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“What about me?”

Her smile warms me from the inside out.

“What’s your story?” she says.

I can’t help but laugh. “You’re not some undercover investigative reporter or something, are you?”

It’s almost easier for me to believe that than the fact there’s a person like Callie on this hellhole of a planet.

She lifts a brow and shrugs. “Would that change your answer?”

Another unexpected grin leaks out of me. “I guess not.”

I settle back against the headboard and find her in the mirror again. It’s weird how I feel so exposed and so comfortable at the same time. Her question wasn’t meant to be hard, but there’s nothing about me that’s easy.

There used to be, though. I was always joking around, the life of the party. I used humor to protect myself from a lot of things that could have broken me. And none of them did. Not until this one thing.

That’s the real tragedy of tragedy. It doesn’t just change the present, it skews the future and rewrites the past.

“I was one of ten,” I blurt out. Might as well just go for it. Everything else about this night is freaking weird.

Her face erupts in shock. “Ten? As in ten siblings?”

I smile back. “Yes. Lucky number seven actually.”

She huffs in disbelief and drops back against the headboard.

“Wow. I’m surprised you ended up with Luke and Night Shifts Black then. Shouldn’t you be committed to some cheesy family band? Geez, with ten of you, you could have the whole road crew too.”

I snort a laugh at the irony. “Oh, believe me, my parents tried. Three of my siblings actually still play together.”

“Really?”

“Yep. They’ve even put some albums out. I could never get into the country thing, though. The black sheep, I guess.”

Her amused gaze cuts to mine in the mirror. “Seriously. When you made a left, you made a hard left, huh. Well, it seemed to work out for you anyway.”

She has no idea how hard I veered. Very few people do.

“What about you?” I ask before she can go too far into that minefield.

Her quick smile tugs at me. Why would that standard question make her uncomfortable?

“No bands. Not even country ones.”

“You know what I mean. Luke said you’re a writer.”

Her deflective shrug is just plain annoying. If we’re going to do this, let’s fuckingdothis.

“I guess,” she says in a noncommittal tone.

“You guess? What does that mean?”

I don’t believe her smile any more than the last one she tried to throw at me. “It means that saying ‘I’m a writer’ implies I’m actually making a living at it.”

I wince, irritation building again. I don’t like anyone minimizing her, including herself. “Really? I thought it meant you spend lots of time writing things.”

She shifts uncomfortably, and my fingers tighten around hers in a silent warning not to squirm out of this conversation. “I guess it can mean that, too. Would you still consider yourself a musician if no one paid you to play?”