Page 30 of Island Girl

“You play?”

She hesitated. The question was simple, but the answer felt complicated. Did she play? She used to. She'd played almost every day for years, until her mother died and then the music stopped. She'd picked it up again in that garden, alone under the banyan tree, but that felt private. A secret she wasn't ready to share.

“I used to,” she said finally. “I'm trying to get back into it.”

“Any good?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I was, once.”

Justin set down his towel and leaned against the bar, studying her with those thoughtful eyes. “We've been talking about doing live music on slow nights. Nothing fancy, just someone playing acoustic in the corner. Crocker's been resistant, but I think it could work.”

“You want me to play?”

“I want to hear you play. And then maybe, if you're interested, we could try it out. See how it goes.”

Merritt felt something flutter in her chest. Fear, maybe. Or excitement. It was hard to tell the difference.

“I don't know,” she said. “It's been a while. I'm rusty.”

“So practice. And when you're ready, let me know.” Justin shrugged, easy and casual, like it didn't matter either way. “No pressure. Just an idea.”

He moved down the bar to help Dottie with a refill, leaving Merritt alone with her thoughts.

Live music. Playing for people. The idea terrified her and thrilled her in equal measure. She'd performed before, years ago. Coffee shops in Portland, open mics in Boston. She'd even played at a few weddings, back when she still had time for things like weddings. But that was a different life. A different Merritt.

Could she do it again? Did she even want to?

She looked across the room at Ray, sitting alone in his corner. He hadn't moved since he arrived. His glass sat untouched, the whiskey catching the light from the string lights above.

Music had always been her refuge.

That's what she'd thought, sitting under the banyan tree with her guitar in her lap. Music had gotten her through the hardest times of her life. It had given her something to hold on to when everything else was slipping away.

Maybe it could do that for someone else, too.

The thought settled into her like a stone dropping into still water. Ripples spreading outward, touching everything.

She didn't say anything to Justin. Not yet. But when her shift ended and she climbed the stairs to her apartment, she didn't go straight to bed. Instead, she sat on the edge of her mattress and pulled her guitar case onto her lap.

The latches clicked open. The case exhaled the familiar smell of wood and rosin. She lifted the Martin out and settled it against her body, feeling the weight of it, the rightness of it.

And then she played.

Not for anyone. Not for Ray, or Justin, or the ghosts that haunted her. Just for herself. Just to remember what it felt like.

The rain drummed against the window. The wind sangthrough the eaves. And somewhere in the dark, the music found its way home.

It happened on a Tuesday, almost by accident.

The bar was quiet again. Another storm had blown through that afternoon, leaving the sky washed clean and the air soft with humidity. Merritt had been practicing every night for a week, working through old songs, relearning the calluses on her fingertips. She hadn't told Justin she was ready. She wasn't sure she ever would be.

But that evening, Crocker changed everything.

He came out of the back around seven, earlier than usual, carrying a wooden stool. He set it down in the corner near the windows, the spot where the light was warmest, and then looked at Merritt.

“Justin says you play guitar.”

It wasn't a question. Merritt glanced at Justin, who was suddenly very busy organizing bottles behind the bar.