me for so long that I burst out laughing.
“California?” he asked. “What the hell are you doing here? Everything okay?”
I nodded. “I know this is really strange, but I have to ask you a question. Am I interrupting anything?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m alone. Come on in.”
I followed Dylan into his living room, which was an absolute pigsty. It had that specific bachelor pad aesthetic to it – piles of books and newspapers strewn everywhere, dirty dishes covering the coffee table, the lingering scent of stale beer and dirty laundry. I could barely tell what color his armchair was because of the massive pile of clothing draped over it. I made a poor attempt to hide the disgusted look on my face, but it must have been pretty obvious because Dylan shot me a judgmental look.
“Listen,” he said. “I know it’s a mess, but I don’t want to hear one complaint out of your mouth or I’m kicking your ass out. Understood?”
I nodded in agreement.
“Good. So what’s up?”
I glanced down, looking for a place to sit, but I didn’t have many options. Realizing this, Dylan picked up the pile of clothes on the chair, threw them onto the floor, and motioned for me to sit down.
“Well,” I began. “I woke up the other night because I heard music coming through my vents and … ”
“Hey,” he interrupted. “If you’re coming here to bitch about the noise, I don’t want to hear it. It’s one of the prerequisites of living in a complex.”
I felt my face harden. I hadn’t even been in the door for two minutes and the guy was already getting under my skin. “Will you let me finish? That’s not why I’m here.”
Dylan threw his hands up, his expression softening. “Sorry. Continue.”
“Okay, so I woke up and heard one of my favorite Jeff Buckley songs, but I…”
My voice trailed off as I noticed a pleased expression slowly cross Dylan’s face, replacing his usual perma-scowl. “Wait a second, you listen to Buckley?”
“Of course. The guy’s amazing.”
Dylan leaned forward in his chair, looking at me with raised eyebrows. The shocking part was, in place of his normal brooding self, he was actually smiling. This was a first.
“Wow,” he said. “California, I may have completely misjudged you. You kind of struck me as some high-maintenance club rat that rocked out to overproduced pop music. But I’ll have you know that I’m a huge Buckley fan myself, which you’ve already probably guessed.”
“That’s what I was getting at. I came here because I’ve never heard that acoustic version of ‘Lover You Should’ve Come Over’ before. I have a few live albums of his but the one you were playing was just…” I searched for the word. “Brilliant.”
Dylan raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’m flattered.”
“Huh?”
“I’m flattered,” he repeated.
“What do you mean you’re flattered?”
Dylan smirked at me like he knew something I didn’t. “It’s Renee, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, Renee, you can search long and hard, but you’re never going to find that version of the song.”
I was getting annoyed with his off-topic insinuations. “Okay. Why not?”
“Because that wasn’t Jeff Buckley’s version. It was mine.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious.” He pointed to his acoustic guitar in the corner of the living room. “That’s my favorite song to play.”
No way, I thought to myself. There was no way. Buckley was The Almighty. I had yet to meet someone walking this Earth who could be mistaken for him.
“So, you mean to tell me that you were the one singing that song tonight?” My eyes narrowed.
“That’s what I said.”
“Okay.” I walked over to the other side of the room and handed Dylan his guitar. “Prove it.”
He sat in silence for a minute, his smooth wave of confidence crashing down. He suddenly became very interested in studying the ceiling patterns.
I placed his guitar back on the floor. “I knew you were full of it.”
He finally lowered his head and met my gaze. “I’m not lying, I just… can’t,” he mumbled. “I can’t play in front of people. I’ve never been able to. I hate it because a lot of my friends are in bands and I envy them every time I see them up on stage, but I just can’t do it. I get too nervous.”
It was funny because the intensity that usually seared from his eyes had now dimmed, changing his entire demeanor. In a matter of seconds, Dylan had transformed from a cocky, arrogant prick to some sort of self-doubting loner. It was like he oozed both confidence and insecurity at the same time.
“It’s just me,” I reminded him. “It’s not like you’re playing in front of an audience.”
He turned and stared at his guitar for a long time, as if debating whether or not to pick it up. I knew he wanted to, but he probably felt strange emptying his soul in front of someone he barely knew.
“I…I can try,” he surrendered, reluctantly picking up the guitar. “But I’m telling you, it’s not going to be as good as the version you heard a few nights ago. I play the best when I’m alone because I’m not nervous.” He let out a quick laugh. “Actually, on second thoughts, I always play alone so I guess it’s hard to compare.”
“Have you ever played in front of anyone?”
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.
