Pax woke from the depths of sleep to an incessant buzzing. He groggily twisted in his sheets and found the source: his phone vibrating on the nightstand.

The hell?

Half asleep, he accepted the call, squishing the phone between his pillow and his ear.

“It’s six,” Cliff said, voice rumbling to Pax’s bones.

His eyes pinged open in the milky dawn, and with it came a rush of everything that had happened the night before. Heaviness sank him deep into his undulating mattress. He groaned. Wasn’t up to facing Cliff, Luca, or the blow his bandmates had delivered. This day could disappear, for all he cared.

“I’m waiting for you at the gate.”

“You know you’re crazy right? Also, calling? You might have woken Luca.”

“I set your phone to silent. If you don’t want to wake Luca, stop arguing and get outside.”

Inwardly cursing, Pax stuffed himself into some shorts and running shoes. He was enduring this ordeal only so he could reenter the house as if he’d just returned from crashing with the band. He’d shower at Cliff’s and change into fresh clothes—easily explained as leftover clothing from his old room.

He tiptoed downstairs, hand rubbing over the banister, the duffel bag Cliff had returned slung over his shoulder.

He darted for the door, coming to a screeching halt as it opened and Luca stepped inside. They narrowly avoided colliding, and Luca let out a surprised burst of Italian.

Pax awkwardly adjusted the strap over his shoulder. He tried for a grin, but Luca was looking from him to the stairs behind him. And there it was, the rush of pity filling his eyes.

“Good, you made it home safe,” Luca said. He pointed over his shoulder. “I replaced the van battery.”

“Van. Great. I . . .” Pax searched for an excuse why he was already home. “Dammit, too early to think,” he joked. “Took a cab home. Guys couldn’t take me, because it would be unfair to the other guy they kicked out of the band. Politics, you know how it is.”

“Oh, Pax Polo. It is their loss.”

The adoring respect Luca had for him? Swirling down the drain as predicted. Now he was trying to make Pax feel better for what he was, a musician on the brink of becoming a has-been.

Worse, a friendless one.

He gestured to the door, hoping his voice didn’t crack. “I have a date with the shrew.”

Pax barely spoke two words to Cliff during their run. He hoped his steps would pound out his stupid feelings into the soft ground until he was back to his normal, carefree self.

Instead, they jarred back into him, seeming to grow in intensity.

Cliff jogged next to him the entire way, respecting Pax’s silence.

The bag he’d packed had been rendered useless, and without a word to Cliff when they returned, he snagged it off the lawn and slumped back to his house.

He spent the day sitting on the floor in his room, scribbling out lyrics. Anything to remove the inadequacy sluicing through him.

Midafternoon, Luca burst into the room.

Luca frowned, marched inside, whipped open the curtains, and lifted the window. The air was admittedly funky. “I’ve been knocking. Why didn’t you let me in?”

Pax clamped the neck of his guitar, strings tight against his hand. “I’m being dramatic.” He tilted his head back for emphasis—and so he couldn’t see the dreaded pity again. “It’s in my nature. Ignore me.”

“Well, I can’t. Neither can Cliff.”

Pax snapped his head up at Luca, who was retreating to the door. “Cliff?”

“He has his own message. I’ll let him give it to you.” With that, Luca waved at the window, slipped out of the room, and shut his door.

Luca’s footsteps faded downstairs. A soft breeze washed into the room.

A message?

He glanced in the direction Luca had waved, and caught Cliff standing at his study window with a serious expression. Always a serious expression. He wore a formfitting polo shirt and his tortoiseshell glasses. God, he was so preppy.

With his classical facial structure and toned body, he’d rock any look.

He had to know it.

Yet he seemed most comfortable dressed neatly. Hair groomed. Such a geek.

Pax . . . liked it.

“What?” Pax mouthed. Inside, his spirits stirred.

Hands against the sill, Cliff leaned forward. “You’re a rock star. I thought you’d mope in style.”

Cliff was baiting him, and Pax wasn’t immune. But immune enough. He shrugged and dropped his head back against the bed once more.

A dry laugh stretched into his room with a breeze that combed over Pax’s face, throat, and bare feet.

A sweep of fingers of the high keys on the piano had Pax imagining Cliff walking back to his desk. What? Had Cliff given up already?

He was supposed to try a little harder.

He was supposed—

Ba-ba-ba-baaam. Bo-bo-bo-booom.

The most distinct four-note opening motif in music.

In the dramatic pause that followed, Pax scrambled to his feet, hand sliding up the neck of his guitar.

Cliff sat at the piano bench, weight forward, back and shoulders straight, chest open. Centered, perfectly postured.

Like he’d played a million times.

His fingers danced dramatically over the keyboard, and Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5 wove and pounded into life. Cliff shifted his tempo, gradually, and Pax inched forward, the music pulling him. Demanding him to pay attention.

Energy leaped from the piano with enthusiasm and zest, and Pax’s spirits stopped lurking in his gut and soared to his chest.

Cliff was good.

As good as Pax.

Better, even.

He should be the one teaching Bianca. Why didn’t he?

His control over the instrument was captivating, every stroke of the key weighted correctly.

Pax gripped his guitar as the notes washed over him.

When the last note disappeared, an achingly naked silence took over. Pax stared at Cliff, who stared at his hands and the keys as if lost in the feelings the music had heaved to the surface.

Cliff had played to coax Pax. To dare him to leave his pity party. Or maybe to distract him from it. To root him in something he loved: music.

Now Cliff was the one who looked drained and defeated.

Pax lifted his guitar, positioned his fingers, and played the famous song back to Cliff, electric style.

Cliff raised his head, and watched Pax give him a show. The notes vibrated into his soul, and Pax was smiling. How could he not?

When he finished, Cliff rubbed a thoughtful hand over his jaw, then repositioned himself at the piano. He played Moonlight Sonata. Third movement.

Did he think to outplay Pax?

Oh, he had another thing coming.

Pax might be excellent on the piano, but it was nothing to his skills on strings.

Pax matched the third movement. His fingers slid and burned over the guitar as he etched another classic into his skin.

He finished and whipped his head up. Cliff’s gaze glued onto his, but his expression was frustratingly impossible for Pax to read.

Cliff smartly turned to his piano once more. They battled each other, playing Beethoven, Mozart, and Chopin.

All the pieces Pax had played as Luca.

A shiver rolled through him as their eyes once more connected, the last note lingering between them.

Cliff returned his focus to the piano, and Pax knew what song would end this competition.

The first chords of “Carol of the Bells” sounded, and Pax strummed along.

Cliff stammered on a section of notes. Curious, since he’d played every other piece so fluidly.

He stopped, stared at the piano, and looked over at Pax.

Pain flittered over Cliff’s face, and then he swallowed, placed his fingers on the keys, and started again.

Pax played in support. Softly at first, then in crescendo. Piano and electric guitar combined harmoniously, and Pax wanted to live in the sounds forever.

Cliff played beautifully, but something about it felt strained. Difficult.

Yet he pushed through, and it felt . . . courageous, somehow.

They finished, and Pax sought Cliff’s gaze one last time, but the door to the study flung open and Bianca came in, rushing at her brother. She swept her arms around his neck and he held her back.

The moment seemed personal, and while Pax had never cared for privacy in the past, he pivoted away, set his guitar on his stand, and let the siblings have their moment.

He left his room, music and spirit lightening his step.

In the living room, Luca looked up from a video game and smiled widely. No sign of pity, and even if there was, nothing would break his musical high.

“Throw me a controller. I’m ready to play.”

“Whatever message Cliff gave you,” Luca said, “looks like it worked.”

Pax’s smile split his face.