My apartment felt empty without Sara in it. One night apart was too long.

I woke up to the baby voice Trevor used when he spoke to Kitty.

“Is your daddy awake yet? No? Then he hasn’t heard our good news, has he, girl?”

“The good news better not be that I can sleep in this morning.”

He came into my bedroom and sat down near my feet. “Dude, I called you, like, ten times last night. Didn’t you notice?”

“I noticed. Ironically, times like these remind me why I don’t return your calls.”

He ignored my dig. “Did you also notice that Doug called, too? Do you know why he called, and then I called?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me whether I do or not.”

He grabbed my leg and shook it. “Some guy from Moguli Music reached out to Doug about us, Declan!”

I lifted my head. Moguli Music was a sub-label of one of the big three. “Seriously?”

“No, I’m lying. That’s why I called you so many times last night—to lie to your voice mail.”

I rubbed my eyes as I sat up. “Moguli would be perfect for Self Defense.” Signing with them would change everything.

As I got ready for basketball, I found myself getting caught up in Trevor’s excitement, imagining all the things we’d do once—not if—we signed with Moguli. Until we got to the courts, I didn’t even remember that wasn’t what I wanted for myself. My plan was to stick with the band until we got a contract, one that wasn’t contingent on me being front man forever. Then, once I knew the guys would be okay, I’d help find them someone to replace me, so I could leave.

For the rest of our practice, both of us were grinning like idiots, only our endgames being different.

---

That afternoon, Sara called and asked if she could come by my place after work. As if I was going to say no. Then she refused my offer to take her out to dinner, saying she preferred the intimacy of it just being the two of us. As if I was going to say no to that either.

I spent the rest of the day wishing I had Emilia’s number so I could call and beg her to let Sara go early. Actually, it was probably healthier for everyone that I didn’t have her number.

Sara arrived at around five thirty, just as I finished unpacking an extremely large bag of the city’s best Japanese takeout.

“Are the guys joining us for dinner?” she said with a hint of disappointment.

“Hell no.” I set down chopsticks and forks on the table, not knowing what she used. “I didn’t know what you like, so I got a bit of everything.”

“Cool. So this is a ‘get to know each other’ dinner.” With wide eyes, she opened the containers one by one, telling me what she liked and what she didn’t. The theme continued for the rest of the evening—she’d tell me something about herself, and then I’d follow suit. No topic was off-limits. Neither one of us confessed to anything too traumatic, but we didn’t hesitate to answer even the more serious questions.

She packed up the leftovers while I did the dishes and cleaned off the table. Kitty took care of anything that had fallen onto the floor.

Sara rubbed her head. “She’s handy to have around, isn’t she?

“Kitty’s good at a lot of stuff. But mostly she’s a great listener. She loves my guitar, too. Every time I take it off the wall, she gets excited. How’s that for positive reinforcement?”

“Maybe she just senses that it makes you happy.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Before meeting Sara, my dog and my guitar were the only things that always made me happy. And sometimes, it was as if Kitty knew how I felt before I did. When I was happy, she wagged her tail, and occasionally even sang along. When I was sad, she sat at or on my feet, set her chin on my knee, and looked up at me with her sad puppy-dog eyes.

I fucking adored that dog.

I sat close to Sara on the couch. “Hmm… I don’t think this is going to work.”

“What isn’t?”

Is it wrong I loved the look of disappointment on her face? Like she’d taken my comment as a dismissal of us instead of just that we switch spots?

“I can’t play on this side.” I tilted the guitar and showed her how the arm hit the side of the couch. “We need to change places. Unless…” I smirked and put my hand on her leg to stop her from standing.

“Unless what?” This time, her expression was wary—still cute as hell, but definitely not as satisfying as her misplaced disappointment.

I took the strap off my shoulder and set the guitar on her lap. “Unless I teach you how to play.”

Her smile was ear-to-ear. “I’ve never even held one.”

“No problem,” I said, slipping the strap over her head. “I’m a good teacher.”

“You’re going to regret this.”

“Well, I already know you have a good grip, impeccable rhythm, and know how to play with my equipment.” I winked, remembering how she’d proven that to me every time we were horizontal. “This will be easy.” I took her hand and placed each of her fingers on a string. Her small fingers could barely reach all of them. “This is E-minor. Give the strings a strum with your other hand.”

It was weak, and she didn’t hit them all with equal pressure, so it didn’t sound great. But even so, she squealed, glancing at me with huge eyes and an even bigger smile before strumming again.

