I grin. “Everybody knows that. Babies are always the favorite. Tate is my mom’s favorite.”
“He is.” Ryder’s grinning too. “Can you hum the song?”
I clear my throat. “Uh. Yeah. I can, um, do that. Sure.” I clear my throat again, feeling like an idiot.
But the way Ryder looks at me, his eyebrows curved gently upward, makes me feel…like I can actually do this.
I start to hum the song, closing my eyes as the lyrics pass through my brain. I don’t know why this one is my favorite. It’s just cute. And fun. And sometimes I secretly wish what happens in the song might happen to me one day.
Your father’s such a romantic, Mom always says. They kiss a lot, which is kind of gross. But they look happy together. Everyone points to them having six kids as proof of how in love they are, although I don’t understand why.
Whatever the case, ending up like Mom and Dad wouldn’t be so bad. I don’t want to be in the kitchen as much as Mom is. But she and Dad smile a lot when they’re together, and smiling is kind of the best.
I’d know because I start to smile all over again as I hum. My eyes fly open when Ryder starts to play along on his guitar, picking out the notes without missing a beat.
I stop humming. “Do you know this song?”
“No,” he says with a chuckle. “Keep humming.”
“Then how can you play it on the first try?”
“I’m a prodigy. Keep humming, Billie.”
The song sounds so pretty on the guitar, and I don’t want him to stop playing, so I sit up a little straighter and hum another verse, then another chorus.
This time, Ryder doesn’t notice when I stop humming. He just keeps playing, his fingers delicately working the strings of his guitar like he’s been doing this all his life.
He hasn’t. When you get to middle school in these parts, they make you play an instrument. Ryder picked the guitar when he entered sixth grade. He’s only been playing for a couple years now.
Still, he’s really, really good.
I like watching the way his hand moves up and down the neck of the guitar. Steady. Gentle. Behind us, I hear Meredith shuffling in approval, ducking her head to sniff Ryder’s hair.
He chuckles again. “Is that her version of throwing her bra at me?”
I blush at the wordbra. I know girls start wearing them at some point, but my chest is still as flat as a pancake. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Girls at concerts throw their bras at lead singers they like.”
“Aren’t I the one singing, though? I don’t want any bras thrown at me.”
“You can sing if you like.”
I clear my throat for what feels like the hundredth time. “Do you think I have a good enough voice?”
“If you think I’m good enough at playing guitar, then sure, I think you have a good enough voice.” His eyes sparkle.
I look away. I’ll probably sound stupid if I sing. But my humming was okay, right? And the way Ryder is playing my favorite song—the notes soft and pretty—it’s hardnotto sing along.
Taking a deep breath, I do.
I sing.
Judging by the way Ryder’s smile grows and grows, I’m doing an all right job of it too. Maybe I suck. Maybe I don’t. But I keep singing, closing my eyes. I hear Meredith let out a snort, which means she’s happy. I am too.
Ryder pauses, not sure where the song goes next. I open my eyes and meet his. I continue to sing, my voice echoing down the long hallway. Ryder starts to play again, picking up what I’m laying down. It takes all of one verse for us to get back in sync.
We sit like that, me singing, him strumming, smiling at each other like he’s not my older brother’s best friend and I’m not some stupid kid sister who’s a pain in the ass.
