There’s something hesitant in his voice.
Something that has me watching him as he stares at the fire, arms draped over his knees, book dangling from one hand. He’s in his jacket and jeans again.
I flip my journal closed. “Did you write songs for Bro Code?”
One shoulder shrugs. “Levi and Davis did most of it. I’d help sometimes.”
“Because they asked you to or because you wanted to?”
“Wanted to.”
“You still write lyrics?”
“Chords and melodies and arrangements sometimes too.”
His ears are turning pink.
It’s adorable.
“I took violin lessons in grade school,” he tells the fire. “Then piano with Levi and Tripp when I got older, and I taught myself guitar when we started the band.”
I’m picking up the sameI miss itvibe that I got while he was making pancakes and talking about touring. I shift fully to face him, completely intrigued, all of our awkwardness forgotten.
“Are your songs good?”
“No.”
His answer is so instantaneous that I don’t believe him. “Is that insecurity or objectiveness speaking?”
He slides me a look.
Insecurity.
My heart squeezes. “Can I see?”
“Didn’t bring it with me.”
“I didn’t meannow.”
He grunts a nonanswer.
“What kind of songs?” I press.
“Bad songs.”
“Cash.”
“It’s nothing anyone’s streaming these days.”
I’m sure it’s greatisn’t our normal. We give each other shit in person. We laugh. We joke. We don’t go deep.
Deep only happens occasionally in text.
But neither of our phones will send messages right now, and even if they could, we need to conserve the battery power on both of them as long as we can.
He’s already flipped off the flashlight on his phone since he’s not reading.
And now I’m staring at him like I’m waiting for him to take it back.