“Better already. I’m an amazing teacher.”

She laughed and tried it again. “Incredible.”

I’d like to think the compliment was directed at me, but she was staring at the guitar. “Teach me another.”

I showed her one more—D—and then had her switch back and forth between the two a few times. She tightened her brow, and the tiniest part of her tongue stuck out of her mouth as she concentrated on switching her fingers from placement to placement.

“E-minor...D...E-minor...D,” I said slowly as I helped her get the fingering right.

I think I fell in love a little when I heard her mumble the chorus to the song.

“Break on…”—move fingers—“…through…”—back to E-minor—“to the other…”

She cursed when her finger slipped, and the D went sharp. But she got it right the next time.

“Side,” she said, her volume matching the chord’s. “Break on…through…to the other…side.”

I sat back against the couch, my work done, and watched her go through more of the Doors’ song.

When her fingers got confused, she stopped and looked at me. “So, is this our song now?”

“It’s one of the songs you were singing at the karaoke bar the first time I saw you, and it’s the first song you learned how to play, so I guess it could qualify as ours.”

“I can’t believe there are only two notes in it.”

“Well, the vocals are more complicated, but the guitar part is pretty simple.”

She took off the strap and handed the guitar to me. “It’s tough on the hands, isn’t it?” She shook hers out. “Play me something pretty. Something you wrote.”

I took a breath, wondering if it would be too sappy to play the song I’d written about her. “Well, there is something I’ve been working on recently. It’s just a chorus right now, but…”

“Just play it already, Mr. Defense.”

“Okay. It’s just something I’m playing around with, so don’t expect anything magical.” She’d never know it was meant for her anyway.

The intro was quiet but complicated and took a lot of hand dexterity, each note plucked individually. I glanced up at her halfway through, proud I could make her smile like that. Honored that she liked her song.

“Reflection… Can’t see it. Direction… Turn away from myself…”

I stopped playing and sat back on the couch, letting the guitar rest on my thighs. “And then I repeat some stuff, and it goes on from there.”

“You’re a liar.”

I looked at her, offended. “What do you mean?”

“That was totally magical,” she said, smiling. “I don’t understand how you do that—make music and write poetry. I can barely walk and drink a latte without falling over.”

Embarrassed, I shrugged. “That might be something you should master. It could come in handy sometime.”

She hit me on the shoulder and then laid her head against the spot. “Yeah, well, you should work on how to take a compliment. I think it’ll come in handy a lot.”

“Thank you,” I said after kissing the top of her head. “Writing music comes easy for me. Sharing it doesn’t. Especially the personal stuff. That’s why the band doesn’t perform many ballads—gotta keep up the appearance of being an uncaring bad boy musician, you know.” My favorite songs I’d written solely for myself. It felt wrong to lay my shit on other people. Wrong and fucking depressing. I wasn’t Adele—I couldn’t pull off that kind of shit.

“You do the bad-boy thing really well onstage, but if you ever want it to work when you’re not performing, the uncaring part needs serious help.”

“Yeah, I know. I suck. It’s terrible.”

“Actually, your sucking is amazing.” She smacked herself in the face, trying to cover her mouth. I guess she was embarrassed by the comment. I was flattered. And completely falling for her.

“Listen, I’ve been thinking about something,” I said. “I want to get a good recording of this song—nothing formal, just do it on my computer. But I need your help to write it.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Well, if you help me finish it, I’ll let you come to my next gig and hang out with the other groupies. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get really lucky and be invited backstage to meet the band.”

“Gee, thanks.” This time she smacked me.

I set down my guitar and pulled her into my lap. “Actually, I need you to be there.” I explained how big a deal it was that Moguli Music had contacted Doug. “If Self Defense signs with them, and I know my leaving won’t screw over the guys, I’ll be free. I might keep writing music for them, but no touring or promotion.”

“So, basically, you’d be able to do what you love doing and not do what you hate? That’s incredible!” She threw her arms around me.

“But the real reason I need you there is because I’m going to need all the emotional support I can get. I’ve been lying to them for years, and I need to tell them the truth. Finally.” I hated lying, but it had always seemed preferable to making the guys angry or self-destructive. And nobody could do self-destructive better than Trevor. All it took to remind me was a bottle of tequila or a bottle of pills.

“I’d tell you that you have nothing to worry about, but I know you’d never believe me.” Sara squeezed me tighter. “So, I will absolutely, one hundred percent be there.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”