Page 25 of Every Breath After (Lost Boys Book 3): Part I

AGE 16, DECEMBER

It’s not fair.

Teeth gritted in frustration, my fingers slam down on the keys in one deafening, discordant, punctuating note that plummets the basement into silence.

A long moment passes, and then there’s a quiet ba-dum-tss, followed by a quietly hissed, “Stop it.”

“You stop it,” Waylon throws back, not bothering to hide his laughter. “We’re just having fun, Mason, right?” he says tauntingly.

I twist my head to glare at him. He’s climbing out from behind the drum set, sticks tucked between his hand. Rolling his eyes, he plops over next to Izzy on the couch against the wall. “You need to lighten up, dude.”

“Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

“Mason!” Izzy admonishes at the same time Waylon throws an arm around her.

“R’lax,” he drawls. “He’s just salty because he keeps fucking up the second chord progression.”

I frown. “I’m not—What?”

He waves his sticks and begins to explain what a chord progression is, and I’m pretty sure there’s steam coming out of my ears.

“I’m going to throw this piano at your head,” I say flatly.

Izzy’s stifling a giggle next to him, and nudges him. “Stop it. You know what he meant.”

Waylon’s words break off with a dramatic sigh. “Okay, okay.” He taps Izzy’s shoulder, and says, “Up,” and they both push to a stand.

“Can I?” he says, gesturing at the bench.

I scoot off it, and sweep my arms grandly, flashing him a sharp smile. “As if I have a choice.”

He bows in mock-thanks, taking the bench and placing his hands with perfect posture, like he’s the one who’s been playing and studying and practicing his ass off for years, rather having just picked it up on a whim only a few years ago. And treated it as such ever since. As a whim.

“I know this might sound crazy to you, but mistakes do happen.” And then he plays through the Schubert piece, ensuring to trip up exactly where I did…and how I did…

Because he learns by ear.

Only when he fucks it up, he doesn’t stop and throw a hissy fit. He just seamlessly moves past it, as if the slip-up never happened.

I stare at him long and hard.

He senses me and cuts me a sideways look as he continues to play. “Well look at that. I didn’t combust into dust. The ceiling didn’t collapse on me. The world’s still spinning. All is as it should be.”

A muffled giggle sounds from behind me, and my face heats.

I grit my teeth, glaring at the asshole smirking away as his fingers fly across the keys. “You done?”

Rolling his eyes, he keeps playing, as if he can’t not. His fingers easily manipulate the keys, moving seamlessly from one pitch to the next, adding his own flare to the piece, before wrapping it up with all the gusto in the world.

When the final note rings out, he flashes me a grin, and releases the keys. With a flourishing wave of his hand and tip of his head, he bows. I don’t fucking clap.

God, I really hate him sometimes.

Still, that itch inside me—the one that so desperately envies his talent, aching to be able to play like he does—has me asking, “How?”

He shrugs. He knows what I mean. It’s far from the first time he’s been asked this. By me. By Izzy and her parents. By Madam Elise who practically cried when he turned down private lessons and talks of competing—said he couldn’t afford it, nor did he want to play piano in any serious way to begin with.

“I think I’m going to learn guitar,” he’d insisted instead, low-key pissing me off. Because of course he had to show me up on that too. Not that it took much effort, seeing as I rarely take the time to practice.

And when he seemingly got bored of that in a matter of weeks, he moved on to violin, then cello—instruments Izzy’s mom managed to borrow from the high school where she’s been teaching music theory the last couple years.

Burning through every instrument he could get his hands on—barring woodwinds and brass, which he had no interest in even trying; he prefers to use his hands not his lungs—he decided to give drums a whirl.

And what do you know, it’s the one instrument he actually somewhat struggles with and actually has to take his time learning. Mostly through YouTube videos and tutorials.

I look at the piano.

Is that why I love it so much? Because I have to work harder for it?

If that’s the case, then that means I love it more than Waylon and Izzy combined. After all, out of the three of us, I’m the least skilled.

Bitterness rises at the reminder.

“I just listen,” Waylon says, drawing me out of my thoughts, and there’s a gentleness to his tone that isn’t usually there.

Our gazes meet, and he smiles thinly, pointedly. “And I feel it. I don’t know how it works.” He presses a hand to his chest, over his heart. “I just…feel it, and it all falls into place.”

