It starts actually ringing, which means Diane has escalated from “annoyed” to “about to say something I’ll regret.” I silence it and go back to my guitar.
The thing about writing music is that it requires a certain amount of denial. You have to pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. You have to believe, at least temporarily, that nothing matters except the next chord, the next line, the way the melody rises and falls like breathing.
My phone lights up six more times in the next ten minutes.
Denial is getting harder.
I’m about to cave and check my messages when I hear the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. Dean’s truck appears around the bend, Rex’s golden head hanging out the passenger window like a furry hood ornament.
The truck parks, and Rex bounds out before Dean even opens the door, making a beeline for me like we’re long-lost friends reunitingafter war.
“Down,” I say, which Rex interprets as “please put your sandy paws directly on my clean shirt.”
“He missed you,” Dean says, climbing the porch steps with two paper cups from Twin Waves Brewing. He hands me one. “Michelle says hi. Also, she says you looked ‘disgustingly happy’ yesterday, and she wants details.”
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Since when?”
“Since it’s Delilah, and I’m not screwing this up.”
Dean settles into the rocking chair beside me, stretching his legs out with a groan that sounds older than his fifty-two years. Rex has given up on me and is now investigating a very suspicious patch of porch with intense dedication.
“So,” Dean says. “You’re writing again.”
“I’m writing again.”
“Songs about Delilah?”
“Songs about…hope, possibility, second chances.”
“So, songs about Delilah.”
I take a sip of coffee instead of answering.
Dean grins—the same one he’s been giving me since I was twelve and he caught me practicing kissing on my pillow. Being older by fifteen years means Dean has witnessed everyembarrassing moment of my adolescence and has never once let me forget any of them.
“Play me something,” he says.
“It’s not finished.”
“Play me the unfinished thing.”
“It’s rough.”
“Levi.”
I sigh, adjust my guitar, and play the first verse.
When I finish, Dean is quiet for a long moment. Rex has given up on the suspicious patch and is now sprawled at our feet, snoring lightly.
“That’s not bad,” Dean finally says.
“High praise.”
“I’m serious. It’s different from your other stuff. Warmer.” He pauses. “Less like you’re auditioning for a sad-boy documentary.”
“My last album was not sad-boy?—”
