“Do Micah and Kaylee know that’s how you think of them?” I asked. “The father figure and the little sister?”
“It’s just a metaphor,” Zain laughed.
“I don’t think they’d appreciate that kind of metaphor,” I said. “Especially not Kaylee.”
“Why not?” Zain asked, tilted his head in confusion.
It appeared that the odd undercurrent between the drummer and the keyboardist had escaped Zain’s attention. Boys really could be oblivious sometimes.
I considered asking Zain why he’d been so pissy at Micah, but I didn’t think I wanted to step into that potential minefield. Whatever was going on with them had nothing to do with me, and I didn’t want to butt in too much. Maybe once I got to know the other band members better I could subtly dig into it more, but for now I wasn’t going to let on to Zain that I’d noticed anything unusual. Whatever tension existed between those two was for them to work out.
“You didn’t use your acoustic guitar during the concert I first saw you at,” I said, taking the conversation in a different direction. “Kaylee called it an unplugged set, I think?”
Zain’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, I love my acoustic, but we don’t always have enough time to fit something into our live performances.”
“Would you play something for me now?” I asked.
“You just spent hours watching us,” he said. “You really want to sit through some more?”
“If it’s you playing, always,” I replied.
He looked taken aback before giving me a soft smile.
“And here I thought you didn’t like to stroke my ego.” He pulled an acoustic guitar from its stand and settled it into his lap. He paused, shifting on the sofa awkwardly, almost fidgeting. “I’ve actually been working on something new,” he said slowly. “It’s not finished. I don’t have lyrics or anything. I wasn’t going to show anyone yet.”
I leaned forward eagerly.
“Let me hear it,” I said.
Twenty-Six
Zain
It was stupid to feel nervous.
I’d played for thousands of fans in huge stadiums, and I’d performed for only a dozen in cramped live houses. Playing for one person shouldn’t have been a problem.
But, of course, there was a problem.
I was going to be playing for Grace. I was going to be playing a song I’d written for her.
She didn’t know I’d written it for her, and there was no way I was going to tell her. But she’d asked me to play something for her, something on my acoustic, and every single song I knew flew out of my head. The only thing I could think to play wasthatsong. The one about ocean eyes and berry lips.
Luckily the song worked well even without words, so I didn’t have to worry about giving myself away. I wasn’t even done with the lyrics, so it was better to keep this as an instrumental performance, anyway.
“You ready?” I asked Grace.
She sat up straight and nodded, eyes riveted on the placement of my fingers along the fret board. I didn’t bother with a pick. The song was better if I used my fingers, giving it a rounder sound and turning it into something a little more mellow.
I strummed the first few notes. It resonated through the room nicely, no harsh echoes with the sound dampeners built into the walls. Then I launched myself into it.
I had wanted to keep my eyes on Grace, to see her expression and gauge her reaction, but I soon found my eyes drifting closed without me realizing it. I hummed the melody under my breath, knowing where the lyrics would go, how they would sound, even though I didn’t know the exact words I’d use.
Usually when I played for myself, I focused on the technical details. The position of my fingers, the pressure I placed on each string. Hearing Grace’s soft breathing next to me was just enough of a distraction to let my analytical mind go silent and let my creative side, my artistic side, take center stage. I felt a swell of emotions rise up in response to the music.Mymusic. This was my way of expressing myself, my way of processing all the shit swirling around inside me.
Affection, and concern, and bliss, and worry, and love, and desire, and—
There were a dozen thoughts and feelings all fighting for my attention.
