Page 59 of Betting on the Boy Next Door
We pack our equipment and lug it out to Rodney’s van. I’m still feeling the high of hearing it all come together as I help load in the amps. Jules catches my eye, and I grin. He whoops. “We’re doing this, aren’t we?”
But it’s not a question. Luther claps him on the shoulder. “Yes, we are, brother. We are. This is going somewhere.”
“You think?” Rodney asks. He’s the youngest of us, finishing his last semester at UT. Luther is the oldest at twenty-nine. But Luther always seems like he’s lived twice that, and he’s been active in the Austin music scene since he was seventeen. He knows it well, and his opinion here means something.
“I know.” Luther says it so simply that it feels like truth.
In my bones, I feel it too. We are on the verge of something, and I’m going to reach for it with everything I have.
Chapter Seventeen
Sami
Wechatteralltheway back to the pool house. Well, Rodney only drives. But the rest of us are reviewing tonight’s recording session and spitballing ideas for the ones we’re recording tomorrow night.
By the time we unload and I drive home, it’s nearly midnight. The downstairs lights in our condo and Josh’s are all off. I’m sure Ava is still up, but her window faces the courtyard. I let myself in and head upstairs to take a quick shower and change into sweats. I’m not tired yet, so I go out to the balcony.
I’ve been avoiding Josh since Sunday. Not hard since he’s always at work. But since his car is in his spot and his lights are out, it’s a pretty safe bet he’s asleep and I won’t run into him out here.
I settle myself into my chair, draw my knees up, and open my notes app to jot down fragments of lyrics that have been floating through my head for a couple of days. I’m halfway through a chorus when light suddenly spills onto Josh’s balcony. Before I can escape inside, he’s already stepping out, and I sit back in the chair I’m halfway out of.
He looks over and his eyebrows go up. “Oh, hey, Sami.”
“Hey.” I don’t know what to say, but maybe that’s okay. I’m not wanting to have a conversation.
Josh doesn’t see it that way. “You’re up late.”
“Not really.”
He settles into his chair. He’s also in sweats, and he slides his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and stretches out his legs. “That’s right. Night owls. Seen any other ones flying around?”
“Not tonight.” Yeah. Word salad. That’s me.
He’s quiet for a while, and I’m wondering how I get back inside without it being awkward when he says, “So . . . you okay?”
That startles me. “Yeah, fine. Why?” Oops. Should not have asked an open-ended question.
“Don’t know. You seem”—he hesitates before finishing—“stressed.”
“Only for the last ninety seconds,” I mumble. I don’t mean for him to hear it. I really don’t. But he does.
“Whoa.” His voice is soft, and he pauses again before asking, “Have I done something wrong?”
This is what I get for being a smartass under my breath. If he hadn’t heard me, I could wave goodnight and disappear. But not only did he hear me, he heard me say something that’s straight-up not fair.
I lean over and rest my elbows on my knees and slide my fingers into my hair. “No. That was mean. I shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry.”
“Then . . . why did you?” He sounds confused more than hurt.
I turn my head so I can meet his eyes. Or try to in the dim light. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “You’re collateral damage. That wasn’t even about you.” But I realize “collateral damage” is a great title for this new song that’s trying to happen, one that I realize is about Josh. It’s like writing it summoned him to the balcony.
“Do you want to tell me what itisabout?”
“No. Can I say that without sounding like a jerk?”
He considers that. “I’ll allow it.”
“You’re being a lot nicer about it than you have to be.”
