Tag blinks, frowns, then peers down at the instrument before swinging his attention back to me. He pushes his tongue against his cheek. “It is. Good eye.”
“Must’ve cost a pretty penny.”
“Parents gifted it to me for my eighteenth.”
“Chase also builds guitars,” Annie adds, a levity in her voice.
I clear my throat. “I build a bunch of things. Furniture, mostly. If you ever need—”
“Great. I’ll keep that in mind.” Tag drops his arms at his sides and bends to retrieve the guitar. “Gotta get started. Are you sticking around this time?” His eyes are fixed on his sister now, ablaze with things unsaid.
She smooths back her hair and inches away. Her energy changes, shifting into a noticeable tension that strips her of her smile. “That’s the plan.”
A short nod.
Tag steps back and situates himself behind the mic, gearing up to perform.
Moments later, we’re seated while Kenna fills me in on her newest succulent, as if I’ve been waiting all week for an update.
I look over at Annie, and she looks at me. Her lip stain is the same color as the streaks in her hair and the flower petals buried in her braids. I watch as her eyes trail down my bare arm that is sans hoodie today. They linger on the tattoo, a violet outline of a guitar roped with wisteria vines and musical notes.
My forearm flexes. I fiddle with my thumb ring.
She swallows, looks away.
Tag plays. I zone out Kenna’s chatter, lost in the music, wishing it were me up there, spinning melodies into magic. But I can’t. I can’t because it’s impossible to find the courage to bare my soul in that way.
Not without her.
Annie laughs at something Kenna says, nudging me with her shoulder, as if I’m one of them, a new friend in the making. The weather has warmed, winter finally melting into spring. Her outfit matches the season—a daisy dress with a flared skirt. She smells like a flower garden.
Straightening, she spins her coffee cup between her hands, and I swear her chair moves closer to mine.
“So, how weird is this?” she asks, half grinning, half cringing. “These coffee dates. Hanging out. Be honest.”
A smile itches to break free, but I squash it before it has the chance to bloom. “On a scale of one to committing-felony-level-petty-theft-followed-by-an-impromptu-kidnapping? Solid six.”
Kenna gets distracted when a cherry-haired girl approaches the table, pulling her into an animated conversation.
“Not too bad.” Annie bites back a grin. “All memorable stories have messy beginnings.”
“Pretty sure that’s just a lie we tell ourselves to make things feel better than they are.”
“What’s your story?”
The question takes me off guard, has me itching to pull away and put distance between us. “The messy kind, from beginning to end,” I say and take a sip of coffee, hiding my darkness behind my cup of Americano.
“Presumptuous of you to assume the ending.” She studies me, full of questions, curiosity clouding her eyes. “Bad breakup?”
“Not the kind you’re thinking.”
Those big blue eyes continue to poke and prod. “Maybe you can tell me one day.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Does that mean yes?”
“Maybe means maybe.”