I knit my brow.

Clearing his throat, he looks away, his cheeks darkening. “So, uh, yeah, maybe…maybe just stop trying so hard to get it perfect, and go with what feels right instead. It’s music, not brain surgery. No one’s gonna bleed out if you fuck up here and there.”

He sighs, pushing away from the instrument and standing up. Meeting my gaze, he says knowingly, “At the rate you’re going, you’ll never see the end of this song. And while, personally, I don’t think you’re missing anything that great—this song is boring as fuck—” I roll my eyes. “It’s the principle of it.”

“He’s not wrong,” Izzy says gently, her voice coming from right next to me.

I glance to my side. I didn’t hear her walk over.

She smiles, and drags her gaze to the piano, blowing out a breath as she approaches it. Taking a seat on the bench, she slides over to make room for me, gesturing for me to sit, and arches a brow. “‘Find what you love and let it kill you.’”

Waylon thumps a beat from where he’s back behind his drums, and says, “Intense. Love it.”

“Who said that one?” I murmur, a smile teasing my lips, already knowing the answer thanks to Jeremy.

Poetry is more his thing after all—something he got into last year, when he started homeschooling again. But lately Izzy’s been taking an interest too, borrowing works from his room that I’ll randomly find scattered around the house, knowing they’re there because of her, not him.

He’s very protective and possessive of things, unlike Izzy, who will leave sheet music floating in her wake from room to room. Not that he’s any more organized than her. He just prefers it contained to his space, whereas Izzy’s a whirlwind, leaving no corner untouched. As if the whole world is hers to leave her mark on.

“Bukowski,” she answers easily, no hesitation.

“Isobel!” Waylon gasps. We turn to look at him.

He makes a scandalized face, pressing a hand to his chest. “I don’t need to know what you’re into.”

A snort bursts out of me, and Izzy snaps her gaze toward me, frowning. “What? I don’t get it.”

Waylon snickers, and I find myself clutching my stomach, shaking my head. “Ignore him,” I barely manage to force out.

I cast a look toward the corner, and Waylon and I share a look. I imagine my face is as red as is his, before we both lose the battle and bust over laughing. Our earlier tension forgotten. Or rather, my tension.

He’s a dick, yeah, but my jealousy and insecurity isn’t fair to him either. He probably senses it, and rather than cower from it, he just weaponizes it instead. Can’t say I blame him. If I had even just a sliver of the innate talent he does, like hell I’d want to hide that. He hides it enough as it is, when it’s not just the three of us.

Maybe that’s why it pisses me off so much…

Izzy shoves me, yanking me back to the present, and grumbles, “I hate you both.”

And then she starts playing, easily slipping into the song I was just struggling with. She plays it perfectly, having mastered this one months ago, and now tries to add a little bit of her own spin, not unlike Waylon did. She rocks and nods, gaze turned upward in that way she does when she’s carving the music into her memory. Feeling it, and gripping hold of it.

That brain of hers…

When it comes to music, I don’t know how it hasn’t exploded.

Where Waylon’s a savant who acts like he couldn’t care less about music, Izzy’s like a little dragon, clutching and collecting every precious note and melody she can get her hands on, like it’s treasure to keep. She stores it all. So many songs she can just play, without sheet music, having memorized…

I wonder if I’ll ever be able to do that.

Days like today, I doubt it.

When she’s done, she cuts me a knowing, encouraging look, like she senses where my head’s at. “Your turn. You got this. Just feel it.” She scoots toward the edge of the bench, giving me room.

Just feel it. Right.

Expelling a breath, I find the foot pedals and lay my fingers on the keys. I inhale deeply, give Izzy one last small smile and nod before fully turning to face the piano, and the sheet music spread out before me.

I fuck it up just like I always do.

And reflexively, my body tenses, my jaw tightens, and my fingers stutter, as if to stop and start over.

Growling under my breath, I forcibly push past the discomfort, and go to the next cluster of notes. It’s choppy and awkward, probably more so to my ears than anyone else’s—well, except for Waylon who’s probably laughing at me.

But I ignore him. I even ignore Izzy. I just keep playing. All the way through, until it feels natural once more.

