One Last Thing ✅

two things

The amps are turned up so loud, I can almost feel the cement floor of Jared's garage shaking. My fingers fly nimbly over Betsy, the vintage guitar I found on a dusty shelf at my local Goodwill. She needed a paint job and a new set of strings, but I knew from the first moment I laid eyes on her that she was special.

And I was right.

I close my eyes and pluck the strings in the familiar pattern of "Outside" by Staind, letting memory and emotion guide my fingers. Jared joins me on his bass, and even though we've played the song so many times before, it becomes something new, something beautiful.

Then Riley starts to sing.

It's hard to explain the effect her voice has on me. It's sweet, like the tupelo honey Grams brings home every summer from the farmers market, but that's not what makes it special. Her words seem to be laced with all the memories of our friendship over the years.

As she sings, all of the good times we've had stream through my consciousness, a soundtrack to go along with the movie of us. There we are, flopped on our bellies on her backyard at nine years old, painting our nails robin's egg blue. There, at Girl Scout camp, shooting water guns at one another, laughing our heads off. And there, hiding in her closet, sharing a bag of Jolly Ranchers and sticking our red tongues out at each other before dissolving into giggles.

And of course there are the more recent adventures, mostly involving our band, Who Killed My Sea Monkeys. When we first got together with Jared and Abbott, we were unsure of each other, messing around on our instruments and generally sucking balls. But then we kind of figured out what we were doing and played our first gig at Riley's neighbor's fifteenth birthday party. I still remember how it felt to stand in that cool, darkened basement, soaking up the strange new feeling, the warmth of applause.

My eyes flutter open, and I take in the scene around me, the dirty garage and tangle of cords on the cement floor. Oil stains. A small pyramid of empty Mountain Dew cans on top of the mini fridge in the corner. It's not much, but this is our space—where we play, where we hang out, where we exist.

Abbott pounds on the drums, his brow fixed in concentration, and the low, rumbling beat takes hold of my heart. I relish the feeling, knowing it will end far too soon. It always does.

Jared's eyes are squeezed shut as he enjoys the song. His sandy blonde hair falls over his forehead, and he shakes it out of the way. His bicep pulses as his fingers move deftly over his instrument.

I look over at Riley.

My best friend in the entire world.

I've known her since the first day of kindergarten when she grabbed my hand and led me over to the coloring station and showed me where the My Little Pony coloring books were. From that day forward we sat together at lunch every single day, me trading half my peanut butter sandwich for half of her tuna salad, splitting everything we had right down the middle.

Now, she leans into the microphone and sings, her high voice bringing out an unexpected sweetness in the bitter song. A few beads of perspiration glisten at her temples, where her long brown hair is tucked behind her ears. Just then, she looks over at me and grins.

My lips curl, and I return her smile.

And we continue to rock out.

Before long, the song is over, and the garage is plunged back into ordinariness, as though it's gone from Technicolor to plain old grey and brown corners and shadows. I feel my heart slow and my breath return to normal. This is the moment I dread most in the world, when the music ends. I stand there for a second, feeling the weight of Betsy in my arms, reluctant to return her to her case.