My stomach sinks.
Part of me was hoping I’d dip in and slip out before ever having to come in contact with her brother, who undoubtedly despises me.
“Don’t worry,” she says before I can protest, linking her small hand around my forearm and tugging me off the seat. “I talked to him. I said you might show up again and to play nice.”
I’m not convinced her version of “play nice” is the same as his, but I reluctantly follow, the scent of watermelon and something flowery guiding me forward.
Tag looks up, pulling the guitar strap off his torso, his tawny, shoulder-length hair catching on the overhead light fixture as it spills from his beanie. He falters, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans and sending his sister a scowl before turning his attention to me: the felonious stranger she’s just thrust into his orbit.
He says nothing. Just glares at me.
The imaginary sound of a needle against vinyl morphs into a symphony of crickets.
I scrub my mop of hair, trying to summon words that will get this introduction over with. “Tag, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That short for something?” I’ve never been much of a conversationalist, which works for me, considering I live alone, have few friends, and voluntarily cut off contact with all remaining family members.
Therefore, this is fucking painful.
A sigh leaves him as he hops off the platform and crosses his arms.
“It’s short for Montague,” Annie explains, acting like this moment isn’t akin to being strapped to a chair and forced to watch paint dry. Except the paint is judging me, and the chair might spontaneously combust. “Mom has this weird infatuation with Shakespeare.”
“Romeo and Juliet?” I wonder, remembering how my sister used to watch the nineties adaptation all the time.
“Yes. He still hasn’t forgiven her.”
“Understandable.” I look away, my eyes settling on absolutely nothing.
Tag clicks his tongue, addressing his sister. “You were almost Beatrice. Instead, you were named after some dead relative, while Mom had her heart set on tragic and theatrical.”
Annie hums. “Sounds like I should be haunting an old middle-England mansion or something. Still pretty tragic.”
“Better than being named after a guy who gets stabbed over a miscommunication.”
My attention ping-pongs between them.
Tag glowers at me, his stare so sharp it might as well be the knife that took out his namesake.
Clearing my throat, I conjure up more words. “Heard you play a bit last week. You were good.”
“I’m decent.”
“This your full-time gig?”
“This and car detailing. Still trying to get your blood out of my upholstery.”
Ouch.
I’m starting to learn how he plays nice.
Annie mimics a cough, not-so-covertly kicking his leg. “Chase is a musician too.”
“We have so much in common.”
I glance at his guitar, now perched on the platform. “Is that a Fylde Orsino? Don’t see many of those outside of the UK.”
