“Lunch break. I’m at my hotel.”
Britt heard a rustling as he put the phone down, then a few notes strummed.
“Okay,” he said and she heard him take a breath.
The intimacy of that, the illusion of closeness in hearing him inhale touched her somehow.
“Long as I remember/the rain been comin down...”
Britt clutched the phone so hard her fingertips hurt from the pressure. She shut her eyes and listened to him playing CCR to her from thousands of miles away.
“My dad used to play that song, on the tape deck,” she said when he was through. “He didn’t have a CD player in his car even though practically everyone else did. One year I got him the greatest hits and he was all insulted because you have to hear the shape of the entire album to really understand the individual songs and how they—I’ll never forget rolling my eyes at this!—fit into the emotional fabric of their canon.”
“I think I’m going to love your dad.”
“I don’t think that’s possible. He died when I was fifteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No it’s, I mean it’s not okay, but I’m used to it now. They got divorced when I was twelve and we didn’t really see him that much after that. He was into music and he loved donuts. He sold cars.”
“But he didn’t have a CD player in his? I bet his boss loved him driving around some old junker just to keep the tape deck.”
“They fought him on it, but really, he just did things the way he thought they ought to be done. He had very fixed ideas.”
“I think you inherited that.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” she admitted. “I really—I don’t think of him very often. That song just reminded me. I’m sorry. It was great, hearing you play it. It just brought back memories.”
“Can I play you something else? Something that won’t remind you of anything sad?”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re sad. I can hear it in your voice. This is one of mine. You’ll be like the sixth or seventh person on earth to hear it.”
“You don’t have to, if you’re not ready to share it.”
“I am. I want you to hear it.”
“I’m listening.” She stretched out on her bed and shut her eyes, gave herself up to the lonely sound of guitar strings and his voice, low and smoky and intimate.
“Clever girl/I lost my heart/can you help me find it now?/You say we’re nothing/none of that is true/I found myself/when I found you.”
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Yeah, I do. It’s beautiful,” she breathed, feeling that twist in her stomach that she knew was the war between yearning and regret. What would he sing, she wondered, if he knew she had dinner with Chris?
“It’s called Two Margaritas.”
“Is that my nickname now?”
“What makes you think it’s about you?” he teased.
“Obviously because I’m clever.”
“Right. Well, of course it’s about you because...it is. I wrote it the morning after we...met.”
“I was nursing a hangover and a major case of shame. You were all, oh hey I’ll make some art. You are so resilient.”