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“What would I have said?”

“People come up, and they say, Oh, I love your band, or my cousin’s from your hometown, or I saw you perform, it was so good⁠—”

“Are you good?” She raises her eyebrows.

“I am incredible.” I shoot her a grin.

“I’ve been treating you like a student, Mr. Fox, because you are one. The fact that you’re a student who has, in his other Hannah Montana life, had several million people listen to one of his songs about”—she pretends to think, and I grimace—”what’s it about, the song, the big one?”

“It’s a serious love song.”

“I know it mentions her eyes…come to think of it, all your songs mention eyes, right? And isn’t that one about a woman who is exceptionally good at oral sex?”

Hearing oral sex in Bea’s voice gives me a semi. For one deeply unhelpful second, I imagine those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.

“Like I said. Love.” I clear my throat.

“That isn’t love.”

“You haven’t heard the deluxe version. Or had great head.” I grin at her.

She rolls her eyes. “They’re all about girls, aren’t they?”

“They are—okay, they are not all about girls. Some are about love. And peace. And home.”

“Mm.” I want to ban that from Bea’s vocabulary. She’s looking at me. Trying not to smile, but I can see the glint in her eyes.

“Which one’s your favorite?” I ask.

“What?” Her eyebrows scrunches.

“Favorite song. Of mine.”

“I don’t listen to your music.”

“Doc, come on. We both know that’s not true.” She goes faintly pink. Ha!

“My roommate listens. Sydney. She goes through phases—obsessed with something for a couple of weeks. She’s just phasing out of her your-band phase.”

“Right, I am devastated...”

“She plays your stuff getting ready. I hear it through the wall. I’ve become familiar against my will.”

“Soooo, what’s your favorite?”

“If I answer, will you drop it?”

I nod.

“Quiet Year.”

My smile slips before I can stop it.

Quiet Year isn’t a song people usually name. It’s six minutes long, mostly acoustic, buried on our first EP between two tracks the label actually promoted. I wrote it alone in a hotel room in Stockholm, during a February when I barely knew which country I was waking up in.

“Sydney likes Quiet Year?”

“Sydney likes Sun on Glass. And the dance one. And the one with all the whistling. I like Quiet Year.”