Page 10 of Code Word
He shrugged one shoulder. “It was my first real guitar. Not the el cheapo I’d had since I was eight.”
I played a few chords. “Sounds like weekends spent in your parents’ rumpus room. Like simpler days, when all we had were dreams of making it big and terrible hair.”
He half smiled. “Your hair was terrible. Mine was awesome.”
I sighed and grinned as I handed it back to him. “So, what’ve you been working on?” I said, parking my ass in front of the keyboard and testing a few keys. “What few things have you been putting together?”
He made a face, sat on the sofa, and began fine-tuning the guitar. “Just some... a few songs.” His brows drew down and he frowned. “Kinda been all up in my head a bit. Overthinking shit. You know how that is. Good for music. Not so good for everything else.”
I wasn’t sure if he was talking about sleep, about Vana, or what. But he was talking. This was something, at least. “Maddox used to say writing songs was like therapy.”
Luke’s eyes cut to mine and he snorted. “And how well did that work out for him? Before Roscoe, I mean.”
Hmm. Ouch.
“Yeah. Not so great,” I admitted. “But the ballads and melodies were on point.”
He seemed annoyed by that. “Yep. Suffering sells.”
Wow.
He really was not in a good place.
I chose my next words carefully. “Writing songs that people can relate to, see themselves in, sells. Being able to reach the audience like that sells, Luke.”
He seemed annoyed by that too. “Giving people an outlet for their misery, for their own heartbreak,” he said. “Well, fuck. My songs are gonna beat triple platinum.”
I wanted to sigh. I wanted to hug him and hold him, even just touch him. But he had himself wrapped up in barbs right now, and I didn’t want to get cut.
“If you’re talking about Vana,” I offered gently, “you can talk to me.”
He stopped tuning the guitar and stared at me, his gaze cold and angry.
Or maybe not.
I shrugged and played it off. “Or you can write a triple-platinum album about heartbreak and misery.”
His face did that tormented thing again, and he went back to tuning the guitar. “It’s not about Vana,” he mumbled aftera moment. “Well, it kinda is. I feel bad for how it ended. She deserved better than that.”
“You could call her,” I suggested. “Just to tell her you hope she’s okay. And that you’re sorry.”
“Hm.” He sighed. “Maybe. I don’t want her to think I’m calling to get back together though.” He let his head fall back. “I dunno.”
“You don’t know if you want to get back together with her?” It was good that he was talking, but I needed to make sure we were on the same page.
“Hell no,” he said. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sat forward again. “Sorry. No, I don’t want to get back with her. I’m... relieved it’s over, to be honest. Maybe I should just cut all contact.”
I nodded slowly. “Or text her?”
He made a face. “Would that make me the asshole? Doesn’t she deserve better than that?”
“You can only give her the emotional currency you can afford to give, Luke,” I said softly. “If you’re not up to it, then don’t.”
He studied me for a long moment before looking away. “Don’t think I can afford much right now.” He tuned the guitar some more, then looked at me as if he were mad or something. “Emotional currency? Who the fuck says that?”
I chuckled. “Fuck off. I thought it was a good line.”
He rolled his eyes, and for a moment, it was just like old times. He clearly still had a lot on his mind, but the silence between us now was easier as we played a few riffs, a few lines, taking cues from each other like we used to do.
