“So then… it’s my album?Constellations?”
I ground my teeth together.
“Because Rafe, I’ve got to tell you, if you’re critiquing the tiny piece of my heart I put out in the world and saying you hate it, you might as well be saying you hate me. The albumisme. I mean, it’s not the entirety of me, obviously, but it’s…”
“It’snotyou,” I muttered. “That’s the problem.”
Jay swerved into the passing lane again, nearly sideswiping a Corvette that dared to be going only twenty over the speed limit. “What the hell does that mean?”
I grabbed the strap over the door. “Could you maybe slow down?”
“Could you maybe answer the question? Or is this another super secret you can’t share with me?”
“Yesterday, you told me you didn’t want to hear my thoughts on the album,” I reminded him, possibly taking my life in my hands.
“I don’t want to hear your thoughts on it beingoverproduced, which, by the way, doesn’t mean what I think you think it means. This is not an issue of you saying, ‘Had you considered less percussion on “Variable Skies,” Jay?’ because I could discuss that. I could. This is you having a giant visceral reaction to my entire record—”
He braked hard and pulled around a flatbed trailer hauling a load of plywood. In the cargo area, one of the suitcasesthunkedagainst the side of the van.
“It doesn’t sound like you!” I finally blurted, more concerned about surviving the trip than policing my mouth. “Not the you that I know… orknew. None of the songs are songs I ever heard, and they’re all about people I’ve never met and places I’ve never been… They’re about the Jay you became after you left the Key, I guess, which is fine. Which is great. Which is… just… just…stellarfor you. Obviously. I’m glad you’ve changed and grown. ButIam the same guy I was. The same guy I’ve always been. Boring, small-town Rafe. And it bugs me, okay? It’s a me thing, not a you thing. Are you happy now? How about if I drive for a bit?”
“You already drove. Don’t make it seem like I’m a bad driver. I’m perfectly capable—you’re just a control freak.” Jay slowed down. A minuscule amount. “And you’re wrong, you know.”
“Okay,” I agreed, still clinging to the strap. “Sure. I’m wrong. That’s fine.”
He sighed. “It’s like you decided that I changed, and you started interpreting everything through that lens. But maybe I haven’t changed as much as you think.” He gave me a long look. “Maybe you’re looking at me wrong, so you’re looking at the album wrong.”
“And maybeyoushouldn’t be looking atmeatall. Eyes on the road,” I snapped.
I really did not need to be having deep, feelsy discussions with Jay Rollins, who’d be back on the road before the last phallus balloon left Whispering Key after the Extravaganza.
“What did Gage mean about playing a game?”
I sighed. “He’s being a shithead and suggesting ways for us to pass the time. Don’t worry about it.”
“We could always turn the music back on to pass the time,” Jay said sullenly. “Not sure why we had to turn it off.”
“Because I wanted to play Ari Friedrich’sTrustalbum and—”
“You listened to the entire thing on repeat. Twice!” Jay exploded. “There are other good songs in the world.”
“True. But I like his.”
“I think you like pissing me off.”
Also true. “Nonsense.”
“You know,” Jay said with fake casualness, “Ari Friedrich and I wrote songs together once. He said he loved ‘Pretty Girl,’ and I helped him write ‘Incidental Cruelty’—”
“Sure you did.”
“Idid!”
“Okay.”
“He credited me! It’s on the internet! I really— Ohmygod, you are the most provoking human,” Jay groaned, smacking a hand against his thigh. “I can’t tell if you’re giving me shit or if you actually think I’d lie about it.”
“Aww. Poor Jay. Does my nose not twitch when I give you shit?”
