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It just has to.
Shawn meets my gaze, and I give him an encouraging nod. Just trust me, man.
He looks even warier than Waylon, but there’s also something else there—something akin to what I saw in him that first night in the hall, when his strumming called to me in my dreams.
Curiosity. Reluctant as it may be.
Downstairs, I find Waylon standing in the center of the room. He spreads his arms. “What now?”
Shaking my head, I flip on the overhead lights. They buzz, crackle, and flicker a couple times before settling, and lighting the unfinished space up. Cinder blocks line the walls, and save for a throw rug, Waylon’s drum set he’d moved here from the Montgomerys to Reggie’s and now to my basement—Ray and Eva bought it for him three years ago—and a ratty gray couch in the corner, it’s empty.
Shawn’s already got his guitar out, and is tuning it. I’m quick to follow.
“We starting a band or something?”
I cut Waylon a look over my shoulder. “You still know how to play the drums, don’t you?”
His eyes narrow. “Obviously.” And unable to help himself, he adds, “Unlike you, I didn’t quit.”
Walking up to him, I stop a foot away, meeting his gaze. “You’re right. So excuse me if I’m a little rusty.”
“You suck at guitar.”
I feel Shawn watching us.
“I never sucked. I just didn’t care.”
“And you do now?”
I shrug, throwing the strap around my neck. “It helps fill the void.”
He flinches at that, and I realize a second too late how many ways that could be construed.
“So, what, you guys played together in rehab or something?” he asks.
Is that jealousy I hear?
Situating the guitar, I run my fingers over it, getting accustomed to its shape and feel just like I did when I decided this would have to be the one for now.
“You’d be surprised how much down time there is,” I murmur, looking at my fingers dancing over the frets. “Couldn’t sleep too great either.”
He says nothing to that, so I dig my pick out from my pocket and start playing. The same melody Shawn and I worked on that first time months ago. The first of many incomplete songs.
“What is that?” Waylon says after I run through it the first time.
“It’s music.”
He groans, and I smile to myself as I play it again. Glancing over at Shawn, who starts playing the same song, mirroring me, and syncing up, I say, “Watch this.”
He keeps playing when I stop. Removing the guitar strap from around my neck, I hold the instrument out to Waylon.
He stares down at it.
I hand him the pick. “Go ahead. I know you want to.”
Frowning, he looks over at Shawn, and my chest squeezes as I hold my breath, waiting to see what he’ll do…
Steeling myself for how huge this feels.
