Page 77 of Just My Type of wrong guy

“It’s so nice to finally meet you. Dani always talked about you… it’s good to see you in person.”

“And did she talk about me nicely or not?” Sol jokes as we pull apart.

“With love and admiration, you were an excellent mom,” I say, and Guilherme corrects me on the pronunciation of the Portuguese word ‘excelente’ because it’s different from ‘excellent.’

“He’s learning, son,” Sol chides him gently.

“And I’m helping, Mom, that’s all,” he defends himself, touching her cheek with that tenderness only sons can get away with. “You need me here?” He asks his dad.

“Go enjoy your romance, Guilherme. I’m trying to score some points too,” Carlos mutters the last part to me, and I can’t help bursting into laughter again.

“A.J.!” Richard calls from across the yard, and I excuse myself quickly, crossing back to the covered patio where the cold can’t reach us.

“We’ve got three songs for the new album,” Rick announces, excited. I take a seat.

“Three?” I ask, watching the girls step back into place.

“Jesus, you look like an eskimo,” I snort when Alexandra sits down in a white, knee-length coat. I squeeze hercold fingers gently, pulling her closer. She sticks out her tongue — just a peek of pink between her slightly chapped lips. “A charming eskimo.”

“At least that,” She winks at me, and Richard’s voice pulls me back to the conversation.

“Yes, three. Guilherme and I have been writing non-stop these past few weeks.”

“Ah, the power of love...” My words make Richard go pale, and Dani tenses up before sitting next to him — but Guilherme just pulls Beatriz onto his lap.

“Love is amazing. You’ll agree with me sooner than you think.”

“Do you guys always write the songs together?” Alexandra asks, rescuing me from sinking into my own awkwardness and the funny thing is: She has no idea I’ve been trying to silence a brand-new song in my head for days.

“Not always,” Guilherme says. “We’ve got a team of writers. Sometimes we all work together, sometimes we write separately, and sometimes they do their thing while we handle something else. There are three songs on our first album that the four of us wrote together.”

“That’s cool. I’m excited to see you guys writing during the tour,” Alexandra says, turning to me.

“I’m especially excited to see you writing with them. Enough hiding your talent already.”

“A.J. doesn’t like writing,” Richard chimes in from across the table, as if that little fact had slipped his mind.

“A.J. hadAlways Usbefore you guys were even a band. I think he does like writing,”

Alex says with a dry laugh.

“Oh my God, that song that played nonstop throughout pandemic?” Beatriz stares at me, shocked. “Even I, who spent the pandemic pretending I wasn’t alive, know that song.”

“A.J. sings that song, Alex. But he didn’t write it... right?” Thomas asks, looking at me.

“Written at my bedroom window, in Vancouver, actually,” I say, leaning forward to rest my elbows on the table and scratching the back of my neck.

“The whole thing?” Richard still stares at me in disbelief. Probably because I always made it seem like writing wasn’t really my thing. Then he blinks three times before I nod and say:

“Every word.” In the notebook hidden under my mattress, the one I haven’t dared touch in years. Richard crosses his arms, giving me that we need to talk look.

I ignore it. “We can talk about songwriting later,” I say, breaking the awkward silence and touching Alexandra ’s hand under the table.

“So how were things in France and England, huh?” I ask Thomas and Richard, and Thomas answers first.

I tilt my head toward Alexandra and whisper a quiet “thank you,” even though writing songs is a complicated place for me.

Thomas talks about how good it felt to spend nearly a month in one place, how having a routine helped him reset. He’s quiet, perceptive. This guy who loves his silence as much as he loves his bass, and even if he never said it out loud, I know the tour almost broke him.

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