The door opens, and Easton is there. He looks at me and smiles, and I have no idea how he does it, but I’m suddenly calm and warm inside.
“There you are,” he says.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“No big deal. We’re not in a rush.”
“I know, but I hate being late.”
He gives me a knowing grin. “Yes, I remember.”
Of course. After all, I told him.
“Come on in.”
He steps aside and takes my jacket, and my heart leaps with excitement as I enter the hallway and then the living room. The interior of the house is a little shabby, with wallpaper peeling in places and a wooden floor that’s old and scuffed, but it’s cozy and filled with music.
I recognize the sound of “Smile Again” by blackbear coming from the large speakers in the living room, and I can’t help butsmile because I sent Easton that song last June. Just for a second, I imagine he put the song on for me, but I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.
Atop a fluffy beige rug sits a huge dark brown sofa with a seat so wide that two people could easily lie down next to each other. To the right of the couch is a small coffee table. One wall is covered by a tall bookcase, which contains hardly any books but mostly records. Easton has already told me which records he has, but I know that at some point I’ll stand in front of that bookcase and flip through every single one of them.
The room is dominated by the band’s instruments and equipment. Jax’s drums, the other guys’ guitars, and the piano Jax plays when they’re practicing acoustically. On the walls behind the instruments are various band posters, neatly arranged in black frames. I see one of Dad’s tour posters in the middle and quickly look away, because my heart immediately starts to ache.
Strings of lights are attached to the shelves and windows, and the tiny bulbs fill the room with a soft glow. The whole room exudes a warm coziness that takes my breath away for a moment. This feels like a real home. Like my old home.
“The fairy lights and candles are Willow’s contribution,” he says.
“It’s nice here.”
“We put a lot of effort into renovating this room.”
He’s standing in the doorway, hands buried in his pockets. “I can see that,” I tell him.
We go silent for a moment, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. More... thoughtful.
“Will you show me your room?” I ask, not quite sure why. But Ireally want to see the part of the house that belongs only to Easton. Maybe I also want to avoid meeting his sister and his friends, even though he already said the guys wouldn’t be here tonight. Who knows when they’ll be back.
“Sure,” he says, sounding so surprised that I immediately backtrack when I realize how it might have sounded.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Sorry, that was a dumb idea.” Heat rises to my cheeks. God, what was I thinking? That was totally rude. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to interact with other people normally. Withfriends.
“No, it’s not. I’d love to show you my room. Come on.”
My face is burning, and part of me wants to run away again, but this time I resist the damn escape reflex and follow him upstairs. One flight up to the second floor and another, much narrower one to the attic. I don’t know what his old room looked like, but I’ve already fallen in love with this new one thanks to a photo he sent me last fall. It was one of those moments when I wanted to answer but couldn’t bring myself to do it.
The ceiling is low, just high enough for Easton to stand upright. Under the slope of the roof are his bed and a small table. Opposite those sit a couple of low dressers. There’s no closet, but there are two large beanbag chairs. Directly across from the door are an acoustic guitar and an electric keyboard. I can’t help thinking about him sitting at the grand piano in the studio this morning, his fingers dancing across the keys. Maybe I’ll ask him to play something for me later.
The main reason I wanted to see his room, though, is the walls. His are dark blue, not black like mine used to be, but something about them feels familiar. He’s also written all over them in white.His handwriting is messy. I can’t make out the words from a distance, but I’m sure they must be song lyrics and thoughts. Just like mine.
I walk carefully across the room, acutely aware that I’m in his private inner sanctum. It almost feels like I’m inside his head, and he willingly let me in. I stop in front of the keyboard on the low stool and press a key. A low sound rings out, and I’m not at all surprised that it’s turned on.
“I like your room,” I say quietly.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he answers.
“I have so many things to tell you.” Nervously, I push a strand of hair behind my ear. The time has come; I have to tell him. “My silence... It had nothing to do with you. It was just about who I am, and who my parents are—”
“You don’t have to say it,” he interrupts me gently. His voice is so soft and warm.
