Page 302 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B
I nudge my eyes toward the ES-335.
“That one’s my dad’s.”
He points at it with a raised brow.
“Your dad’s?”
He stares at the black beauty,
gutted this time.
“She’s fuckin’ beautiful,” he breathes.
And that guts me right back, how he’s looking at my father’s baby with this much awe.
“Go on,” I tell him.
“Pick one. Play somethin’ for me.”
Andrew barks a laugh,
kicking a cable to the side.
“Nah. Shut the fuck up with that.”
I drop my chin,
the next word slipping out sweet.
“Please.”
His face lights up,
as if he’s been dying to hear me beg.
He wipes his palms across the back of his jeans and stands there a beat, staring at the wall, fingers strokin’ his lip.
Les Paul, ES-335, Strat—
it’s an impossible choice.
And when he finally reaches up and unhooks the Strat, he does it slow and careful.
He slides a thumb into his pocket
and produces a battered guitar pick.
I huff a laugh, shaking my head as I look at the floor. “Of course,” I mutter, the words riding my smile.
The leather couch sinks under him.
A cord clicks into the amp,
low buzz filling the room.
He settles the Strat across his lap and sits there a beat, head bowed, palm smoothing over the curves of her body, same way he touches me.
His eyes flick up at me once,
