I felt a different sort of fluttering in my stomach, one that made me want to back away from him. Did he . . . ? Yes, I think he did. Justin Gates just checked out my boobs.
I couldn’t believe his gall. Did he honestly think he had any kind of chance with me? Crush or no crush, there were some lines I’d never cross.
“Dara?”
I jumped and looked toward my father’s voice. He stood a few feet away, a can of paint dangling from each hand, and his eyes latched onto Justin. Tobias was next to him, holding a package of paint rollers.
Justin’s smile faltered as he took in my very tall, very strong, very bearlike father. “Gotta run,” he told me, then turned and walked away before I had a chance to introduce them.
Dad wasn’t the nosy, overly interested type, so he waited until we were buckled into the truck before asking any questions.
“Who was that?”
The words sounded casual, but I detected a trace of suspicion underneath. “Justin. Aubrey’s boyfriend, remember?” Ex-boyfriend, really, but I wasn’t about to get into that.
He grunted. Dad was fond of Aubrey, but he didn’t concern himself with the details of her personal life.
“Do they kiss each other on the lips?” Tobias asked from the backseat.
I rolled my eyes. “You asked me that before, Tobes, and the answer is still none of your business.”
“Well,” Dad said, twisting around to check behind us as he pulled out of the parking spot. “Aubrey’s boyfriend or not, I can’t say I was pleased with the way he was looking at my fifteen-year-old daughter.”
Face burning, I dug out my phone and pretended to text someone so I wouldn’t have to respond.
seventeen
Senior Year
“WE HAVE TO DO SOME COVERS.”
“Dude, it’s a showcase. As in, you showcase your originals.”
“Our set is eight songs. At least half of those should be covers. Audiences like covers.”
“Audiences like good fucking songs and that’s what we play.”
“And some of the good fucking songs we play are covers.”
Kel scowls and puts down his guitar. I’m getting whiplash trying to follow this dispute between him and Hunter. So far, I’ve determined that Kel wants to play all original songs at their upcoming all-ages showcase—probably because he’s the one who wrote them—and Hunter thinks covers will go over better with the audience. I’ve also determined, after sitting in on band practice for the past two weekends in a row, that the two of them butt heads like goats every time they’re together.
“Jesus,” Corey says as he detangles himself from the cord attached to his bass. “No wonder Marco quit.”
I lean closer to Noelle, who’s sitting beside me on the couch. “Marco?” I whisper.
“The guy Ethan replaced,” she whispers back. “He didn’t get along with Kel either.”
I nod, unsurprised. Kel has an ego the size of Hunter’s drum kit.
“What do you think, E?” Kel turns to Ethan, looking for back-up. “Covers or originals?”
Ethan reaches down to flick off his amp, and my ears ring in the sudden quiet. The set they just finished was long and especially loud. Everything sounds slightly muffled now.
“I think we should open with covers, do some originals, and then close with more covers.”
Kel’s quiet for a moment, considering this, while Hunter sends Ethan a quick, exultant grin.
“You see?” Corey says to Noelle and me. “This is why it pays to have at least one really smart person in a band.”
Realizing he’s been overruled, Kel mumbles something about needing a drink of water and leaves. As soon as he’s gone, the tension hovering over the shed begins to lift.
“Guess we’re taking a break then,” Corey says, and lowers himself until he’s lying on his back on the floor beside the drums. He puts his hands behind his head and closes his eyes, like he’s sunbathing on the beach.
Hunter shrugs and emerges from behind his kit, stepping over Corey’s prone form. Noelle gets up to join him, and the two of them head outside for a smoke, even though it’s cold and raining. Julia’s not here today, so it’s just Ethan, Corey, and me left inside the shed.
Ethan sinks down beside me on the couch, his guitar still nestled in his arms. He strums it almost absently, like it’s an extension of his body he barely even notices anymore.
“When did you get this?” I ask, running my finger along the guitar’s smooth gray paint.
He looks at me, still strumming. Without power, the strings give off a soft plinking sound.
“Oh, it’s not mine,” he says. “It’s Corey’s—he just lets me use it. I almost bought a guitar like this one at the end of summer, but I went for the car instead.” He pauses to tighten one of the strings. “Maybe next year.”
I lean against the back of the couch and watch him, my limbs heavy. The electric heater in the corner pumps out warm air, and raindrops tap a steady rhythm against the small window behind us. For the first time in I don’t even know how long, I feel contented and relaxed. And guilty, of course, for giving in to the feeling.
“What’s that song?” I ask, trying to decipher the melody in the chords.
Ethan smirks. “The annoying station you listen to would never play something like this, so you probably wouldn’t know it.”
I have an urge to punch his shoulder for that remark, but my hands remain still. Our conversation on the school steps helped alleviate some of the weirdness between us, but I’m not that comfortable with him yet. Not as much as I used to be, anyway. Then again, a lot of things are different now.
“Recognize this one?” He angles his body until he’s facing me and starts a new song.
The opening chords do sound familiar, but I’m having a hard time concentrating because his knee is now pressed against mine. And neither of us is pulling away.
“I think so,” I say, forcing myself to focus on the melody. “Guns N’ Roses, right? My parents used to listen to them. When they were teenagers,” I add with extra significance. “In the eighties.”
“Are you questioning my taste in music?” He glances up at me, smiling. “Because it’s not like you have much room to judge. Just saying.”
“Well, excuse me for being current,” I shoot back. “I was born in this century.”
“Um, so was I.”
I let it go and watch the muscles and tendons shift in his left hand as he presses hard on the strings. His fingers glide across the fret board like they know it not only by feel, but also by heart. They belong there.
“Do you still play violin?” I ask, trying to ignore the way our legs are still touching and that the heat from his body is now spreading into mine.
“E plays violin?”
Startled, I look over at Corey, who hasn’t moved from the floor or made a sound the entire time we’ve been talking. I kind of forgot he was even here.
“No,” Ethan says firmly, shooting me a look like I just ruined his rock star cred or something. “I mean, not anymore. I gave it up a year and a half ago.”
“Too bad,” Corey says. “Could’ve really added something to our sound.”