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“You don’t like them?”

“I don’tknowthem.” I mean, I do. We live in Georgia. During the summer, there’s this seriously incredible laser show at Stone Mountain Park, a theme park set around a rock that has three Confederate soldiers carved into its peak. The lasers illustrate historical events and cartoony stories and patriotic themes across the rock’s surface while people sit on a giant lawn to watch. They always play randomly popular country songs during the performance. So, I know a few country musicians, but not really.

I don’t like to throw around stereotypes, to box anyone into a package not meant for them but Brook’s never come off as someone who’d call country music his jam.

“Oh, little dude,” Brook’s pulling out his phone, opening YouTube after he’s keyed in the passcode, “You haven’t lived until you’ve heard ‘Stay’ live.”

Full disclosure: Brook’s right. I can’t quite get my mouth to tell him, but the strum of an acoustic guitar accompanied by a raspy voice wrapping around broken emotion wrecks me. Maybe my shaky inhale after the song ends tells him. Maybe I’m thinking about Dimi.

“This is the stuff my pops raised me on,” Brook tells me. “Willie and Loretta Lynn. Grassroots music. It wasn’t a good day in our house if you couldn’t bob your head to Garth Brooks.” His expression is flooded with honesty and joy. As if someone took a memory of his, unfolded it, pressed out all the wrinkles, and let him hold it again.

“Now my G’ma…” He reclines onto the seats behind us. “…she played nothing but gospel music. Every day. I didn’t miss a Sunday of Mississippi Mass Choir or Shirley Caesar. On my pop’s birthday, she plays Aretha Franklin’s version of ‘Amazing Grace,’ and we just sit together. We hold hands and listen.”

Lucy told me Brook’s dad died young from heart disease. That’s the reason he’s so into sports. He eats healthier than any teenager I know and savors every second of life. His dad’s death is also why Brook does everything his mom asks him to. He doesn’t want to disappoint her. To leave her empty-handed. The weight a child carries to impress a parent is bigger than anyone acknowledges.

“Country music and gospel?” I ask.

“And hip-hop.”

“That’s all over the place.”

Brook shrugs, but it’s carefree. “I don’t let my music tastes define me.”

“Music doesn’t define us,” I echo, my voice small but dying to be confident.

Brook’s legs stretch out to the bleachers below. He’s an endless road of limbs and smiles. “You like that one band—”

“POP ETC,” I confirm.

“Yeah, them.” He makes a weird face, then says, “But that’s not all you are, right?”

“Nope.”

“I mean, I’ve heard the stuff you listen to and, good for you, but that’s not my thing. So what? It’s part of what makes you Remy, but not all of it.”

“Because music doesn’t define us.”

“Exactly!” He claps, excitedly. “It’s a fraction of who we are, right now. It’ll change.”

He’s right again. I went through a minor—underlined and bolded—showtunes phase. It lasted a summer.

“These things come and go. People come and go.” He’s motioning toward the field, toward Dimi. “They don’t make up who we are.”

“Do you know who you’re meant to be?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I—” Everything halts in my voice. The brakes slam on my thoughts.

I can’t seem to explain it to him, to ask the questions I want to ask, because Brook, the country-loving, gospel-jamming, happy-as-hell guy always seems to know who he is, who he’s meant to be. Lucy, as uncertain as she is about the SATs, is confident in everything else about herself. Nothing rattles Rio from being Rio.

“Never mind,” I whisper.

Autumn wind whistles between us. The soccer team huddles amid laughter and noise and water bottles. Dimi is in the center. All I see is the guy who was my first love, who broke my heart. The guy who is now awasand no longer ais.

Brook stands. “I’ve gotta run. Can’t miss the bus or Ma will kick my ass.”

During the day, Brook’s mom works at a bank. She spends her evenings picking up shifts at a Waffle House across town. He catches the bus there every day he’s not working at the movie theatre. Brook’s mom has one goal: Keep him at Maplewood so he can earn an athletic scholarship. She has a great relationship with Coach Park. Everyone’s confident Brook, all-star swimmer three years now, is headed to a good swim program and possibly the Olympics. I can’t wait to cheer him on.