Ethan shakes his head and lifts his guitar, propping it carefully against the wall next to the couch. He stretches his fingers like Aubrey used to do after a particularly long solo.
“Is that painful?” I ask, nodding toward his left hand. His fingertips are pink and slightly dented from the strings.
“Not anymore. The skin is tough as leather there. Feel.”
I lean over and run my own, softer fingertip over his callused ones. As I do this, our shoulders graze and my hair tumbles forward, brushing against his chest. Did the tempo of his breathing just accelerate, or am I imagining it?
“Leather,” I agree, pulling back quickly.
The door flies open, making us both jump. Kel walks in, followed by Hunter and Noelle . . . and Lacey. She runs a hand through her rain-damp hair as she takes in the scene in front of her. Her eyes lock on Ethan and me, sitting close together on the couch. Before I can even stand up and offer her my spot, she strides over and plops down in his lap, her calves pushing into my knee. I move over until she’s no longer touching me.
God, I think as she winds her arms around Ethan’s neck and acknowledges me with a friendly-yet-territorial smile. Why doesn’t she just pee on him?
“Hey, guys, guess what?” Corey says as he scrambles to an upright position. “E plays violin.”
“Played,” Ethan corrects. “And I wasn’t even very good.”
I stifle a laugh. He took lessons for years and scored second chair in orchestra his freshman year. Even though he never had a passion for it, he was better than good. Musical talent runs through his veins, just like it ran through Aubrey’s.
“You never told me that, babe,” Lacey says in a pouty tone.
He shrugs and glances at me, embarrassed. It hits me then—he’s hiding his past from these people, or at least editing it. Hunter knows almost everything because he’s lived here for years and goes to school with us, but the rest of them—with the exception of Noelle—live in a different town. They must know about Aubrey, but only in a vague sense, and they obviously have no clue what Ethan was like before.
“We practicing or what?” Kel says gruffly as he adjusts his mic on the stand. He’s still not over the whole originals-versus-covers debate, apparently.
Lacey groans and tightens her grip on Ethan, like she dreads the thought of turning him back over to the band. I can’t help but notice he doesn’t seem to feel quite as possessive over her. His grip on her waist is much looser, more obligatory than natural. I remember what he said about her, that she’s shallow and always late and has an annoying knuckle-cracking habit. And despite being pretty and normal and tiny enough to sit on his lap without crushing him, she’s just “okay.”
Lacey slides off him, finally, and he catches my eye again as he gets up and grabs his guitar. I hold his gaze for a second before looking away. The weirdness is back again, wedging into the space between us, and the comfortable, playful vibe from a few minutes ago is gone.
Now feels like the perfect time to make my exit. I mumble an excuse about my mother needing me at home and get up to leave.
“Wait.” Ethan sets his guitar down again, this time on its stand. “It’s raining out. I’ll drive you home.”
Kel shoots him an annoyed look. “But we’re just about to—”
“She lives like four streets away. It’ll take five minutes.” He glances at Lacey, whose mouth turns down into a disapproving frown. “Be right back,” he says to the room, and motions for me to go ahead of him to the door.
I say good-bye to everyone and, ignoring the perceptive glint in Noelle’s eyes, step out into the chilly rain with Ethan.
“Thanks,” I say once we’re safe in the car. “You didn’t need to ditch practice to take me home.”
He shakes some raindrops off his bare arms and starts the car. He immediately spins the heat dial to full and we both shiver as cool air blasts out of the vents, followed gradually by warmth.
“I don’t mind,” he says. “Needed a little fresh air anyway.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t. He doesn’t elaborate either, so we spend the rest of the two-minute drive in silence.
“Thanks,” I say again once we’re parked several feet down from my house. Both my parents’ vehicles are in the driveway, but Ethan’s car is half obscured by our neighbor’s bushes so I doubt my family would see us even if one of them did happen to look out the front window.
Ethan nods, staring straight ahead. His hands tense on the steering wheel like he’s trying to strangle it to death, and I’m about to ask him if he’s okay when he lets go and reaches for me, pulling me against his chest in a rib-crushing hug.
I can’t speak. I can’t move. He’s solid and warm and he smells so familiar, like his house on laundry day. Like Aubrey’s room. My eyes well with tears and my arms ache to circle his torso and hug him back, but they don’t move from my sides. They’re paralyzed. I’m paralyzed.
“Sorry.” He drops his arms and pulls away, looking everywhere but at me. My heart constricts when I realize why—his eyes are wet too.
“It’s okay.” My fingers grope for the door handle. “Um, I should probably go in. Thanks for the ride.”
“Sure.”
I manage to get out of the car and shut the door without looking at him once. My legs feel weak and shaky as I walk up the driveway to my front door. What the hell just happened? I can’t even remember the last time Ethan hugged me. Maybe when he was about eleven, before he started acting shy around me.
My brain is so muddled as I enter the house, it takes me several moments to notice my parents. They’re in the living room, sitting side-by-side on the couch and watching me.
Shit.
I quickly blink the tears out of my eyes and wipe them on my sleeve before facing them. Mom looks concerned and Dad’s expression is downright stony.
“Dara,” Mom says. “Come in here and sit down, okay?”
It’s not a suggestion; it’s an order. Legs still trembling, I go in and perch on the edge of Dad’s recliner. They both study me, taking in my red eyes and undoubtedly pink face. I must look like I just endured a traumatic event. Which I sort of did, if unexpected hugs from your dead best friend’s little brother count as traumatic.
“What did I do?” I ask, even though I know by now they saw me outside with Ethan. They were probably watching for me, checking to see how I got home after being gone for hours with Noelle or at the library or whatever fabricated story I told them before leaving the house earlier.
“Where have you been all afternoon?” Mom’s tone is careful, curious. She’s going to do the interrogation, obviously. It’s always been like that. Mom asks the questions and doles out the punishments while Dad stands quietly beside her, backing her up and occasionally acting as the peacemaker. Only now, instead of looking like he feels sorry for me, it seems like he wants to yell at me, but is afraid to start because he might never stop.
Screw it. May as well give him a reason.
“I was over on Cambridge Drive, listening to Ethan’s band practice.”
The worry wrinkle appears between Mom’s eyes. “Ethan is in a band?”