"Right then, I knew there was something different about you and I just...I needed to know you."
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Myrtle Beach is just one of those cities where you never know what you're going to get. One day it can be all smiles and rainbows, and the nex...
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I thought I understood most things about my life.
Turns out, I was mistaken.
Very, very mistaken.
All my life, my brain has taught me to judge books by their cover, literally and metaphorically. If someone gave me a vibe that I just didn't like, I'd always steer clear of them. Everything about Hudson Whittaker screams danger, and that I'll get hurt. But here I am. I've spent every day for the past week hanging out at his house, anywhere from an hour to almost all day. It's insane to me, because I never thought that a known womanizer could be so nuanced, but he is. I honestly feel bad for judging him so harshly at first.
"Did you buy all these yourself?" I ask as I run my hand over the glossy metal of the guitar.
He shakes his head. "My mom bought a lot of them for me, one for every birthday for the past 8 years or so."
I nod and move onto the next guitar. It had a retro design, maybe from the 60s or 70s, and a shiny black finish. Hudson reached over my shoulder and pulled it off of the wall. "Now this one," he smiles. "I bought this one by myself the day I moved out of my parent's house. An authentic '70s era Jaguar."
"Have you ever considered being a musician?" From the look in his eyes, I know my question struck gold.
"I'm in a band, back home. Before I left we started to plan our gigs for the fall season...honestly, I wish you could come and see us sometime."
"I think I'd like that," I affirm with a smile.
Hudson returns the guitar to its place on the wall and leans against a nearby bookshelf. "Music's always been one of the few things that makes sense to me. Something about it just makes everything click into place."
I'm not a musician. I'd sooner break a guitar than play it properly. IT's not like I haven't tried in the past, my dad had me in piano lessons but I hated how complex it was. The white keys, the black keys, pedals, the deeper, hard sounds of the left end and the light, airy tones of the right side. I just didn't enjoy it. "Would you...could you teach me how to play?"
Hudson's eyes grow wide for a moment, but he recovers quickly, a smile coating his features. "You wanna learn how to play guitar?"
"If you're willing."
He thinks for a second then motions toward the guitars. "Pick which one you wanna try out."
For a moment, protesting crosses my mind. It feels wrong, using his guitars. It's obvious that they hold a lot of sentimental value for him, gifts from his mother, the first guitar he ever bought. In the end, I decide to swallow my protests and pick a black and white guitar with an irregular shape.
"If my assumption is right, then this isn't the kind of guitar you'd typically hand a beginner. Am I right?"
"Yeah, that's something you'd only get if you've been playing for a while," he says as he takes the guitar from me and hangs it back up on the wall. "I'll grab one you can use, give me a second."
