Page 31 of Sunday Morning

“A few.” He strummed a new chord.

Through the old barn walls, I could hear the pinging of BBs hitting cans out back.

“So little turkey sandwiches are your favorite, yet you stayed at my house. Would it have anything to do with Coach Harvey?”

Isaac stopped strumming and eyed me with a serious expression. Then he rested the guitar beside him and picked up his half-eaten plate of food, resuming his feast. It was warm in the barn loft, so I pulled Matt’s hoodie over my head and removed my clunky brown boots.

Isaac stopped chewing mid-bite, eyes wide. “Keep going,” he said.

I wrinkled my nose at him while crossing my legs and sitting on the dirty planks of wood. When I picked up his guitar, he didn’t stop me. I pressed my left fingers to the strings and strummed a chord with my right hand.

“Thought you didn’t play,” he said.

“I don’t,” I said, playing another chord. “But I’ve watched closely when other people have played, so I know like two chords.”

“As long as you remember our deal,” he mumbled over the food in his mouth.

“Deal?” I continued to pluck the strings while glancing up at him.

He smirked. “If you touch something that’s mine, I get to touch something that’s yours.”

I began to care a little less that he made me blush,especially with a guitar in my hands. “What do you want to touch?” I don’t know if it was the long day, the thick, musty air in the barn, the dim light, or holding something I loved, but I felt brave.

And curious.

Was Isaac messing with me the way he messed with Matt?

His grin swelled until it turned into a slight chuckle, and he rocked his head, but he didn’t answer me. Matt thought Isaac was irritating; I found him amusing.

“What do you want to play?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I murmured, staring at my hands. My parents weren’t wrong; my fingers didn’t have adequate callouses to play the guitar.

“Liar,” Isaac said, setting his plate aside and standing.

I continued to strum my single chord while tracking him. My fingers slipped when he sat behind me, his legs sliding around me as his chest pressed to my back. He ghosted his arm along mine to my hand, cupping it; his fingers pressing mine to the strings. My shaky fingers cascaded down them.

It was intimate, and it made my tummy do weird flips that I told myself was just nerves.

“What should we play?” he asked so seductively that I stopped breathing.

“Jesus Loves Me,” I whispered.

When he laughed, it vibrated my body too. “What else?”

“Bette Davis Eyes,” I murmured with my heart in my throat.

Isaac moved my fingers, and we repeated the first part several times. The fourth time, I let my hands fall from the guitar onto his legs while he played it alone. Then, I sang the lyrics, softly at first, thenstronger.

I closed my eyes and felt the words and every chord that accompanied them. But mostly, I felt Isaac’s warm body pressed to mine and his face so close to me he must have memorized the scent of my shampoo.

When it ended, he didn’t move, and neither did I for several seconds.

Then he cleared his throat. “We should get back to the party.”

“Play it again,” I said.

“I need a smoke.” He lifted the guitar.