“Congratulations, Kit.”
IN THE SILENCE of my own room, I collapse on my bed and wonder which one of the boys is going to come up first. Normally, I’d think it’d be Kale, but this day has been anything but normal, and frankly, Kale doesn’t seem too happy with me right now. Maybe it’ll be Bryce, if only just to ask me if I’m going to eat the rest of my garlic bread or if he can have it. Or Mason, to tell me I shouldn’t act like a baby if I don’t want to be treated like one.
When someone knocks on the door and Ryan walks in, I’m almost thankful.
“Hey,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed and patting my knee.
“Hey.”
Ryan’s usually perfectly styled bangs tumble over his forehead, a sign he probably has a haircut scheduled for tomorrow, if not for later today. “We just worry about you, you know.”
“Yeah, well, stop,” I say, sitting up and pulling my knees to my chest. My boots dig into my comforter, my expression more unyielding than I feel. “I’m not a baby anymore. I can make my own decisions.”
“You’ve been making your own decisions since you were a baby, Kit,” Ryan says with a warm laugh. “Maybe that’s why we worry so much. Ever think about that?”
I give him a look, he flicks me in the forehead, and I can’t help laughing. Our parents had us all close together, so even though Kale and I are twenty-one, Bryce is twenty-four, Mason is twenty-six, and Ryan is twenty-seven, not one of us knows how to act our age around each other. I don’t usually consider it a bad thing until it’s four against one and I’m on the losing side of an argument.
“Doesn’t it matter if I’m happy though?” I ask, and Ryan scoffs.
“Of course it does.”
“So then why does Mom keep insisting I be a music teacher?”
“Because Mom is crazy,” he answers matter-of-factly, and I find myself chuckling again.
Ryan scoots back on my bed until his back is against the wall, and he sits like that in silence until I say, “Giving this band a shot means a lot to me, and I don’t need you guys messing that up, okay? This is what I want to do with my life, Ry. You know that. This town has always been too small for me.”
“I think the whole world is too small for you.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing though.”
My challenge brings a small smile to his lips. “Didn’t say it was.” He slaps my knee and stands up, pausing only when he’s at my door. “Just promise me there’s nothing to worry about? I’ll work on the guys and keep Mason on his leash.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I echo, and I can tell Ryan doesn’t believe me, but he knows there aren’t interrogation lights in the world hot enough to make me spill my guts—not with four bossy brothers who have spent my whole life showing me the consequences of telling them anything they don’t want to hear.
“And you’re going to let me help you move?”
I give him a sincere smile. “Sure, Ry. You can help me move.”
Chapter Three
WHEN I MOVE into my new apartment a few days after Easter, all four of my brothers and my dad help move me into the new place. I insist it’s overkill and my mom silently agrees, but the men insist on meeting my new landlord—a sweet old lady who’s renting me out the finished space over her garage—and they don’t complain when she feeds them cookies and milk and croons about how handsome they all are.
My first band practice with the guys is the following week, and if I rated it on a scale of piece of cake to zombie apocalypse, I’m pretty sure everyone in the band would be eating each other’s faces.
“Kit,” Shawn says in that voice he’s been using to criticize me all damn afternoon, “seriously, how many times is it going to take you to get this song?”
In Mike’s garage on the outskirts of the city, I resist the urge to go full-on rock star and smash my guitar against the floor. I applied to be the band’s guitarist, not Shawn’s personal punching bag, but from the moment we started practice, he’s been taking my confidence and beating it up. My molars are grinding, the noise scratching at my eardrums, and I sound like one of my brothers when I growl, “Really?” I glance at Joel out of the corner of my eye and then glare back at Shawn. His words sting, but I bite. “I am the person you’re going to bitch out right now?”
“You miss your mark at the same spot every single time.”
“Your bass player is fucking hungover as shit!” I bark, the echo of my insult lost to the noise-cancelling equipment mounted on the walls. With dark circles under his eyes and his Mohawk lying in a matted mess on top of his head, Joel looks like he’s been binge drinking all damn week and picked a shitty time to stop. “How the hell am I supposed to keep a rhythm when he’s all over the damn place?”