And when I hit the final note, I don’t wait for Izzy’s praise or Waylon’s sarcasm. I flip the sheet music back to the first page, and start again.

Fuck up again.

And keep going.

Letting my self-hatred and spite fuel every imperfect note.

An hour later,I take myself upstairs, leaving Waylon and Izzy to argue over a new piece she’s been working on. He insists it could sound better tweaking something or other—I don’t listen too closely—while she’s determined to first master it as it is, before making any changes.

Waylon doesn’t see the point, and that infuriates Izzy.

As entertaining as it is to watch them and listen—and inspiring too—I’m not quite feeling it today. I just feel…inferior. Bitter as fuck. Like I’ve already reached my full potential, and this is it.

No music school will ever accept me.

The thought is quickly followed by a second, more private thought:

Is that even what I want?

I quickly shove all that down, and quicken my steps up to the second floor, bypassing Ray watching a football game in the living room. My backpack’s up in Izzy’s room, so I figure I might as well get some homework done before Izzy and Waylon decide to come hunt me down.

Soft singing finds me at the top of the stairs, and my steps slow to a stop.

I cock my head.

I know that song…

Quietly, I pad toward the first room on the right, rather than heading straight for Izzy’s first.

When did he get home? I wonder.

His bedroom door is cracked open just enough for me to nudge it and peek inside. Not that it ends up making a difference, when I find his back to me. He’s seated cross-legged on the bed, back hunched as he draws in his lap. From this angle, I can’t see what it is—not unless I move closer and look over his shoulder.

He’s weird about people seeing his drawings though, so I try to respect that.

Still…

Curiosity eats at me.

Especially when I can’t help but notice the edge of a blue binder. It’s his top secret one—the one with the graphic novel he’s been working on for seemingly ever.

“Are you ever gonna show it to me?” I asked once.

“Maybe one day.”

“When?”

“When it’s finished…” Then under his breath, he’d murmured, “If it’s ever finished.”

He hums along to the song playing in his headphones, completely oblivious to the fact I’m standing here on the threshold. I know this, because a second later, he’s softly murmuring the words again—singing them.

And I find myself resting my head against the door, just watching him as his raspy, slightly off-key voice sings about lies and love, and dreams of colors and red. And finding a better man…

Inhaling deeply, I bite my lip, knowing he’d die if he saw me right now.

Whatever he’s drawing must really have his attention, because I never get to see him this unguarded. Never.

The black long-sleeved shirt he wears is rolled up to his elbows. Around his wrists he wears chunky black bracelets. When he moves his hand just right, I catch a wink of black on his nails too—something he started doing in recent months, now that he’s homeschooled again.

It makes me happy, seeing it. Like a glimpse of the Jeremy that I know is buried under there somewhere, the Jeremy who was nearly completely snuffed away by small-minded assholes who just couldn’t be bothered to mind their business and leave someone too pure for this world alone.

His hair’s been cut recently, though not by much. It still falls in a messy heap of gold over his forehead. Every couple seconds, I catch curls fluttering up, like he has to blow it out of the way.

He’s humming again, as the song I know by heart cuts into an instrumental break. His voice mingling with the familiar scratch of a pencil is…oddly soothing. Hypnotic even…

My fingertips start moving along my thigh, tracing keys and chords that aren’t there. Notes fly across my mind’s eye, and there’s something….there…just out of reach.

Spinning, spinning?—

“Fuck.”

Trance broken by his muttered outburst, I stand up straight, and fling open the door, making my steps loud and heavy as I help myself into his room, and throw myself on his bed.

He flinches with a soft yelp, eyes wide as they shoot to my grinning face. He shoves his sleeves down.

“Sup,” I say when he shoves down the headphones, “Better Man” by Pearl Jam still playing, only slightly muffled by his skin. Normally, he’s listening to his angsty, emo music he loves so much. I love it too, but it’s fun to rib him for it. I wonder what brought on this change of pace…

I glance down at the open sketchbook in his lap, and get a glimpse of color and thick, black, bold lines, before—snap.

Pouting, I look up at his red face. “Come on, JJ. I’ve been so good.”

“No.”

“But JJ?—”

“Drop it, Mase Face,” he says with very little bite. Climbing to a stand, he pads over to his desk, and sets the blue binder down, the one hiding his most sacred of drawings.

