There was music. Always. Childhood memories, dreams that reoccurred over the years, every happy and miserable moment of our lives in Nashville always included music. Like that time Bobby, my mom’s elderly boss, the closest thing to a grandmother I’d ever had, decided to throw me a tenth birthday party. The kids at my school had been scared of my size and my quick temper, so only a few of the guys from my junior high football team showed up. Mom spent a solid hour apologizing to me, trying to pretend there weren’t tears in her eyes over the apparent slight. Bobby and Mark, my mother’s gay best friend, had to drag her out of the kitchen to tell her to suck it up, that she was far more upset than I was. We spent the rest of the party camped around the piano singing songs about farting and diarrhea and other gross boy shit that Mark remembered from his times at Lacrosse camp. It had been the best birthday I remembered having, ever.

Or, when I went an entire summer in pain every single night because my limbs were growing too quickly, that damn Hale DNA hurrying to make me like my father before I was ready, and Mom lying next to me while Mark or his partner Johnny rubbed peppermint oil on my throbbing legs. She sang to me then, or hummed throaty and low. That was the summer she taught me Ava Maria in Italian. Anytime I can’t sleep, that’s the tune that calms me, makes me remember that I had a mother and two adopted fathers who cared enough about me to lose sleep, who wore themselves out to make sure I was in as little pain as possible .

There was always music. Even in the most desperate, unbearable moments. When I got tossed from my school in eighth grade for losing my temper and sending that bastard Mikee Sibley through the glass window for trying to attack a girl who was barely thirteen, my mom sat me down in front of the piano, telling me that the keys would be my therapy, that the notes would blast away the hopelessness.

Music had worked for that angry, fourteen-year-old I’d been. It had worked for me since then, but I had let the accident, my guilt, distract me from my therapy and had not played for over a year.

I’d tried it, with Mom’s insistence, when I could not silence that voice I thought was Emily, when I sank too heavy in the grief that tightened around my heart every single day since I last saw my girlfriend, Mom forced me in front of the piano, or plunked her vintage Gibson guitar in my arms, begging me to play. It had become common for me to pacify her by just doing what she said, and so I’d tried, pushing a smile onto my face, gripping the neck of that guitar tight and playing every song I knew until my mother’s expression didn’t look so tight. Until I thought her worry had eased.

But it wasn’t real. Music stopped working for me. I missed it almost as much as I missed Em.

It was not a surprise to hear music playing as I approached the lake house that Sunday. But it was not only my mother’s raspy alto singing “I Dreamed a Dream” that I heard as I walked inside. There was another voice, this one higher, wobbling, sounding scared as my mother picked up the bridge. It wasn’t bad, but nothing about those voices sounded in harmony. One was trying too hard, the other was overpowering.

And for some reason, I cared.

They didn’t stop playing when I walked through the door and leaned against the wall to watch Mom and Aly at the piano. Mom’s fingers moved effortlessly over the keys, her gaze directed at Aly’s shy face, how she stood so stiff and straight that I was surprised she didn’t complain about an aching back later.

I’d expected our usual Sunday lunch, after two weeks with Dad and the team on away games out of state. I’d missed the Little Monster and my mom’s comfort food, and I was anxious to find out if Aly had actually shown up for the job. So, seeing Aly there with her back to me, standing next to Mom at that baby grand, and realizing that she had been the one singing, had me stopped cold in my tracks. Just as shockingly, the living room was clutter free and Koa’s large assortment of toys and books that were generally scattered around the floor and stuffed among the leather sofa cushions were neatly organized in small bins against the play room wall. And what was this? The floors had been cleaned—no shoe marks or creative kid hieroglyphics from markers, or stray smears of Play-Doh anywhere to be seen. Best of all, my mother’s skin was no longer pale, and the dark circles under her eyes, while still there, were much fainter.

Amazed, I stepped further in, right as Aly struggled through a high note that was clipped off suddenly when she noticed me standing in the entryway.

“Ransom,” my mother said, pushing back from the piano to meet me in the living room. She’d been clingy lately, behavior I’d chalked up to her pregnancy and hormones working their evil juju on her, but my practice schedule and upcoming mid-term prep had kept me in the city for longer than normal. It hadn’t just been missed Sunday dinners—it had been almost two weeks since I’d seen her at all. Still, my mother acted like she hadn’t seen me in months and I leaned down so she could wrap her arms around my neck and give me a peck on the cheek. Then she took my head between her hands and gave my face the once-over. “You look tired.” I didn’t like her frown or how she kept her open palms on my cheeks like she needed to examine me for any expression that would tell her I wasn’t okay.

