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“On your count,” I say.

“A-one, two, a-one, two, three, four.” Kash’s hair has dried into an unruly mop and it bounces over his brow as he nods in time to the beat.

Despite all attempts to the contrary, I’ve heard enough of Six String Justice’s material to know what they sound like. I guess I expected Kash to have that same polished, almost pop-country sound as his former band. But there’s a definite edge to his voice when he sings, and the way he goes from warm to raspy is remarkable. I can see why Exit 12S signed him. Country music fans are going to eat his stuff right up.

When the song ends, there’s a hopeful glow in Kash’s eyes, like he can see it all coming together and he’s happy with how it’s turning out. I’m glad, because I feel that way, too. Kash has told me about Barry’s request for a sample, and I think we can do better and have a full stripped-down song to him by the end of the week.

Soft beams of light illuminate the nook, giving it almost an otherworldly feel. My breath catches in my chest and I force myself to look away before I lose all sense of reason and start mooning over Kash’s soft, kiss-me lips or his dark, soulful eyes.

“Can we work on the harmony now?” he asks.

I nod. “I have a few ideas.”

“Let’s hear them.”

We take it from the top again, and when Kash starts singing, I layer in some hummed harmony. We’re barely through the first verse when he abruptly stops playing. My strumming hand freezes over the strings.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. I thought it was sounding pretty good, but Kash’s forehead is creased.

“I can barely hear you,” he says.

I can try to hum louder, I suppose.

I reset my fingers to the opening chord and Kash counts us in. This time, he stops playing three words in. He presses his fingers to his temple and gives me an uncertain look. “Um, do you think maybe you could sing the harmony?”

The loft grows cold and dark like a giant cloud is passing over. Every muscle in my body tenses. “I don’t sing,” I say.

Kash sits back in his chair. “You sing. I’ve heard you sing.”

That sends a spike of anxiety through me. Was Kash really pretending this whole time that he didn’t recognize me from the show?

“You were singing this song up here the other day,” he continues. “Butchered the lyrics something awful. But you were singing.”

Oh. Right. That.

I swallow over the lump in my throat. “I don’t sing in public,” I clarify.

“What? Why?” he asks with genuine surprise, as if he thinks my singing voice is something people would actually want to hear.

“I have my reasons.”

Stage fright.

Residual embarrassment.

Fear of becoming a laughingstock all over again.

Kash is probably the only person in Robertson County who has no idea that I was the worst opening act in Six String Justice’s history. That my onstage flop has given Seth Carpenter endless material for his stupid videos as he seeks his revenge over a stupid science fair. That it almost deep-sixed my dream of becoming a working songwriter. What’s even more incredible is that he was there that night. He heard me sing.

It’s so rare and strange to have someone look at me without sympathy. Without making me constantly wonder if they’re replaying my failure in their mind. I’m relieved, in this moment, that Kash has no clue. But it also feels like I’m standing under the Sword of Damocles.

I shift and the chair creaks beneath me. I should just tell him and get it out of the way. Kash’s lips part and I brace myself for another question I don’t want to answer but know that I should.

The question’s on the tip of his tongue. He leans in and I catch a hint of his cedarwood-scented bodywash.

“Okay,” he says before proceeding to scoot his chair closer to mine. “You don’t sing in public. Can you just try to hum a lot louder, then?” The chair legs scrape over the old floorboards, and his knee knocks into mine when he sits down. I expect him to shift away, but instead he leans even closer and gives me a “let’s do this” nod. “A-one, two, a-one, two, three, four.”

Track 14