The edges of Jason’s eyes tighten. “I don’t need any help.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Look, I didn’t mean to cut into anything. If you don’t want me here, I can leave.”
Breezing past him, I catch a whiff of fresh-smelling cologne that sends my head reeling. I reach for the doorknob to make a quick exit before I have to face my conflicting emotions, when Jason stops me with, “Let me hear what you did to the drum section.”
I point to the sheet music in Yoon Jae’s hands. “I wrote it down.”
He takes it from the drummer and studies the changes. “Do you play drums?”
“She doesn’t play any instrument,” Yoon Jae provides. “She just knows everything about music.”
“That’s not true,” I say. But I can’t help smiling at his blind confidence in me. “I only know a few things.”
“Would you be interested in helping me with a new song?” Jason asks, a grudging calmness sharpening his voice, like it physically hurts him to ask for help. “I need it finished and sent to the producers to approve before November, so a little less than two months.”
I shrug, but my pulse accelerates at the idea—piecing together music like I used to do with Nathan when Dad wasn’t around. “Maybe.”
“I would tutor you in Korean,” he offers. “I don’t take anything for free.”
“Hyung knows a lot of Korean,” Yoon Jae speaks up for him. “He just can’t read it, which is why he’s in the class.”
Jason shoots the other boy a sharp look but quickly shifts his attention back to me. We face off, and I find myself seriously considering the offer. It could be fun, even though it would mean spending a lot of time with him. But maybe Yoon Jae and Tae Hwa would stop by to break the tension. Or, I would sit alone with him, maybe in his room.
My pulse spikes again.
I suppress a cringe. I really need to rethink my priorities. Being alone with Jason anywhere means bad news. We already argue, no matter if we’ve had a few civil conversations. We are not friends. Period.
Still …
“Fine,” I say, “but only because I need a tutor.”
Yoon Jae shoots me a thumbs-up behind Jason’s back, and I smile. Maybe working with Eden will be fun after all.
*
Later in the week, I meet up with Jason in the practice room. As I’m pushing through the door with one hand, I use the other to scroll through celebrity blogs on my phone. The conversation with Yoon Jae about my dad reminded me I hadn’t checked up on the family in a while and typically, it’s easier to find info online than getting an actual email from one of my parents.
There’s nothing of note, though I did get a weird email this morning from someone claiming to be a reporter asking about an interview. I deleted it without even reading the entire thing.
When I enter the practice room, I find Jason picking at a battered acoustic guitar.
“That sounds like Bob Dylan. ‘Masters of War,’ right?” I slump into a nearby chair, putting away my phone—and my connection to everything back home.
He grunts in assent.
“It sort of surprises me that you like him,” I say.
His fingers pause over the strings, and he looks up at me over the guitar balanced on his knees. “Am I not supposed to like American music?”
“No, I just meant that your band isn’t anything like him, and people usually play the kind of music they like to listen to. But, then again, I’m getting the impression you don’t like your own music.”
He scowls, and even though he’s mentally impaling me with his eyes, it’s nice to see some human emotion in them. He’s usually so devoid of any outward feeling that I question if he’s sentient.
“There are a lot of great Korean rock bands, but I grew up listening to English music because that’s where I lived,” he says.
“Fair enough. So, are you going to tell me what you meant the first week of school about not thinking your band is any good?” I ask, perfectly aware of the rigidness of his shoulders.
“I only meant that we have room to improve,” he says, voice tight.
“No, I’m pretty sure you used the word ‘terrible.’ No one says their band is terrible unless they mean it. And since I’m about to spend a lot of time talking music with you, I’d like to at least understand your take on the status of your music.”
“You want to understand me?” he asks skeptically.
I shrug. “You. Your music. However you want to look at it. I can’t help if I don’t know anything about your music philosophy—even if I have zero interest in your personal life.”
He snorts. “Did your father teach you that technique?”
I bristle at his mention of Dad, and Jason notices. He smirks. “You don’t have a good relationship with him? Maybe he’s a little too tough on you? You know, it makes sense now, why you walk around like a princess—you are one. Your dad’s music royalty.”
Normally, princess is a positive word, but not coming out of Jason’s mouth.
“We’re not talking about me right now,” I shoot back. “How I relate to my dad is none of your business. But if you must know, yes, he did teach me that to work with a client, you need to have a handle on who they are as an artist. I’m sorry for trying to be of help to you. And, you know, if you think I’m such a princess, maybe you’d rather not work with me.” I get to my feet, ready to make a break for it.
“Wait,” he calls, just as I’m about to open the door. “I—I’m … sorry.”
I turn in time to see him grimace. Somebody’s pride doesn’t like him apologizing.
“For what?” I ask, just because I want him to suffer, to eat some humble pie.
“For offending you,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. “It was—”
“Rude?” I interrupt.
“Yes.”
“You’re right. It was.” I head back to my chair. “But you’re forgiven.”
For now, anyway.