Sound Bites

He nodded. “Yeah, when I was younger and had no fear. But for some reason, when I was in my late teens, I couldn’t do it anymore. I think it’s because once you get older, you start to become more aware of your surroundings and how people view you. And whether you like it or not, you start to care what they think.”

He was right, to a point. I thought back to when I first met Justine, when I was fourteen and fearless. But I could still see glimpses of myself that stuck with me through the years, besides the bowl haircut and excess flannel. Dylan, on the other hand, didn’t exactly strike me as the type that gave a damn what people thought of him.

I motioned my head towards the guitar, signaling for him to play. He fiddled with the tuning for a minute, then began to strum the first few chords of “Lover You Should’ve Come Over.” He stopped after a few seconds, took a deep breath and then started the song over again. I sat in shock as he belted out the first verse of the song.

I was wrong. His voice didn’t just sound similar to Jeff Buckley’s; it sounded almost identical. The guy could go around impersonating him to the blind and they’d think he’d been resurrected. It was surreal. To me, Buckley had always been someone who no musician could ever compare to, so the fact that I had found someone worthy of his comparison was mind-blowing. Not to mention that certain someone happened to live within a ten-foot radius from me.

Dylan’s voice was a little shaky throughout the first half of the song, but by the end it had smoothed out completely. But what was even more intriguing than his vocals was his entire aura. When he sang, he sang like he meant it. He sang with a sense of desperation, like his entire soul had come to life through the music. I figured out why he always sang alone; it was too emotional for him. It made him vulnerable. And that was a side of him I assumed he didn’t let many people see.

When he finally finished, I sat in silence with my lips halfway parted, debating on how the hell to put the last six minutes and forty-three seconds into words.

“Wow.” That was all I could manage. That was enough for Dylan, though, because he smiled for the third time that night.

“Dylan, you have a gift,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said modestly. “I like to think so.”

“But,” I continued. “If you’re the only one who gets to see it, then what’s the point of having it at all?”

Dylan rolled his eyes as though I was telling him something he was already well aware of. “Don’t you think I know that?” he asked. “It’s not something I can control. I wish more than anything that I had the confidence to walk on stage and perform the same way I do when I’m alone, but I don’t. I’m just not comfortable with it, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.”

If there was one thing that Dylan and I had in common, besides our love of music, it was the fact that we were both stubborn as hell.

I glanced at my watch and realized it was almost one in the morning.

“I should go,” I said, as I stood up and headed towards the door. “But before I do, I have a question.”

“What’s that?”

“Will you play for me again sometime?”

He walked over to where I was standing and rested his arm against the door, looking me up and down warily like he was trying to figure me out. I noticed that his confidence had reappeared. I didn’t like his confident side. It made me nervous.

“You can come by anytime, as long as you leave that bitchy attitude of yours at the door,” he said. I sensed that he was joking, but he didn’t smile. “Just make sure there isn’t a red Blazer in the parking lot because Christina is pretty jealous as it is, so unexpected female visitors might set her off.”

“Understood. I’ll see you later.”

I turned around and began to descend the stairs. I was about halfway down when I heard Dylan’s door creak open.

“Hey, California.”

I looked up and saw him staring down at me from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah?”

He grinned. He had a sexy, crooked grin where only the left side of his mouth shifted upwards. I grinned back stupidly, even though I had no idea what he was about to say.

“You know, you’re not half bad.”

Before I had a chance to reply, he had already disappeared back into his apartment.

Chapter Seven (#ue6596bfd-b712-54f1-b59e-ad3fe3ba99d3)

It had been over a week and I still couldn’t get Dylan’s voice out of my head. The red Blazer had been in the parking lot nearly every night, and even on the nights when it wasn’t there, I didn’t have the balls to show up on his doorstep again. I didn’t want him thinking I’d been permanently perched at the window, eagerly awaiting the departure of the Blazer, even though I was about one window-perch away from becoming a certified stalker.

On my way home from work, I grabbed a bottle of wine and a romantic comedy to mask my depression about spending another Friday night alone in my apartment. After settling down on my couch with a glass of Cabernet, I picked up the phone and dialed Beth’s number.

“Do you remember that guy I was telling you about the other night?” I asked her. “The one whose van I backed into in the parking lot?”

“Yeah. Why?”

I proceeded to fill her in on my night with Dylan. For once, she didn’t interrupt me until I was finished.

“Well he definitely scores points in the music department if he listens to Jeff,” she said. I had turned Beth onto Buckley’s music years ago, and she now always referred to him as “Jeff,” like they were on a first-name basis. “So, what’s up with this new guy? Is he cute?”

“Sort of,” I replied. “In a dangerous, tortured kind of way.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You know, the type of guy who doesn’t own a hairbrush or a razor and looks like he hasn’t eaten in a really long time.”

“Oh, gotcha. But other than the hobo look, is he attractive?”

“Yeah, you know, the bed head look actually suits him. It gives him character. But, he’s kind of a dick. And he has a girlfriend.”

“Oh, bummer. Well, how’s everything else going? You unpacked?”

“Yeah, I just…” My response was cut short when I heard a knock at the door. I told Beth to hold on and opened my door, only to find myself face to face with Dylan. He jutted his chin out as his way of saying hello, looking nervously around my living room.

“Hey,” he greeted. “Bad time?”

I held my index finger up, motioning for him to hold on. “Beth, let me call you back, okay?”

“I hear a guy in the background!” she yelled. I prayed that my phone volume wasn’t loud enough for Dylan to overhear. “Is it the guy that lives upstairs?”

“Yes, it is,” I replied, trying to sound casual. “I’ll call you tomorrow okay?”

“You better.”

I hung up the phone and motioned for Dylan to come inside. He followed me into the living room, peering around like he felt out of place.

“I saw your car outside,” he explained. “I didn’t know if you were doing anything tonight. I’ve been working on some songs that I thought you might want to hear.”

I was psyched that Dylan had decided to share his music with me, since it was something that was obviously very personal to him. Not to mention, I also wouldn’t have to spend another pathetic Friday night alone.

“Sure, sounds great,” I said, making a horribly failed attempt at sounding cool. “Why don’t you go grab your guitar and bring it down here? My apartment is a little, um, cleaner.”

“And green, not to mention. What’s up with the neon walls?”