“Mom, I’ve been practicing like a demon and studying hard.”

“Please,” she said, finally lowering her arms. “I know what goes on in that team house.” She cocked her eyebrow and frowned. “There was a reason I never stayed the night with your father when he lived there.”

“No,” Dad said, coming into the room carrying an armful of picture books and a half empty sippy cup of juice. “She always made me sneak into her dorm instead.” His smile was weak, but the ever-present wink told me he still perved over my mother. “I have fond memories of that dorm room.”

“You, hush.” She swatted at my father when he walked past her to slump into the sofa. He tossed the books and cup on the coffee table and Mom glared at him, then jerked her head at Aly who’d frozen at the piano, eyes avoiding my face.

“Oh, right. Sorry, sugar.” Dad nodded at an expressionless Aly and shuffled the books together before he disappeared with them into the play room.

“Wow. Never thought I’d see the day that Kona Hale would pick up his own mess.”

“He can’t be that bad,” Aly finally said, making my mom and I both move our gazes to her.

“Oh, sweetie, he is.” Mom wobbled back to the piano, leaning on the shiny, black top. “I should have warned you about him. He’s total slob and, well,” she paused to stand up and arch her back, “I just haven’t had the energy to pick up after him or Koa. That’s why the house was such a disaster when you got here last week.”

“Last week?” I asked, standing next to my mother. That surprised me, given that Aly had seemed so hell bent on dismissing me the first time I asked her take the job. But then, Leann had texted me a couple of times since the night Aly and I danced the Kizomba to ask when I could help her practice. It shouldn’t surprise me that she’d lived up to her side of the arrangement, even though I hadn’t yet.

“Yeah,” Aly said. She seemed distracted, picking up her backpack and stuffing sheet music inside it. “I told you I’d help your fanmi. Been here almost two weeks.”

“And she’s a godsend, honey.” My mother’s smile was wide and I realized I hadn’t seen her looking that relaxed, that content in months. “Really, she came in here like a hurricane and just took over everything—the cleaning, the cooking, getting Koa his bath and making sure he eats everything.” I heard the small creak of her jaw popping when she stopped to yawn. “Hell, she even organized all my cabinets and that disaster of a play room.”

“Keira, souple, it’s nothing.” Aly’s light umber skin looked flushed at my mother’s compliment.

“It’s not nothing, sweetheart. I really…God, you’re just such a help to us.” She turned back to Aly. “So, you have the sheet music. And I can send you some MP3s with the instrumentals. You’ll need that for the audition and…” she paused to stifle another yawn.

“What audition?” I asked Aly.

She finally looked at me, pushing her bag on the piano bench. “Oh, I’m thinking about auditioning for the Theater program at CPU. A dance and song audition will increase my chances of getting in.”

“Thinking?” Mom moved her head, her eyes narrowing. “You’re gonna do more than think about it. With your dance experience and a little fine tuning with your vocals, they’d be crazy not to take you on.”

Again that small flush moved over Aly’s face and it occurred to me that she may not have been frigid all this time. Maybe she was just shy, and her inability to hear anyone say good things about her just made her seem cold. “That’s awesome,” I told her, meaning it. “And Mom offered to help you out?”

“Well, yeah. I mean when she has time.” She nervously tucked an errant strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear, and looked at my mother again. “I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage, Keira. This job is generous enough. It’ll, um, keep me from having to pick up shifts at the diner.”

“You work at a diner?” I had no clue about that, but then I was bad about not paying attention to details. Had always made the assumption that Aly worked full time at the studio, maybe was a student like me. I didn’t know many people our age that didn’t go to CPU. And none of the people I knew worked two jobs. Damn. I really needed to get outside of the private-college/rich-kid crew.

Aly did this little shrug thing where her shoulder jerked, and a casual dip of her head moved her chin down, like she meant to bypass anything remarkable or remotely favorable about herself. “Yeah. I mean, I love teaching for Leann, but instructors generally don’t make a lot of cash. So I pick up shifts at the diner, clean houses when I’m really strapped for cash, that kind of thing.” She smiled at Keira and that smile got bigger when my father returned to the room and kissed mom on the forehead. “And now this gig too.”

