Bitter End by Jennifer Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

his lap. “I taught myself how to play, so I’m not great
     or anything. It’s just a hobby.”
    “Cool hobby,” I said, running my finger down the strings. I could feel his shoulder, warm against mine. “I can’t play anything.”
    “But you can write killer songs,” he said. “Check it out.”
    He propped the guitar up against his chest and started strumming. His fingers moved along the strings like it was nothing.
     Like everyone could do this. After a few bars, he started humming, and then pretty soon he sang, softly, “I cannot swallow
     your hardened eyes…”
    My mouth dropped open. My poem. He was singing the words of my poem. I honestly didn’t know what to think. I was still self-conscious
     hearing my words out loud, and Cole looked so vulnerable, sitting on the sidewalk singing and playing guitar. Hearing my feelings
     out loud like that, I could almost feel them all over again—the night when the hole where my family should be had swallowed
     me so completely I could do nothing but write about it. It was such a raw moment—so exposed—it felt almost too intimate to
     handle. I dropped my forehead to my knees and listened, clenching my eyes tight. When he finished, I turned my head to face
     him, resting my cheek on my knees where my forehead had just been.
    “That. Was so awesome,” I said. “I can’t believe you memorized my poem.”
    He plucked at a few random strings. “I didn’t have all the words exactly right,” he said. “But I tried to remember most of
     them. It was the first thing I thought about when I read it—wow, this would make a good song.”
    I reached out and strummed the guitar softly with my free hand. “I always wished I played an instrument.”
    “Really?” He moved so he could sit up straighter. “Maybe I’ll teach you sometime. It’s not that hard.” He hovered his hand
     over mine and strummed the strings with more confidence. The vibration under my fingertips seemed to move down my entire body.
     I curled my toes up inside my shoes.
    Suddenly, there was a knock on the front window. Georgia was standing there, fiddling with the blinds. She raised her eyebrows
     at me.
    “Shoot,” I said. “I’ve gotta get back.”
    Cole stood, holding his guitar by the neck. “Yeah,” he said.
    And there was that awkwardness between us again. On my end, the awkwardness was filled with the vibration of the guitar strings,
     which I still felt in the arches of my feet.
    Just as I started to make a move for the door, he reached out and touched my wrist, very lightly and very quickly, as though
     he were afraid I might burn him.
    “So maybe I can teach you a little this weekend?”
    At first, I was confused. What was going on this weekend? And then, with a
thunk
of my heartbeat, I realized what he was really saying.
    “I’m working Friday, but I’m off Saturday.”
    He smiled. “Okay. We can go to the lake or something. Bring food. I’ll teach you ‘Yesterday.’ That was the first song I learned.
     It’s pretty easy.”
    “Yeah, sounds great. You want to meet there?”
    “No,” he said. “I’ll swing by your house and get you.” We sat there nodding at each other, and then Georgia knocked on the
     window again.
    We both turned our heads this time. Georgia raised her eyebrows even higher. Cole chuckled.
    “I guess I should get back now,” I said. “I’ll see you in lab tomorrow?”
    “Yeah,” he said, bending over his open trunk and laying the guitar inside. “I’ll be caught up, I promise.”
    I pointed at him. “You better be!”
    “See ya, Emily Dickinson.”
    I forced myself to turn around and open the door.
    I watched him shut his trunk, get into the driver’s seat, and take off, then practically hopped, giggling and making little
     squealy noises, all the way to Georgia, who was now messing with the blinds in the back of the dining room.
    “Long break,” she said, without looking at me.
    “He asked me out,” I said, putting my hands on