“Why?”He followed me down the stairs. “You didn’t go to college.”
“No,I didn’t.” I walked across the living room to the kitchen, talking over myshoulder as I went. “Not every path leads to college, and I’m a firm believerthat you shouldn’t push it if it genuinely isn’t for you. No sense in blowingthat type of cash on a degree just because society tells you to.”
“See?That’s what I tell Aunt Tabs,” Greyson replied, nodding enthusiastically as Iopened the refrigerator and grabbed a couple bottles of water. “I don’t need noeducation.”
“Holdup, Pink Floyd,” I interjected, raising a finger while closing the fridge.“Just because I knew I didn’t want to go to college, doesn’t mean I didn’t keepmy grades up in school.”
“Whydoes it even matter?” he grumbled, taking a bottle from my hand.
“Becausethe reality is, kid, you might not go on to do what I do. You might play yourfirst show and realize you fucking hate performing in front of people. Which iscool. It’s not for everybody. But then what? What if you decide to become amusic teacher? Or open up your own studio? You’re gonna need that educationthen, and if you don’t have it, well …” I cocked my head and grimaced. “Can’tbe that teacher if you’re a high school dropout, you know what I’m saying?”
Greyson’sbrows knitted together, his brow crumpled with thought, and he nodded. “Thatmakes sense.”
MaybeI’m not so terrible at this dad shit after all. “Buthey, if that first show goes well, I have connections out the ass, so you’ll beset for fucking life.”
Thenhe grinned, uncapping his bottle. “You better hook me up, man.”
Man. Iwould’ve given my right arm to hear him call me Dad. But I settled for thesmile and the bonding experience.
“You’rea lot cooler about this shit than Aunt Tabs,” he muttered, after taking a sipof water. “You explain it better, instead of just getting mad.”
Foldingmy arms against the counter, I sighed and carefully selected my words. “Yeah,but you know, your aunt’s trying really hard to do what’s best for you. You’veboth had some shitty stuff happen recently.”
“Yeah,”he mumbled, casting his gaze toward something distant. “She doesn’t want methough.”
There’dbeen times in my life where I’d wondered about my own sense of compassion andwhether or not I still had a heart, or if it had been hardened by the road. Butthat moment reminded me of the organ still thumping in my chest, as it pulsedwith an ache too real to be phantom.
“Greyson,she does,” I nodded assuredly. “She just wants to help you.”
“Yeah,by makingyouwant me instead,” he snickered, shaking his head.
Fora second, I actually wondered if he was right, until I remembered there wasn’tmuch a teenager said that wasn’t a gross exaggeration of the truth.
“Well,I’m sure that’s not true,” I said, my tone sure and firm, before I decided toadd, “But if you ever want to get a break from her, you can always come andhang out here. I’ll keep your ass in check, and let you beat the shit out of mydrums, okay?”
Darkbrown eyes met mine, searching for the assurance that I was serious. That Iwanted him. That he wasn’t a burden.
Then,he nodded. “Cool,” he said simply, unsuccessfully hiding his smile.
Witha glance at the clock, I noted the time. It was a little after four in theafternoon. My mom would be over soon. Where the hell was Tabby? I knew Ishouldn’t be keeping tabs on her, but she’d already been gone for nearly sixhours. How long did business meetings usually take? And why the fuck did I evencare?
Becauseshe kissed me.
Thethought made me smirk, and I turned to grab an apple from the opposite counter,letting Greyson get a good look at my back while I stewed in my thoughts.
Whydid it matter if she kissed me? Plenty of women had kissed me. Hell, most ofthem had done a lot more than just kiss. It never made me feel at all like Ihad to keep tabs on them. More often than not, I never had a way of staying intouch with them in the first place. So, what the hell was it aboutherthat gave me that feeling? Why did I care?
Thefront door opened and that only meant one thing.
“Bastian!”My mom announced her arrival with her signature shout.
Ispun on my heel, staring at Greyson. “That’s my mom,” I whispered to him. “Youready?”
Greysonshrugged. He had no idea what he was in for.
“Inhere, Mom,” I called, leaning against the counter and eyeing the doorway.
“Ibrought your lasagna and I made some Itali—” Her voice caught in her throat atthe sight of the fifteen-year-old boy. A shaking hand covered her mouth as shestepped forward, approaching him warily and eyeing him with the worry that hemight be a mirage. “Oh my God, you’rereal. You’re a real boy.”