One day I’ll see what’s inside.

I have to believe it.

“What do you want?” he asks, tucking his sleeves around his fingers. Like every shirt of his, there are holes torn into the sleeves for his thumbs to slip through.

Pushing up to a seated position, I grab a gray throw pillow and hold it in my lap. “What? Do I need a reason to come hang with you now?”

He shakes his head, his blond hair swinging with the motion. “No. Sorry, I just?—”

“C’mere.”

His amber brown gaze lifts, meeting mine.

I pat the bed in front of me, and he rolls his eyes.

He steps up on it, and plops down on his ass, crossing his legs, mirroring my position.

“Did you hear about the Wolverine movie coming out?”

He mutters something under his breath and glances away, picking at the black nail polish that’s already chipped on his thumbnail.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” He huffs, then looks up at me and says, “You know you don’t have to…” He waves a hand.

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t have to what?”

“Pretend…you’re still into this stuff,” he says slowly, quietly.

I scowl, and chuck the pillow at his head.

“Hey!” he says, batting it away.

“Hey yourself. Where the hell did that come from?”

He shrugs, slouching, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. “I don’t know. I just…we’re older now. I get it if you’re over it. If you’re just…pretending for me.”

I blink hard. Pushing my lips out, I nod. “Wow. Okay.”

He sighs, and buries his fingers in his light hair, bending forward. “Forget it. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Jeremy.”

“What?”

When I say nothing, he finally peeks up at me through his fluffy bangs.

I arch a brow. “I could say the same for you.”

He curls his lip, and waves a hand at the shelves on his wall, full of collector editions and action figures “Obviously I’m not over it.” He pauses. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Stoop to my level to make me feel better about myself.”

I spread my hands. “How do I know you don’t just do that for me?”

This time, he chucks a pillow at my head.

“Newsflash, Mason. The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

I gasp, throwing the pillow back. “Rude. Also, right back at you.”

He tries to stay firm, but his shoulders give him away first. His pursed, twitching mouth second.

“Why are we fighting?” I ask, not bothering to hide my chuckle.

He shakes his head, and slaps his hands to his face, groaning into his palms. “Because I’m a mess.”

I snort and tip my head. “Yeah, well, if it makes you feel any better… the real reason I came upstairs was to get my backpack so I could do homework, because torturing myself with geometry seemed like a lesser evil compared to continuing to watch your sister and Waylon skip their merry way miles ahead of where I should be at.”

Jeremy’s face creases with a wince. “Right.”

“I didn’t know you were home,” I’m quick to add, seeing right through him.

His expression softens some, and he nods.

Our gazes meld against one another’s, and all I find is a deep well of sympathy—understanding—almost as if he gets it. Really gets it. And I suppose in a way he does….

After all, he’s surrounded by talented musicians. A language he could never quite grasp enough to speak. One he never had the patience or passion to learn.

“Comparing yourself to them does you no favors,” he tells me.

“I know.”

He searches my gaze. “Just because it takes you longer, doesn’t mean you’re any less talented. Or that you don’t have as much, or even more, potential.”

I huff a humorless laugh and tilt my head. “Sure feels like I’ve run it into the ground these days.” Staring at his black, gray, and red-checkered comforter, I pick at a loose thread, twirling the thin red string around and around my finger.

“You’ve hit a rut. It happens. There are times I go weeks without drawing, feeling like I might never draw again.”

My finger stills, and I lift my head. “Really?”

“Yeah. It sucks. A lot. But…it always comes back.”

I frown.

He shakes out his arms and looks around, like he’s trying to find the words. “People are always talking about finding inspiration—chasing a so-called muse. Like….like Izzy’s always looking for the next challenge to tackle.”

“Same with Waylon,” I murmur. Or when he’s just trying to make a point.

Jeremy nods. “Exactly.” His gaze meets mine. “It’s different for us.”

“How?”

“It’s not….out there.” He makes a vague gesture behind me. “It’s inside us. The thing that keeps pushing us to create.”

The thread unravels from my finger, and my chest expands at his words, the truth of them settling over me, soothing a ragged piece deep inside me I never really gave much attention, out of fear I would just…lose it if I did.

