“Oh, and yes, Iamthe captain of this boat. Because I’m older.”
“Yeah, well, you’re about to have a mutiny on your hands, Cap, if you don’t stop this power trip.” She flops back down and rests her cheek on her crossed arms. “If I can’t listen to my music, at least play something on Betty. I like listening to music while I’m dozing.”
It’s a fair compromise. And since every line I’ve written thus far is utter shit, I give up on lyrics and start strumming the guitar. I don’t play anything in particular, just a slow, airy melody that matches this current vibe of bobbing on the waves in the sunshine.
“That’s pretty,” Blake says, twisting her head toward me. “Is that a real song?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Just making it up on the spot.”
“Oh.”
I can’t see her expression behind her sunglasses, but something about her wistful tone amuses me.
“Why do you sound sad about that?”
“I’m not sad. I’m…jealous,” she admits. “I envy you.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because you’re so talented. You play, like, five instruments—”
“Three.”
“—your voice is incredible, and your lyrics are beautiful. Of course I’m envious. I wish I had a talent like yours. I’m not good at anything.”
“You’re good at annoying me,” I say helpfully.
“Awesome. I’ll wear it as a badge of honor.”
“And youaretalented, Logan. Don’t you have, like, a perfectGPA?”
She brushes that off. “How is that a talent?”
“It means you’re really smart,” I point out.
“Lots of people are smart. Doesn’t make me special.”
A frown surfaces. She can’t possibly believe she’s not special. Just looking at her, you know she is. Her mere energy screamsspecial.
Before I can argue, she asks, “Any new developments in Nashville?”
Instantly, my relaxed mood fades.
“Not really. I gig every weekend. I write, I record, I post shit online. But it’s like… Success hinges on more than just talent, you know? It always involves a bit of luck too. The right song in front of the right audience at the right time.” I absently strum a few chords. “I need to write it. That song.Thesong.”
“I mean, not to state the obvious, but isn’t your mother an award-winning songwriter?”
Frustration clamps around my throat. “Yes, she is. That’s the problem.”
“How is that a problem? Seriously, Wyatt, think about the opportunity you have here that other people don’t. You wantthe song. Why not team up with Hannah and—”
“I don’t want to write a song with my mom. I don’t want her help.”
“So stubborn,” Blake chides.
My hand clenches around the guitar’s neck. “You don’t get it. I want to feel like I succeeded on my own. On my own merits. Without help.”
“Everybody needs help.” Her voice grows gentle. “You’re lucky you have two parents who are supportive and willing to help you out.”
