It’s official.

This time I am grouchy and sour.

I’m a lemon at Miller’s place on Sunday afternoon, three hours post-pummeling, as we run through a rehearsal for our appearance at the Town Hall next week. It’s a good gig, and we sold out in ten minutes.

I should be excited.

I mean, I am excited.

Fuck. I’m not excited at all.

I’m devastated.

But I’m doing my best to cruise through our tunes. These are my brothers, as well as my bandmates, and I can’t let them down because my heart has been slivered and fed to a sewer rat.

Miller stops playing the piano and raises his voice. “Dude. You just need to go for it the same way you went for it with us.”

I furrow my brow. “The song? I didn’t think I was playing it badly.”

“No. The woman,” Miller says, exasperated. “Obviously, you’re in a funk about Roxy.” He taps out a few notes on his piano. “When a guy is in a funk, it’s about a girl, because it’s always about a girl.”

“Is it?” I ask as I keep pace on the guitar with Miller’s impromptu riff.

“It’s always about a girl,” Campbell seconds, joining in on his guitar too.

More notes fly from Miller’s Steinway, and his voice kicks into singing gear. “But have you told her? Because when it’s about a girl, you need to tell her.” His eyebrows wiggle, and he stops to talk. “Damn. That’s a good line, and this is going to be a good song. We need to write a song right now called ‘About a Girl.’”

“Yes,” Campbell shouts triumphantly, then slides into singing, riffing on the fly. “It’s always about a girl.”

Miller goes next, crooning, “And you just need to tell her.”

I hold up a hand. “Wait. What does me needing to tell her something have to do with how I went for it with you two schmoes?”

Miller keeps tickling the ivories. “Need I remind you that at the ripe old age of sixteen, you told us you wanted into the Heartbreakers and you weren’t taking no for an answer?”

I smile, in spite of my shit mood, remembering that day when I informed my older brothers I was joining their band, come hell or high water.

Campbell points the neck of his guitar at me as he continues jamming. “How about that time six or seven months ago when you showed up on New Year’s Eve and told us if we were getting back together you wanted in? No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

My smile widens, thinking about that night and picturing, too, how Roxy greeted me, wrapped her arms around me, and welcomed me home.

“When you want something, you need to lay your heart on the line,” Miller says, his fingers flying across the keys. “Don’t save your best for us. Give it to her too.”

“How do I know she wants it?”

Campbell cackles and imitates me. “How do I know she wants it?” he says, whiny and high-pitched. “You don’t know. But you do it anyway. It’s called taking a chance.”

Truer words.

Because it is usually about a girl. And I do need to take a chance.

After we jam on some possibilities for the tune, Ally returns from an outing with Chloe and Ben, and I thank her for taking care of the kids.

As Ben and I head to the door, Miller shouts to me, telling me to call Roxy and get my butt moving.

I give him a 10-4 nod then take off to feed my I’m-starving little guy. Hunger calls, and the stomachs of six-year-olds will not be denied. When we slide into a booth at the diner, my phone buzzes, and I sit up straight, hope zipping through me that it’s the woman who inspired the song.

But it’s not. It’s her brother.