“We need breaks, and that’s okay. But it’s not going anywhere. It’s like…like a well. You know what I mean, right? When you hit that sort of…drop, and you just…fall and fall and fall…” He shrugs, cheeks ruddy as he drops his gaze. “It’s endless. I have to believe that,” he whispers.

I stare at the top of his head, his words replaying in my head.

“I know it’s a little different, seeing as you’re, um, not exactly creating, but?—”

“I want to.”

His gaze shoots up.

“I want to write my own music.”

His lip curves up. “Of course you do.” He shakes his head. “Maybe…maybe the point is to not perfect someone else’s art, but to…learn, so you can create your own.”

Nodding, I say, “It’s a tool.”

He grins, and I find myself grinning back. “Yeah, Mase. It’s just a tool. The music is in you, not the other way around.”

My smile falters, his words seeming to echo as my heart gives a mighty thump against my ribs, as if to say, Hey!

“You know,” he goes on, not seeming to notice how off-kilter I suddenly feel—hot, vulnerable, completely ripped open at his words—“when I was a kid, I kind of hated music. Resented it, all of it.”

I frown.

“Unlike you, I didn’t have any patience whatsoever to try and get better. I just…it was embarrassing, because Izzy picked it up so fast. Even when she tried guitar, and was…horrible…she just…laughed.” He lifts a shoulder. “But that’s my sister for you. Well, when it’s not a competition, of course. Then stay clear.”

I chuckle weakly, distantly at that. He’s not wrong. Izzy has no problem screwing up, and going out of her comfort zone when she’s rehearsing—practicing—learning—but when it counts…

No one is harder on Izzy than she is on herself.

I could say the same for myself.

It’s something we bond in…a kindred sort of frustration when our fingers betray us.

Except…I feel that way all the time. Even when just practicing. Even when no one else is around to hear me screw up.

Like Waylon said—I trip up. Get too in my head. I’m so busy trying to perfect the beginning, that I never even see the end.

“I know now it was just a symptom of a bigger issue,” Jeremy goes on softly. “Makes me wonder sometimes, who I’d be now if it wasn’t for anxiety.”

My chest clenches at that, and I give my head a little shake, rejecting that…that alternate version of Jeremy, whoever he is, in whatever universe that version so happens to be found.

This Jeremy—my Jeremy—the only Jeremy that matters, doesn’t see me though. He’s miles away, gaze far off.

“If I wasn’t so set on not failing…having people laugh at me…”

I swallow tightly. He might as well have reached inside me, and taken out my own insecurities, and served them up on a platter between us to ponder over.

He gives a little shake of his head. “Anyway. I felt so…apart from my family, when I realized music wasn’t for me. I mean, I still do. But…but it was worse then, because I think a part of me wanted to getit. Why they loved it so much. How they could love something so much that just seemed so….” He shakes his head. “Confusing and impossible to me.”

His warm gaze refocuses on mine, his cheeks flushing, and I can’t help but think how frequently they’ve reddened in the short time since I entered his room. How vulnerable he’s being with me. Not that we never talk about personal, heavy stuff, but this is probably the most he’s ever told me all at once, without me having to more or less pry it out of him.

“Go on,” I murmur.

He gulps. “And then…you showed up.” His mouth twitches with a smile, and in his eyes, I see that boy he once was—the boy I was, reflected back. “And you showed me Pearl Jam,” he says with a laugh.

“‘Jeremy,’” I say, nodding, remembering.

“Yup, and just like that, watching you light up when you saw how shocked I was. How much I loved it.” He shakes his head, eyes full of wonder, like he’s right back there. “Suddenly, I had a…a small corner of that world,” —he waves a hand, as if indicating outside this room— “their world, but one that was made just for me, and me alone.” His gaze refocuses on mine, and he taps the headphones around his neck. “You gave me that.”

My brows furrow.

He shrugs and looks away, his face blazing. “It’s lame, I know. I’m sure I would’ve learned to love music without you. It’s not like I hated it that much. But?—”

“Hey,” I rasp. “Don’t take it back now. I…I like that I did that for you.”

His lips purse.

I cock my head, smiling sadly. “Kind of breaks my heart to think of a version of you who doesn’t have headphones constantly draped around his neck, or horrible emo music blaring from his speakers?—

He scoffs. “Hey!”

I laugh.

“You like that music too,” he grumbles, and I shrug, not denying it.

