Crash
On Tommy's phone, I watch as Kelly lets the guitar stop singing before she self-consciously flips her blonde hair over her shoulder, looks at the camera and tells me, "Thanks for watching!"
I almost believe it. Almost peg her as the bitter ex-girlfriend. Except, as she turns off the camera, there's a split second where she's in close-up.
"She's been practicing," Tommy says, but from the way he says it, I know he saw what I did: she's fighting tears.
I grunt and, with an unsteady finger, tell the app to replay. As it starts again, one side of my brain analyzes her fingering and strum, drinks in her voice. The other is silent with shock.
. . . Bury me.
Dead and gone.
Just bury me
Without you.
Bury me.
I'm all wrong.
'Cause you buried me
Without you . . .
She wrote a song for me. A heartbreak ballad.
