Page 9 of The Situationship

“Why would you be fine with me hating your playing?”

“I mean, I hope you don’t, but I play because I like it.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting in the living room.”

I turned and marched from the kitchen and plopped in a recliner.

He closed the fridge, then walked around the island and sat with the guitar in his lap on the sofa, tuning it.

He started doing vocal exercises.

Oh my God, there was going to be singing. I was either going to love this or hate this.

He cleared his throat, made very intense, totally unnecessary eye contact with me, and started singing “More Than Words” by Extreme. My absolute favorite song of all time. I could not believe what I was hearing.

He was not a good singer. At all.

Was it terrible? Yes.

Was it maybe the worst rendition of it I’d ever heard?

Also yes.

He couldn’t pull off the high notes. His big fingers fumbled the strings, he was out of tune—but he knew it. He laughed every time his voice cracked.

He meant what he said. He didn’t care.

He liked to sing. He liked the song. He didn’t give a shit what I thought, and he was having a good time—and I respected that. It made me have a good time. It was endearing—and brave. Especially considering what I told him about my face.

He ended and looked at me and I gave him the first smile I’d given him the whole day. Maybe the first smile I’d given in weeks.

It had been a shitty couple of weeks.

“Thank you,” I said, earnestly. “That was wonderful.”

He grinned and took the strap off and set the guitar against the end table. Then he flexed his finger and winced, sucking on it.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I have this splinter—”

“Let me see it.”

I sat next to him on the sofa and took his hand. “Where is it?” I asked.

“Right here.”

I looked at it. It was deep. “Do you have a needle and some alcohol?” I asked. “Tweezers?”

I spent the next ten minutes working the sliver from his skin. I was right about him being tough as nails. He didn’t flinch once while I was getting it out.

He smelled good this close. And he was warm. Heat radiated off him. I kept getting the feeling he was looking at me while I was focused on his hand, but I was afraid to look up, I was too close to his mouth.

I extracted the splinter. “How long did you have this?” I asked, showing it to him.

“Couple of days.”

“A couple of days? Why didn’t you get someone to help get it out?”