“Seriously, Jer,” I say after a moment, sobering once more. “I’m…well, I don’t know what I am. I’m just…I’m glad I gave you…that.”

I wince. Wow. Nice. Good English.

His lip twitches, humor alight in his eyes. “Don’t let it feed your ego too much.”

Climbing off the bed, he goes over to his desk, and grabs his geometry textbook. He’s homeschooled now—or rather, cyber-schooled—but it’s through a program run by our high school, so we share the same curriculum for the most part, now that he’s managed to catch up to our year.

It also means he’ll be able to walk with us when we graduate.

Well, if he wants to. Izzy, Waylon, and I are determined to convince him.

One and a half more years to go…

Not to mention he’ll be able to attend prom with us next year too. He’s yet to go to a school dance, and as cringey as they are, there’s no way he can’t go to prom. If I didn’t know Izzy would beat me to it, I’d kidnap him myself.

Yeah, right. As if the second he started panicking, you wouldn’t bend over backward to insist having prom here instead with just the four of you, and whoever Waylon’s flavor of the month is.

“Proofs?”

I snap out of my thoughts to find Jeremy arching me an expectant look.

I groan and flop onto my back. “Why? When will I ever need this in my life?”

Chuckling, he sits on the bed. “Go get your stuff. We can do it together.”

“Fine…” I go to climb off the bed when something occurs to me. I look over my shoulder, staring at the back of his head. “Hey, by the way, I didn’t just come in here to get you to help me with homework.”

“Uh huh, sure.”

“No, seriously.” I wait for him to turn around, and say, “I told you. I didn’t even know you were home. I heard you singing and made a detour.”

His jaw drops. “I was not.”

I wink at him, and turn away.

Ever since Jeremy got his license last month—and his own car—he’s rarely home these days. He says he just drives around mostly, though with how much gas money he’s been blowing through…and the fact he doesn’t have a job…

Well, I assume he has to be going somewhere.

In the hall, I freeze, frowning.

Could he be…could he be seeing someone?

Shaking my head, I cast off that thought, and throw open the next door, entering Izzy’s room. Pictures and posters and wall art decorate nearly every inch of her walls—Polaroid’s immortalizing our childhood and pre-teen years.

On her nightstand, there’s three framed photos. One of her and Jeremy as little kids, faces smushed together, tongues out. One of her, me, and Waylon dressed as The Three Musketeers from Halloween when we were nine. And one of just her and me, with my arms wrapped around her.

It’s from homecoming last year. She’s grinning, braces strung across her teeth. And I’ve got my cheek pressed to hers, my pale blue eyes red in the centers where the flash got me.

I grab my bag, and return to Jeremy’s room. It’s a wild contrast compared to his sister’s room. His walls are gray, and meticulously decorated with various band and movie posters and comic book prints. No pictures of any of us.

Makes me sad…

Does he not have any?

Did we…did we not include him enough?

“What is it?” he says, when he catches me standing there, frowning.

“You don’t have any pictures of us.”

His brows spike.

“On your walls, I mean. Of any of us.”

“Oh,” he says, nodding. “You mean I didn’t turn my room into a life-sized scrapbook like Izzy did.”

My lips twist, eyes narrowing in amusement. “Be nice.”

He shrugs, eyes glittering, and I can’t lie, I love to see it—the attitude. The snark. The real Jeremy I’ve only ever gotten glimpses of.

“I have pictures. They’re in a box.”

I scrunch a face at that.

“Come on, let’s get this over with.”

“What every guy likes to hear,” I say, not thinking.

He stills, hands clenched white around his textbook.

I clear my throat, and sit, nudging his shoulder.

He peeks up at me warily.

I wag my brows.

Rolling his eyes, he shoves me. “Fuck off.”

“Hey.” I dig out my phone, and find the camera.

“What?” he mutters.

“Smile.

And I lift my phone, and lean over, grin, and?—

He flinches, flying off the bed like someone took a taser to his kidney.

My gaze snaps up to his wide, panicked one, and the phone slips from my hand, landing on the rumpled bedding with a soft thud.

“Jer….”

He shakes his head, cheeks pale. When he lifts his hands to his hair, fiddling with the ends, I don’t miss the tremble in his long, slim fingers.

