I actually sputter. “What?! No!”
He leans back and belly-laughs with his giant hands resting on his stomach. “Got your goat,” he says.
“Leave my goat alone,” I grumble.
“Don’t make it so easy to catch, then,” he says. His dreads are half in his face.
“Also, you shouldn’t flirt with me. I’m not one of your groupies.”
He does the single-eyebrow-raise thing. “Who says I’m flirting?”
“My flirt-detection meter,” I say.
He leans forward. “Where do you get one of those?”
“Same place I got my bullshit-detection meter,” I say, leaning back into my seat.
Another belly laugh from him. “You’re funny,” he says.
“I bet you flirt with everyone,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Not everyone.”
I persist. “But you flirt a lot, right?”
“I like girls,” he says. He turns the vase centerpiece idly with his long fingers. “I especially like the smart, pretty, snarky, slightly confusing ones.”
“Too bad there aren’t any of those around,” I say.
Then I remind myself that he’s probably had no less than ten thousand girlfriends. I wonder if he’s ever loved any of them, if he’s ever had his heart broken. I know for sure he broke Jess’s heart while cycling my bike around studio five.
Like I should’ve done several sentences ago, I change the subject. “What was that last song you played? The one that’s not finished yet?”
Before he can answer, the waitress drops off our food. Chicken and waffles for him. Waffle with berries for me.
He bites into his chicken. “Damn, that’s good.” He devours it in about two minutes flat. “Sorry,” he says, leaning back and wiping his hands. “Being onstage makes me hungry.” He watches me construct the perfect forkful of waffle, strawberry syrup and whipped cream.
I pull my plate in closer. “Don’t even look at my food,” I warn him.
“Don’t worry, I’m good now,” he says, leaning back. “The last song was ‘Black Box.’ ”
“What’s it about?”
“A lot of things. But mostly my pops. We used to be close, but things have been messed up with us since Clay died. I don’t see the world the same way I used to, and now it’s like we can’t understand each other anymore.” His voice is a mixture of regret and confusion and anger.
“What happened?”
“We don’t agree on the direction of my future,” he says, using a deep, imperious voice, like a judge pronouncing a verdict.
I take a guess. “He doesn’t want you to be a musician.”
“He says it’s fine for a hobby.” He picks up his fork, drags it across his plate and then puts it back down. “The messed-up thing is,he’sthe one who got me my first guitar.Hegave me my first lessons. We even had our own band when I was little.”
“You did?” I picture a younger version of X, which is basically the same as this version of X except shorter and rounder and with smaller hands.
“We called ourselves the WoodsMen. Get it? Because my last name is—”
I interrupt him. “Xavier Woods, I’m not an idiot.”