“Aly Cat’s a hard worker, that’s for sure,” Dad said, laughing when that flush warmed Aly’s cheeks.

Mom sent her elbow into my father’s stomach. “Stop teasing her.”

“Look at that blush, though.”

“Kona…stop.” But my mother’s fussing was half-hearted and came behind yet another stifled yawn.

My father nodded, rubbed my Mom’s shoulders as though her sleepy expression confirmed something he’d guessed at. He started to lead her out of the room before she stopped him. “Baby, why don’t you take a nap while Koa is down?”

“I told Aly I’d help her with the song.”

“Keira, non. It’s fine.” Aly seemed to have no problem with my parents. There was a softness in her eyes when she watched them, as though she’d do anything they’d ask of her and be eager to do it. I liked that about her. She seemed to understand that they were good people. “You get some rest and I’ll see what I can whip up for an early dinner.”

“No, this is your day off, Aly.” Mom tilted her head, bringing her hand on top of Dad’s as though she was giving up the fight to stay awake. “I only asked you over so we could go over that song.”

“I don’t mind. Really.”

“I can cook,” I told them. It was Sunday and I’d come here to see them. Being in the city away from my family, had me wanting to pull my weight. If Aly could swing it, so could I, but as soon as I’d made the offer, I regretted it. I could tackle, I could sack, I could play music and land a high GPA with little effort. Cooking, though, wasn’t really something I’d been successful at. And when my mom looked at me in disbelief, I realized what a stupid offer I’d made. Still, I didn’t want to look like too much of an idiot. “What?”

“What?” Mom repeated. “Bobby’s kitchen, Thanksgiving, six years ago.”

“The outside of the turkey was perfect.”

Mom did that pathetic little ‘Oh, honey, no,’ head shake. “Sweetie, the outside was ‘done’, but the inside was still frozen and the mashed potatoes managed to be runny and lumpy at the same time. And we won’t even mention how Bobby’s stove caught fire when you left the dishtowel on the burner.”

“Mom, that was…”

Kona’s laugh interrupted me. “We’ll call something in.” He looked at Aly. “You’re staying for dinner. No arguments. But for now, Wildcat,” he turned to my mother, “You need to nap.” He guided her out of the room by the shoulders and ignored her last attempt at a protest. “Come on.”

Aly’s gaze followed them as they walked away. I still hadn’t seen her smile, just a small dimpling of her cheek here and there, but as she watched my parents walk out of the room, I studied her. Today she wasn’t dressed in anything like what she wore at the studio. No baggy shirts or fitted dance pants. She wore a pair of denim capris that cupped her large calf muscles and a flowy spaghetti strap top with a trim lace that seemed to tease me into staring a bit too long at the smooth skin around her cleavage. Her hair was still pulled back from around her face, but rather than in a messy bun, it was in a loose braid that hung down her back.

When she looked back at me, her expression was still impassive, but not unfriendly. Still, she didn’t smile. I wondered if she ever did.

“So, Aly Cat?” I said when the awkward silence lingered too long.

Aly rolled her eyes as though the name had come from something simple and silly. “Kona came in a few days ago while Koa was having a temper tantrum.” I tried not to stare at her chest when Aly leaned against the piano. “Your mom was sleeping and he was being, well…”

“Himself?”

“Yeah.” Another swipe of that stray hair to behind her ear and I noticed she wore a silver bracelet with a single charm. A ballet slipper. “He didn’t want to eat his lunch and I didn’t cave so he was crying. I’ve learned that fussing at kids doesn’t work, and I tend to try the whole ‘be calm’ thing, but Koa…”

“Yeah, that shit won’t work on him.” My kid brother was a ball of energy and Dad tended to overcompensate by spoiling Koa rotten, despite Mom’s complaints. It just added to his being incorrigible, even at nearly two.

“So, instead of fussing at him, I started making cat noises just to distract him.” A small lift of the right side of her mouth and I swore Aly almost smiled. She shook her head and that charm slid back and forth when she waved her hand. “Stupid, I know, but it worked and Koa just laughed. Your dad saw the whole thing go down and just started cracking up. Told me I sounded like an alley cat.” Aly moved her elbows to the piano top and glanced over her shoulder as though she wanted to make sure my father wasn’t around before she whispered, “I think he thinks he’s way funnier than he is.”