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even…I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” I say gently. Grabbing my phone, I lock it, closing the camera app, and chuck it on the floor. “There. It’s gone.”

“It’s fine, Mason. You just…caught me off guard.” His jaw ticks in the corners, and he blinks rapidly like he’s trying to reorient himself. I’ve seen him do it before. Seen him talk himself down from panic attacks.

I wait, and finally, after about a minute, he comes and sits back down next to me, releasing a carefully measured breath. Extending his arms, he flexes his fingers along his knees. His sleeves stretched over his knuckles, and wrapped around his thumb like a cast.

I frown.

He’s always hiding…every inch of him that he can. Like he can’t bear to be even a little bit exposed.

He wasn’t like this when we were kids…

Especially not with me.

Makes me wonder what changed.

What I did to make him close himself off from me…

I can’t even pinpoint when it happened, but it did. And I just…try to tell myself it’ll pass. That it means nothing. That it has everything to do with him, and the shit he’s been through, and nothing to do with me.

Easier said than done.

“Sorry about that.”

I cut him a look, and he rolls his eyes. Reaching for his textbook, he opens to the lesson I’m currently struggling with. And for the next however many minutes, we work on my assignment together, Jeremy talking me through the parts I don’t get.

“How are you an artist and good at math?” I ask at one point. “Pretty sure that violates some, like, law of the universe.”

He shrugs. “Lots of study time. Don’t exactly have much of a social life.”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

“Yeah, but you have a life, Mason. One outside this house.” He arches me a look. “You have a girlfriend. A best friend. A?—”

“You’re my best friend.”

He tips his head, conceding that. “Okay, so you have two.”

“And I’m yours.”

He stills, utterly and completely.

“And you have Waylon and Izzy too,” I quickly add, my voice coming out rougher than it did a moment ago.

His gaze flits between mine, flickering with some emotion I can’t place. One that has the hairs prickling on the back of my neck, and heat skittering up my spine.

He gives me a small smile, nods, and says, “I know.”

My throat swells, making my swallow go down with an audible gulp.

His eyes drop to my mouth, and it suddenly barrels over me how close we are. Sitting knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, on the edge of the bed…

Our faces are only inches away, now that we’re no longer bowed over the books in our laps.

Jeremy clears his throat and looks away, burying a yawn in his arm. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” I murmur, the edge of my notebook digging into my palm.

He pushes up to a stand, and my gaze follows, my brow knitting. I feel…itchy. Restless. My fingers tap against my knee, which has started to bounce. A weird sort of….tension blankets the room, making the silence feel heavier—louder in a way.

My heart thumps, and I open my mouth, not even sure what the hell I want to say—just that I know I need to say something?—

When footsteps clobber up the stairs, and the winded, red face of my girlfriend pokes her head in.

“Hi,” she chirps cheerily, racing over to me, and tackling me onto the bed.

“Hi,” I say faintly, catching her around the back.

“Please don’t,” Jeremy says flatly. I don’t think she hears him, but I do, and suddenly I feel…not so good, though I’m not sure why.

Caught off-guard by the thoughts swirling in my head, I all but throw Izzy off me in my haste to stand up. Shake off some of this lingering tension.

Fortunately, she doesn’t seem too upset by my weird behavior. Laughing, she rolls on to her side, and plucks the textbook Jeremy must’ve cast aside.

More footsteps sound from the hall, and then Waylon appears, running his hands through his inky black hair.

I dart a fleeting look across the room, to where Jeremy stands against his desk, arms crossed. Our gazes find each other, locking, and for a moment, time just stops. The room around us fades.

My throat thickens.

His lips purse.

And then he looks away, taking a quiet gasp from my lips with him.

It all happens so fast, there and gone before I can catch hold of it, not unlike that stubborn faint melody that appears in my head sometimes, just out of reach. And with every second that passes, I can’t help but think I just imagined it. All of it.

We were doing homework, and now we’re here.

A blink.

Waylon joins Izzy on the bed, and Jeremy mutters something under his breath, before turning around to busy himself with organizing his desk.

Clearing my throat, I start gathering my homework.

“Ugh, I still have to do this,” Izzy says, groaning when she sees my nearly completed set of problems. I just have one left.

I pluck the notebook from her hand, stacking it on my textbook, and she pouts up at me, batting those thick black lashes at me.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“But you got help.”

