Chapter Eleven
My clumsy, soft fingers find the uncomfortable familiarity of a fret board, stumble, and fall.
Without speaking, Frank walks behind me, and lays his harsh calloused fingers over mine in a way that screams of forgotten routine. Now that Jesse is in town, I’m not intimidated by Frank’s closeness- I don’t distance myself from him by dwelling on his genius, because it’s dimmed beside our messiah. Instead, I remind myself that Frank’s my friend. Being personal with him like this, unabashed and normal… well, it’s kind of nice.
Of course, not for him. Frank’s still furious with me, whether he’ll admit it or not. He hasn’t said a word to me.
It’s a more pointed silence than our usual silence, though. This isn’t simply the awkward insecure silence we’ve never fully outgrown. No, this is anger. This is grudge.
I take his silent lesson to heart, pressing harder on the strings as he instructed. Focusing, I lean over the guitar. A curtain of my hair separates me from everything else.
A timid hand, much too soft to match its own rough fingers, grazes my neck, and despite my newfound comfort around Frank, I shudder.
“Why don’t you pull your hair back?”
His tone of honest curiosity overpowers the sound of the silence shattering.
I can suddenly see, and I realized he’s pulled my hair back off my face. I shake free of his grasp and turn to face him. There’s unmistakable hurt in his eyes, though whether it’s from my earlier betrayal of trust or from pulling away, I don’t know.
Quickly, I look away. “I prefer my hair down.”
He walks in front of me, takes the guitar out of my lap, and crouches to meet me at my sitting eyelevel. “No. You don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No,” he shakes his head, placing a hand on each of my shoulders so that I can’t look away. “Lynn, I’ve lived with you for a year, and I’ve known you for almost seven. You only wear your hair down probably once a week, and even then, you constantly complain how it’ in your face and it’s always too hot outside not to pull it back.”
I blink. He’s never seemed to pay me much attention, yet everything he says is spot on.
“Times change.”
Jesse’s thoughts become my own; why shouldn’t his words?
Frank stares at me for a long moment. I’m a deer caught in the headlights of his eyes, and I can’t look anywhere else. I’m locked in his dull green gaze. “What’s wrong with you?
“Maybe I’m pregnant,” I chide.
“I’m serious!”
I flinch as he jerks away, hand through his hair, pacing.
“The Lynn I know would never prefer her hair down, or play her songs for someone else, or not call when Jesse-”
And suddenly I’m standing, waving my arms for emphasis, and just screaming. “Oh, so that’s what this is about! I told you, I’m sorry! But honestly, Frank, you’d have done the same thing. I didn’t plan…”
But he’s frozen.
“What?” I ask, annoyed.
He’s the picture of surprise and disappointment and anger and pain. His mouth is open in the shape of a little ‘o’, his eyes watering with realization.
“Did Jesse tell you he prefers your hair down?”
I start to argue, but he holds up a hand.
“Did he?”
And so I just nod.
Like he’s been punched in the stomach by a giant invisible fist, he falls back into the chair behind him, looking at nothing. “Lynn.”
For lack of something better to do, I slowly mimic his actions, receding to my seat. I put my head in my hands. “Frank?”
“You’re in love with Jesse, aren’t you?”
It’s one of those things you only know once you hear it out loud. I keep my head down and I say, “No.”
But he doesn’t say another word. Suddenly the air has been let out of the room, and I’m taking shallow breaths, nearly hyperventilating. The light in the room is too bright, too real, and I clench my eyes tight until it goes blurry and blacks out.
There’s a tap on my shoulder. I look up to a watery Frank.
Damn. I’m crying.
He hands me the guitar and pulls his chair so close our knees are touching. “Play it again.”
And I do.
We don't talk about Jesse again.
