Page 98 of Sing For Me

Will

There’s a lump in my throat I can’t quite seem to dislodge, no matter how many pulls of beer I swallow.

I knew that Eva could sing—it’s her career, after all. But I’d never actually heard her before. I could have gone online and found videos of it. Could have downloaded one of her albums. But I hadn’t wanted to. I’d been afraid to.

A lot of people have commented about the lack of music in my life. I’ve taken out girls who find it odd that my truck’s radio remained ever silent. Quinn and Hannie and everyone at the shop are forever complaining that I won’t let them turn on the sound system while I’m there. Even River and Rose, with everything they know about me, sometimes grumble about the relative quiet of our apartment.

We grew up in a family where music was ever present. Touring with our dads, sneaking into the recording studio Uncle Reed has at his house or the one they built here on the farm. Nights spent like this, by a campfire, or sitting around in the backyards at home with guitars. Our parent’s friends are all musicians. Most of us kids know how to play, learning from our dads or our Grandpa. It was unheard of to go a day without a song playing somewhere when I was growing up.

All of that changed for me after Skye.

I had wondered, vaguely, if Eva would ever notice. But as we spent more time together, I slowly stopped thinking about it. She didn’t try to turn on the radio in my truck. She didn’t have music playing when I came over. Didn’t sing under her breath when she was doing stuff around the house. There was a piano in her living room, a gorgeous Bechstein upright, but I’d never seen her so much as sit down in front of it.

She’s singing now. I can hear her voice next to me, even over my Aunt Haylee and Uncle Daltrey and Grandma Ruby, who are usually so loud. Even over all of my cousins and my uncles and aunts who have joined in. There are close to thirty people sitting around this fire, almost all of them singing along, and I can still hear Eva’s voice.

It’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that sneaks its way into your heart, into your soul, and won’t let go. The kind of beautiful that makes your breath catch. That makes you want to cry.

And there’s a part of me that wishes I had never heard it.

“Do you play?” Eva asks between songs, and I tense, thinking she’s talking to me. But then I see her smiling across the circle at Santana, who’s staring at her with wide, worshipful eyes.

“A little,” my cousin squeaks out.

Eva holds up the guitar. “You want a turn?”

Santana looks like she’s going to pass out. She nearly trips into the fire pit she’s in such a hurry to get to Eva’s side, and Uncle Reed has to pull her back to keep her from getting hurt. My girl laughs at the kid’s eagerness, sliding over on the blanket to make room for Santana between us.

“Can you hear what key we’re in?” I hear Eva ask softly.

“A major?” Santana asks.

“Close—G,” Eva corrects, and Santana adjusts her fingers on the frets. “Good.”

I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the two of them. A few times during the song, Eva adjusts Santana’s fingers or leans over to whisper an instruction or suggestion. She’s smiling brightly, clearly enjoying herself, and my chest tightens.

Across the circle, I feel eyes on me and look up to see Wyatt watching us, his expression too shadowed by the fire for me to read.

“Great,” Eva says at the end of the song. “Now you just need to sing at the same time.”

Santana lets out a breathless laugh, her eyes wide and a little shellshocked. She looks like someone who just got a guitar lesson from her hero—which I guess is what happened. I glance up to see Reed watching them, a knowing smile on his face. I’m not quite sure how I should feel about that smile.

“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” Santana says. “I’m sure I’ll mess up if I try to do both.”

“Nah,” Eva says. “It actually makes it easier. You concentrate on your singing and you don’t worry so much about your fingers. You start to play automatically.”

“Okay.” Santana looks both excited and nervous but when Haylee starts singing “Jolene”, she opens her mouth to sing along. And she doesn’t do half bad.

“See?” Eva asks when it’s over, a huge grin on her face. “You did great.”

Santana is beaming, happier than I think I’ve ever seen her. “That’s the kind of music I want to make,” she says quickly, stumbling on her words in her excitement. “I love country music.”

Silas and Nix erupt into a chorus of groans and boos on the other side of me. “You’re not allowed to be a country singer,” Nix says.

Santana sticks her tongue out at them and Eva laughs. “I like country,” she assures her, and I’m pretty sure my little cousin would now be willing to take a bullet for the woman.

“Yeah, but Eva, this is arockfamily,” my brother insists. He looks across the fire to Santana’s father, who’s still watching us. “Tell her, Uncle Reed.”

His mouth twitches in amusement. “You’re talking a lot of smack for someone who doesn’t have a guitar in his hands.”