I roll my eyes, and tell her, “And now I’ll help you, but you’re not copying my work.”

She snorts. “You suck at geometry.”

Taking a seat, I lean over and pinch her side. “Not anymore, thanks to your brother.”

Waylon grunts at that from where he reclines against the headboard next to her, frowning down at something on his phone.

I cut a sideways look to Jeremy, finding him watching us with a look I can’t immediately place.

Longing, maybe?

I frown. The last thing I ever want Jeremy to feel is left out. It’s been my entire mission in life, no matter what it takes, even if I slip sometimes, lost in the vortex that is music and Isobel Montgomery.

Even if sometimes, I know—I know Jeremy would rather just melt into the shadows.

Crawling toward the edge of the bed, I reach for his arm, and drag him onto the bed with us before he can so much as make a peep of protest.

Izzy giggles and crawls on top of her brother. “We got you now, JJ.”

And I lay on top of her squishing them into the bed.

Waylon just shakes his head.

“I hate you both,” I hear muttered, muffled into the comforter, and I grin.

“Fuck,” Waylon breathes.

I roll my head to face him, and blow hair from my eyes. “What’s up?”

Shaking his head, he flips open his phone, and hits a button, before bringing it to his ear. “Hello?” A pause. “I don’t—Okay, I’ll see.” His nose wrinkles, and he screws his eyes shut. His throat works with a swallow, and he rasps, “Yeah, sir, I know. I’ll be there. Just gimme ten.”

He hangs up and blows out a harsh breath.

“Your dad?” Izzy whispers.

His pinched hazel eyes lift to mine, then shift to hers, and even before he says it, I know what’s coming. “Yeah, he needs me to pick him up.”

Izzy shoves at me, and I retreat, letting her up. Jeremy slithers out from under her, rolling onto the floor.

“Bar again?” I say stiffly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. In the corner of my eye, Izzy fixes her long tangle of hair. She recently got highlights, making her normally medium brown hair look gold in spots.

Waylon nods, eyes growing distant as they drop somewhere below my chin. “Yeah…”

“You can borrow mine,” Izzy says, pushing to a stand.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, cheeks growing red.

Like all of us, Waylon got his license too—thanks to Ray teaching him and taking him to the DMV—but he doesn’t have a car. Neither do I. His dad knows this, but clearly doesn’t give a shit.

“He’s been needing to get picked up a lot lately,” I say carefully.

Waylon shrugs. “He’s a drunk. That’s what drunks do.”

Izzy and I share a look, our expressions tight.

“He knows I drive now. That’s probably why.”

I scowl. “Just leave him.”

His lip ticks up bitterly. “I wish.”

I frown. Then why won’t he?

“Way…if you did, would he…”

He blows out a sharp breath, leveling Izzy with a warning look. “I just don’t want to deal with his cranky ass. I’ll hear about it all week.”

“You know you can always stay here,” Izzy says.

“Or crash at mine,” I remind him.

He nods. “I know. But it’s just a ride. Keeps him off my back.”

“Okay,” Izzy says quietly. Her jaw is tight as she nods to the hall. “Come on. My keys are in my room.”

Once they’re gone, and it’s just Jeremy and me again, I find him sitting at his desk, fiddling with the wire of his headphones where they hang down his chest, twisting and disappearing in the pocket of his sweatpants.

He’s suspiciously quiet, and I frown. “You okay?”

Our gazes meet, and he flashes me a small sad smile. “Yeah. Just… his dad sucks.”

I snort. “You have that right.”

He jabs a thumb behind him. “I’m just gonna…”

“Yeah, I’ll leave you to it,” I rush out, feeling this sudden…urgency to be alone. To get away for a bit. Catch my breath.

What the hell is going on with me?

The flu’s been going around. Maybe I’m coming down with something.

He nods. “See ya.”

“See ya.”

Piling my books in my arms, I head for the door, when I pause in the threshold, and twist my head over my shoulder.

“Hey, Jer?”

“Yeah?” He turns to face me.

I crook a grin. “Thanks. For earlier, I mean. Thanks for…getting it.”

His lips stretch out into a smile, blond hair tarnished gold from the lamp behind his head, curling around his head like a halo.

He nods. “Always.”