𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲

Chapter 24

— Chapter 24 —
The Alley Cat to a Stray Dog

=||=||=

E L L I O T

"You play guitar?" I asked Noah several minutes later, nodding to the honey-colored acoustic guitar in the corner of his living room.

The clock on the wall read just past three in the morning, though it didn't look like either of us were tired out enough to pass out. My legs hurt, sure, but I was usually up until the early hours anyway.

Noah looked up from his cooking and followed my gaze to the guitar, a smile pulling on his rosy lips.

"Hah—no. I don't have a musical bone in my body. My brother left it here the last time he came to visit."

"You have a brother?"

"Yeah. Jasper," he told me. "Lives down in New York with the rest of my family. Smart kid."

I gestured to the guitar, and after a few moments, asked nervously, "Would he mind if I...?"

Noah shrugged, tasting the sauce before answering me. "Nope. Knock yourself out."

I gave him a small nod and headed over to the guitar. Fuckass let out a soft mewl from its spot on the sofa as I passed, curled comfortably into a black ball of fur in the living space.

The guitar was cold to the touch. It had been a long while since I'd last played—but I still had marks on my fingers from all the years of practice in high school.

Sitting on the ledge of the kitchen floor, I adjusted my arm over the guitar and watched as Fuckass came over to sniff me out of curiosity. The guitar was an old Yamaha, its wooden construction a pale yellow with six cords running straight along its neck.

It was somewhat difficult to get a comfortable grip to play the strings, considering the bandages and my sore skin.

I began with a few cords, though immediately winced at the scratchy sound that filled the air. I didn't need my perfect pitch to know that it was out of tune—even Fuckass cringed away at the sound of it.

"You play?" Noah asked as I started to fiddle with the tuner keys, strumming the strings individually as I adjusted the sound.

"I used to. I'm out of practice," I admitted.

It was a little bit before I managed to get it sounding decent, playing basic cords a few times to get used to the feeling.

Eventually, I found the tune that I wanted to play, drowning out the noise of Noah fiddling with plates in the kitchen behind me.

It was a bittersweet melody, one that I hadn't played in a few good years. I was surprised that I still had the muscle memory for it—though it took a bit to kick in. It felt nice.

It was my song—a song I'd written back when I'd turned eighteen. It was the last song I'd ever composed. The song I'd never finished.

It was intricate, melancholic... it encapsulated all the emotions I felt after being abandoned and isolated. My mom, my dad, James...

I was always the one who'd been left behind.

Noah, who'd been listening quietly off to the side while I'd been playing, voiced, "Hey, you're pretty good with that thing."