Page 83 of From Drummer to Gamer

“Hey,” I murmured back.

“You’re in a mood today, but then you’re always in a mood.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh but you are,” she teased, and something about that tone hit a familiar note.

“You don’t know that.”

“Of course, I don’t… I mean, how would I? It’s not like I live with you or anything. I just heard a peculiar frustration in your voice.”

“Sure you did,” I mumbled, and the game opened, landing on the loading screen.

“Are you uhmm…” She faltered. “Still upset abouthim?”

I inhaled. “No, it’s not about that. And it’s not about anything else. I’m perfectly fine.” Like a fool, I told her about Truman. Not everything but just the bits I shared with Sierra.

I didn’t know what came over me. Maybe it was her insistence to know why I didn’t say a word that day, or it was the way she asked me in her sweet voice, but I told her. But not just that, I told her I played the drums, I told her I liked caramel, and I told her l lived in New York.

Like a sappy fool, the privacy I spent years protecting and shielding crumbled like a castle in the middle of a war zone.

Just for a girl with a honey voice and another girl with honey specks in her eyes.

Maybe something was terribly wrong with my head, and I needed to get it checked.

“Okies, let’s play. I hope you’re ready, Matty, because we’re going to show them who’s the boss today,” she squealed, and my lips twitched.

And like a sucker, I followed her every command while she spoke like a bullet train from Japan. It was hard for me to concentrate with the game’s sound effects and the clash of her keyboard.

But I didn’t want to miss a word.

I never wanted to miss a word she said.

“Hell yeah, losers!” she shouted just as victory splashed across our screen for the tenth time in a row, and even though we won every single match, every game with her was an exhilarating rush. Not because of the game but because of her.

“Matty, as much as I hate to do this, I gotta go now,” Luna groaned. “I have practice in a few.”

I nodded absentmindedly. “Of course, Sierra.”

“K, bye, Matty.”

A beep went through the line before silence ensued.

And it was only then I realized I’d called her Sierra, and she never corrected me.

Right at three, the front door flung open, and Sierra walked in almost as if she was waiting right outside the door for the clock to hit three. Hmm, maybe I should take a peek at my door camera.

“Hey,” she mumbled in a tired voice as she swung her small backpack onto the couch, which bounced and landed on the floor. But it didn’t seem to bother her as she crashed herself into it next. Thankfully, she didn’t bounce off the floor.

You seem tired, I wanted to say, but I kept my mouth shut.

“Wait, are those my Cheetos?” She shot the question to her brother, who was currently sitting on the floor with his guitar, scribbling lyrics on his torn-edge notebook that he always seemed to be carrying around. He also had a bowl of Cheetos sitting in front of him.

I wasn’t much for songwriting—that job went to Lan and Emmie—but I pitched in my input here and there with the composition. Raphael didn’t need much help. He had a good ear and fantastic taste.

I was never telling him that, though, because the kid already had too much arrogance dumped in his head.

Although, it was good to be arrogant in this industry. As long as he was humble and kind, which he was.