Annie:Hi. Sorry to bother you, but can you pick me up from the café? Please. Thank you.
Annie:So sorry.
Annie asked me to bring Toaster over tonight, and I did.
While he’s been thrilled by the new scenery, his real joy is Annie. He shadows her every step, settles at her feet, curls up against her hip. Soaks up every belly scratch and butt rub like they’re the highlights of his life.
Seems to be her highlight too.
She told me these midnight meetings were the only part of her day she looks forward to, and I’m not sure if that’s a shot of hope to my blood or the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.
Tag watches me reflect, and the steady, potent look in his eyes makes me feel itchy and out of place. I clear my throat. “Is that supposed to be encouragement or a warning?”
“Take it how you want.”
I reach for my drink, needing the distraction, the liquid burn. “Told you,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “I’m here for the music.”
A dismissive huff. “Just because I don’t participate in your la-la-land adventures doesn’t mean I don’t see it. I know my sister. She likes you.”
The can pauses before it reaches my lips.
Those words shouldn’t affect me, shouldn’t have my hand curling around the aluminum like a vise around my heart. But they do. Because he’s not wrong.
There’s something unspoken thrumming between us with every look, every pen to page, every guilty glow that washes over her eyes when my voice pitches with falsetto or rumbles with vibrato. She’ll never admit it. I don’t think she even understands it.
But I feel it. This foreign thing taking root.
The knowing look on Tag’s face lingers, though he doesn’t press the matter. He just nods at the guitar in my lap and changes the subject. “New song?”
His question pulls me from my cluttered mind. “Uh, yeah. Something Annalise was working on.”
“Let me hear.”
“It’s not finished. She only wrote a verse, and I added a little to the pre-chorus, but—”
“Play it.”
Sighing, I glance at the window again as Annie presses forward on the sink, the water still running, her eyes trained on the steady stream. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
“All right.” I straighten in the chair and press the pick to the strings.
The first chord hums a low, drawn-out note. My fingers find their place, the melody unraveling, unpolished. Annie’s words come first, the ones she scribbled onto a dirty napkin like they weren’t ripping her open. I keep my voice controlled, but it’s impossible not to feel the weight, the muted heartache tangled in every syllable.
Through the window, she hasn’t budged. Just stands there, gaze locked on the running faucet, lost in something I wholly understand.
The pre-chorus fades into nothingness. A premature ending.
Tag doesn’t say anything for a while, just plucks a few strings as he tunes the neck. “It’s good,” he finally murmurs. “I question my sister’s instincts on the daily, but she’s not wrong about you. You can fucking sing.”
“Thanks.” The compliment hits different, coming from him. From this guy who has little to compliment me about.
“You’ve got that…thing.” He waves his hand around, cool and casual, like he recognizes something he doesn’t want to name. “Whatever you want to call it.”
Interesting.
I’m debating a response when the patio door slides open.
Toaster darts out first, while Annie slowly shuffles behind, her bare feet smacking against the wood planks. She pauses beside my chair, a big smile bringing light to her face. “Are you two finally bonding out here?”
