made something unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant unfurl inside of him, like a beast awakening from a long sleep, and as he locked the door to his house, he marveled at the strange desire to wrap her up and tuck her into his pocket, like a precious thing he could hide and protect.

"No, l wouldn't do that," Renee said softly. "I think she was just very unhappy and very hurt. She seemed nice though, you know? After we cleared things up." She laughed bitterly, the sound followed by a heavy sigh. "Then again, I thought Harvey seemed nice, too. Maybe I just have lousy judgement."

"Maybe you've been buying your ice cream from the wrong ice cream truck," Michael teased, going back to their earlier banter.

Renee snorted, and the sound of crunching popcorn returned. "Maybe I'm lactose intolerant and should stay away from ice cream."

"Maybe you're bullshit intolerant and it has nothing to do with lactose," Michael retorted. He pulled the phone away from his ear long enough to mute the device's microphone; he didn't want Renee to hear him getting into the truck.

Oblivious to Michael's quiet stealth, Renee laughed again, this time with more cheer. "Bullshit intolerance!" she exclaimed. "Oh, that's a good one! Haha! I'll have to remember that one for next time!"

Activating the microphone again, Michael laughed with her, enjoying the ease that had settled between them again. "Still hogging all the popcorn?" he teased. By the time she had informed him that she had no other choice since sharing popcorn by phone wasn't technologically possible yet, Michael had sneakily started his truck, rolled the windows up to block road noise, and begun the drive to Rene
e’
s house.