“That’s the truth.” She had Dad pegged already and I respected her for how quickly she seemed to discover that my parents weren’t the celebrities people tended to see them as. Aly, in fact, seemed pretty unimpressed by my father’s celebrity or the ridiculous near-mansion my folks lived in. That made her cool in my book. Her only response was to nod at me before she sat behind the piano.

The living room wasn’t where my mom typically did her work. She had a small office off the back of the house with a small recording studio, her desk and PC and enough instruments to outfit a full band. But the baby grand was too big for her studio, and besides, it begged to be put on display. Still, she hadn’t been playing much lately. As always, her father’s Gibson Hummingbird stayed at its usual place on a stand next to the piano along with the small amp she kept near it.

Aly tinkered on the keys, playing the slow intro to her song, but her timing was off and she missed several notes, something that set my teeth on edge. I’m not sure why I sat down next to her, and joined her at the keyboard. Maybe it was a bit of conceit. Maybe I wanted to show her that I had a connection to music, too, through piano instead than dance. Maybe I just wanted to be near her when she wasn’t completely freezing me out, for whatever reason.

“You play?” she asked, sounding surprised.

“Yeah, but I’m rusty.”

The keys felt cool and comfortable under my fingertips, and for a second I felt that calm settle into my chest, the same one that had always tampered down my rage when things became too much for me.

“You don’t sound rusty to me.”

Again that dimple dented her cheek and I figured that was as close to a smile as Aly ever got. I turned back to the song and messed around with the melody for a bit when a thought came to me. “Who decided on this song?” I asked, guessing I knew the answer to that question.

“Your mom,” she said, moving away from me when my elbow brushed her arm.

“Ah.”

“What does ‘ah’ mean exactly?” There was a mildly panicky tone to her question, one that had me glancing at her to see if she was freaking out.

The smile I gave her was part charm, part attempt at calm and I hoped it didn’t look forced. Me and panicky women? Yeah, that never ends well. “Relax, Aly. It’s just a general question.”

“No, it’s not.” She scooted closer, as though she forgot that her normal M.O. was refusing anyone inside her personal bubble. “Tell me what you’re thinking because I don’t want to screw this up.”

“Okay. Fine.” I stopped playing and turned my body toward her so that only my knee separated us on that bench. “My mom is a bad ass. She handles old rock stars who still think it’s the 60’s and cool to screw with women for being women. She’s racked up Grammies and made a lot of cash writing about cheating assholes and women kicking butt without anyone’s help.”

“Wi. Stuff I already know.” That dimple got deeper but I didn’t pat myself on the back. Wouldn’t do that until I saw an actual smile.

“Well, for all the badassery she manages, sometimes she forgets that the world isn’t in tune with her brain.” My mom had a process when she worked. It was one that you didn’t follow too closely. The best idea was to just sit back and watch her work her magic. Better yet, let her work and get out of her damn way.

“Modi, you’re saying she was wrong?” Aly’s smooth forehead became lined when she frowned. “About the song?”

“Maybe. I don’t think she got that this is a college audition and not a talent contest. Maybe it should be handled a little differently.” I closed the lid over the keys and moved my finger against the shine on the ebony wood until it smudged. In the reflection, Aly watched my face, as though she wanted to shake me a little to hurry up with my explanation. “I think sometimes Mom forgets that not everyone is a seasoned vet.” Aly blinked at me, making me feel like a jerk. After all, she was good. But even I could tell there was work to be done. “I just mean she hasn’t had to teach anyone for a long time.”

“You saying I need teaching?”

“Well, no.” I shrugged, feeling stupid, and moved my leg to the far side of the bench. The Hummingbird was just sitting there, still beautiful, still shiny, but the neck was worn with deep grooves from how much it had been played over the years, making it appear even older than it actually was. My mother had inherited the guitar from her father when he died, and despite a few dings and breaks over the years, it was still the guitar she used to compose with when the piano wouldn’t do.

I hadn’t touched it in months. Picking it up, cupping the neck and strumming along the strings felt like running into a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time. There were so many memories tied up in that guitar, so many tears and so much worry caught up in every string and fret.

The Hummingbird had a warm, crisp sound. The reverberation of the strings tickled my fingers like the practiced stroke of fingernail over my skin. It was comfortable and sweet, and I started to play a song I hoped Aly would recognize, moving through the melody until a hum bumped around in the back of my throat.

Two chord changes and I leaned over the guitar, closing my eyes. “I sort of picked up all of this on my own.” When she didn’t speak, I shot a glance up at her, stilling my fingers at her head shake. “What?”

