I tried burying the lede, but Liam isn’t fooled. “I’m sorry about your mom,” he says softly.
“Me too,” I murmur honestly, while remembering the look on Dad’s face when he saw me play that violin for the first time. It was before a family dinner one night after my first few lessons. I was only eight, but he looked like he’d seen a ghost.
Herghost.
“Anyway. Come sit,” I command.
Liam keeps his eyes on mine as he settles on the couch, leaving a few inches between us. I pass the guitar over and he cradles it gently.
He strums across the fretboard with his thumb. I hand him my lucky pick, and he examines it.
“Beatles lyrics.”
“Got a pack of ten guitar picks off Etsy with all my favorite songs.”
Liam doles out a fond smile, like he thinks I’m cute (but decidedlynotthe childish type of cute), and I scoot another half inch away from him, thinking of Maisy.
She still doesn’t know Liam and I have been hanging out, texting. I have no clue what her reaction will be.
“I’ll show you some chords first,” I tell Liam. “And then teach you the strings.”
Focus drifts over us, a slow-moving fog. I have to applaud Liam’s commitment to learning. Eventually I move off the couch and kneel in front of him so I can watch his finger pads push against the strings. He memorizes the first few chords easily, then works on transitioning between them, strumming and smiling when he hears the change in note.
“You’re a natural,” I say, smiling too. “Look at your finger pads.” He flips them over and I point out the little indentations left behind from the guitar strings. “That’s how you know you’ve been hard at work.”
“How’dyoulearn to play this one?” he asks.
“In exchange for correctly guessing the answer to three riddles, Apollo blessed me with the gift of song.” Liam smirks. “YouTube,” I say.
His eyes light. “Show me.”
I turn on the TV and scroll over to the YouTube app, switching from Zara’s profile (which we usually use to watch bookish videos) over to mine. Guitar and piano tutorials, play-along sessions, songwriters’ courses.
“This is no messing around, Bristol.” Liam reaches down to grab the remote from my hands. Which is exactly when I realize I’m basically sitting between his legs.
He clicks play on a songwriter’s course as I move onto the couch. I blush as the video starts to play—how to believe in yourself as a songwriter,the video host announces—and snatch the remote back from him, hitting pause.
“Anyway,” I say.
Liam shifts to face me. “Can I hear?”
“The video? It’s boring, I promise.”
“No, one of your songs.”
Dead air explodes between us.
“I haven’t written any full songs.”
Liam tilts his head at me. “That’s a lie, Bristol. You just lied straight to my face.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because you made that same expression,” he says, reaching over to push at the space between my eyebrows, “when you told me you were a freshman.”
I glare. Liam smirks.
“The songs aren’t ready.”
