Swinging her arms back and forth, she keeps the smile firmly in place.
Impressive. Typical.
“Anyway,” she says, twisting around. “Let’s go out back. It’s such a pretty night.”
Annie shuffles into the house, composing herself, skimming her salmon-tipped fingers through a tangle of purple, brown, and blond.
I follow behind, glancing at the couch where Tag sits as he practices a song on his Martin.
He hardly pays me a glance. “Hey, asshole.”
“Hey,” I manage.
Annie harrumphs.
Collaborating with Tag has been an experience, to say the least. He seems inclined to despise me until his deathbed, or until I become the missing piece to his music-fueled dreams.
At this rate, I’m not sure which will happen first.
“We’re going to collab out on the deck.” Annie collects her notebook and a small clutch filled with an assortment of multicolored pens, then continues forward. “Want to join?”
“Nope.” The response is muffled through the pick between his teeth. “Have fun.”
She halts in place. “You know, in order to start a band, you need to eventually interact with your fellow band members. It’s not rocket science.”
“Noted. Thanks for the revelation.”
“I’m serious, Tag. You’re being stubborn.”
“I’m being more than reasonable.” He plucks the pick from his mouth and leans back, the picture of casual disdain. “I’ve already surrendered to your misguided vision. He’s standing in my living room. Pretty sure that counts as my contribution.”
She shakes her head, frustration radiating off her. “You’re only holding yourself back.”
“I’ll take my chances. Enjoy your little rendezvous.” With that, Tag scoops up his guitar and sweeps past us, disappearing into the basement.
I rub my forehead, a dull headache simmering behind my eyes.
Annie slumps, defeat creeping into her expression as she fiddles with the baggy sleeves of her tea-rose sweater. “Sorry. I promise, one of these days—”
“It’s fine. I get it.” I push my bangs aside. “He has every reason to hate me.”
“He’s being irrational. He’s seen you play, sing, write. You belong here.”
“I put his little sister in a compromising position. Could have gotten her killed,” I remind her, as if she needs reminding. She doesn’t. She just forgives too easily. “That’s not irrational. That’s love.”
Her eyes flare.
But it’s only a brief pause before she shakes off whatever trace of understanding seeped through, clenches her jaw, and continues to the deck. “I already grabbed an acoustic for you. I was thinking we could work on new material tonight. I made some notes.”
“Sounds good.”
I still don’t have my own acoustic.
Every last cent has been put toward keeping myself afloat, caring for Toaster, and investing in the tools needed to bring my guitar business to life. I sold another one last week: a sleek, midnight-black custom build with an asymmetrical body, gold hardware, and a fretboard inlaid with mother-of-pearl constellations. It sold for just under fifteen hundred dollars, which was double what the last one went for.
Similar comps tell me it undersold, but I don’t have the name to back up those prices yet. No credentials, no reputation. Just an obscene amount of drive and a craft I’m sharpening every day.
Annie collapses onto a wicker rocking chair while I take the seat beside her.