“Is there anything you can’t do? Football, learning Kizomba after seeing it once, music.” She looked down when I smiled and started to strum again. There was no dimple on her cheek then, but her features had softened as I played. “You’re kind of intimidating.”

“Me?” I laughed and Aly looked up at my face, searching for what I might have found so funny. “Please. I just have a lot of energy to burn. That tends to make me focus when I’m learning.”

She made a chuckling sound deep in her throat and suddenly, it was Aly that I was focusing on. She had full lips, the bottom just a bit wider than the top and as I watched her, it was those full lips I thought about.

She didn’t shy away from me then. Still no damn smile, though, she seemed stingy with that. As I got caught up in the mesmerizing way she moved her lips together, Aly cleared her throat, and dropped her gaze to my fingers on the strings.

“So you think your mom was teaching me the wrong song?”

“She might have been too ambitious,” I stopped, returning my attention to the guitar and a different song. “You don’t have a lot of experience singing, right?” She narrowed her eyes at me and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Your pitch is natural, but not clean. Your voice is strong, but not that well supported. That tells me you haven’t had any lessons. Am I right?”

Aly shrugged yet again and distracted herself by picking up the cord to the amp coiled on the floor. She fingered the silver tip and kept her eyes down. “Everything I know I had to teach myself. Dance, music…”

“Wait. Dance?” I asked, not understanding that or why Aly only nodded. “But you teach.”

“Yeah. So?”

“You’re just, you’re good.” I liked that shrug/head dip thing she did. It made her seem humble. Not many people I know are remotely humble. “I’ve seen you with your students. You just…you’re self-taught?”

She made a small noise, similar to a soft grunt and then nodded at the guitar. “And your mom taught you everything?”

“No,” I said, smiling. “She didn’t.” Aly moved her lips together again and that time I didn’t let my eyes linger on her mouth. Instead I cleared my throat and started on another tune. “Anyway, she shouldn’t start out with one of the most popular and hardest songs on Broadway. Besides, I bet you those professors at the auditions will have heard something from Les Mis about fifty times before the auditions are over. You should try something unexpected.”

“Like?”

“Wild Horses” by the Rolling Stones was older, but perfect for what she’d need. Aly’s range and the sweet, high pitch of her voice would sound like a damn angel in that auditorium singing this song.

“You know this one?” I asked her, taking the plug from her. The pick up on the bridge of the guitar would give the tune an ethereal quality that would balance her high voice. When she didn’t answer and my humming got not reaction from her, I started in on the first line, keeping my voice low, watching her face until she moved her eyebrows up as recognition filtered into her mind.

“Sing,” I encouraged when I finished the chorus

“Um, okay, but…just let me…” and she turned, her back to me, returned her posture to that uncomfortable-looking too straight way she held herself. I let her try for a few bars, watching what I could see of her chin and long neck. She had a sweet tone, but her voice wobbled again as she rushed to get the words out before all the air left her lungs.

“Hold up,” I said, putting the guitar back on the stand.

“What?”

She tried to turn but I sat behind her, my legs on either side of the bench, putting my hands on her shoulders to keep her still. “I won’t give you shit about not looking at me when you sing. Although, you had your body pressed tight against me at the studio and didn’t look one bit nervous.”

Aly glared at me over her shoulder. “That’s different. That’s…” she turned back around. “That’s me in my element. I sort of get lost when I dance. No one makes me nervous in the studio.”

Despite myself, I smiled, feeling like a punk for thinking Aly singing in front of me made her nervous, but then she stiffened harder the longer I held her shoulders and I let her comment slide. “Um…everyone gets a song out in their own way, but this,” I squeezed her shoulders and ran a knuckle down her spine, “this isn’t gonna work.”

“Why not?” she asked, looking up at me over her shoulder again.

“Because…” my gaze slipped back to her mouth. Damn. Those lips looked so familiar. I thought for a split second that maybe Aly had been one of the girls I’d serviced at CPU, but knew immediately that wasn’t it. I shook my head to distract myself. “Because, you aren’t auditioning for the opera. This kind of performance is little bit like the Kizomba.” Her features relaxed, but those perfectly arched eyebrows lifted higher. “You have to feel it in your gut, and it can’t look like a performance. It needs to look like something that makes you happy.”

That didn’t have the impact I wanted. Aly frowned hard as though I’d insulted her. “I’m happy.”’

I was unable to keep the humor from my voice or my eyes from going wide. “This is you happy? Jesus, I’d hate to see you pissed.”

“Wi, Ransom.” She brushed off my hands and moved to the edge of the bench. “You would.”

I sighed, bringing my hands back to her shoulder despite the small attempt she made to jerk away from me. “Look, I’m just trying to help you out. It’s like what you explained to me about the dance. How it should be almost…I don’t know, like sex.”

That earned me another glare. “Me singing for a bunch of theater professors is like sex?”

“No. You being up on that stage, everyone watching you, listening, you’ve got to show them that you are more than a voice. You’ve got to let them know what you keep inside.” She kept staring, but her eyebrows weren’t as high and that frown didn’t get harder. Finally, when she continued to lean away from me, I took my hands from her shoulders, deciding that another tactic might work. “Tell me how you feel when you dance.”

“When I dance? You mean on the stage?”

Aly was a smart girl and had a hell of a lot of ambition. But God was she literal, too literal sometimes. I could sense the frustration from her when I sighed, but kept myself in check. “I mean whenever it was that you felt the freest dancing. When it was so good, so real that you thought you could fly.”

Her face took on an intense expression while her mind obviously whirled with memories. Watching her focus, I tried like hell to remember where I’d met her before and why those lips, those eyes seemed so familiar to me—then the sharp line of her frown disappeared.

This time, her dimple was deeper than I’d ever seen it and she came damned close to smiling. But then Aly closed her eyes, like the memory she’d chosen was too remarkable and too personal to do anything but focus directly on it.

When she spoke, her voice, at first, came out as a whisper, then lifted as she recalled the exact feeling the memory had given her. “Modi, dancing, it…it feels like time is standing still.” A second dimple joined its sister. “You get lost in the music and find yourself in movements. A simple wave of your arm or fan of a leg can melt your heart.” She opened her eyes, blinking twice to focus again on my face. “It makes you believe everything—your work, your struggles, all the hurdles that life slams in front of you to stop you from your passion—will be okay. Like those hurdles are nothing and you are boundless.” Another blink and Aly looked down again, ran her thumbnail along the seam of her capris. “It’s therapy that no doctor or psychiatrist can come close to.”

“It’s joy?” I asked, shocked by her honesty, by that same slip of truth I saw painted on her face. It was the most authentic thing anyone had said to me in years.

She brought up one side of her mouth so that I could almost make out her top teeth. “Wi. That’s exactly what it is. Kontantman. Joy.”

Nodding, I slid in closer to her, ignoring her skittishness as I moved one hand to her back, the other around her stomach, over her diaphragm. “Then you should sing joy, Aly.” Against my nose I caught the subtle whiff of jasmine, that warm, sweet scent of very ripe fruit as she brushed her braid over her shoulder.

“When I push on your stomach, shove my hand off with your stomach muscles and bring some air into your lungs as full as you can get them. Then, sing.” She took to biting her lip, working her top teeth over her bottom lip like she needed something automatic to do while my hands were on her. It wasn’t me, I didn’t think. Likely it was being held so closely by anyone she didn’t know, and me barking orders at her under the guise of trying to help. I had to admit that my heart quickened just holding her between my hands. “Um…you get that?”

“Wi,” Aly said, nodding once before she turned away from me. Her ribs moved against my hands as she inhaled and the briefest swell of her breast rubbed above my thumb. She followed instruction perfectly, moving the song from her mouth in a slow release instead of the wobbled rush I’d heard from her earlier. The melody was so slow and sensual that I didn’t want to take my hands from her, worried that not having my touch would give her any excuse to stop singing.

But, that voice begged for accompaniment and I leaned back, grabbing the Hummingbird, and I played for her.

I could make out her profile. She’d closed her eyes, feeling the music, and it was joy that came through the slow, beautiful crawl of her words. It left me a little punch drunk, hearing the low hum of the guitar and the sound of Aly’s warm, mezzo-soprano voice. The sound reminded me of something I might have dreamt, like some erotic fairy from my dreams had taken over Aly. Then, when I didn’t think she could dip any deeper into my head, Aly shocked the hell out of me and reached the chorus, her notes higher than the verse, and the sound soared, shot right to my chest and I realized, without warning, that Aly was damn remarkable. Aly was criminally beautiful. And I was in trouble.