“La, la, la. I can’t hear you,” Brooklyn teased. “Oh! Look! There’s Reid. Gotta go work on music stuff!”
“WAIT!” the woman shouted.
“What? Look, I gotta go. Seriously. He’s, like, waving me down.”
“Let me see him!! Please! Just flip the camera around really quick. You can be nonchalant. Then I’ll let you do whatever you want with the money. Come on! I’m your only sister! Jack already knows I think Reid King is the hottest ever. Let me get a sneak peek. AH! I can’t even believe you’re with REID KING!”
Brooklyn stuttered, caught in her lie. “Uh… um.”
I found myself laughing silently before I realized that I was actually laughing. When was the last time I actually laughed? Like a true laugh? Shaking my head, I pulled open the door and met Brooklyn’s startled look. Her face flushed instantly, the color of it resembling the auburn color of her hair. She stared at me, and I stared right back, my cheek lifting just slightly. I put my hand out and ushered her to come closer to me. She shook her head, so I leaped over to her and, with one single snatch, grabbed the phone out of her hand.
“Hey,” I said, looking into the phone, realizing that Brooklyn was video-chatting her sister—who was an exact replica of Brooklyn, except with darker hair.
Her sister screamed, “OH MY GOD!!” before dropping the phone. Brooklyn laughed from beside me but quickly grabbed the phone back.
“Sorry! That’s all you get! Love you! Bye!” Then she hung up.
When Brooklyn finally tore her eyes away from her phone and looked at me, I raised an eyebrow. “So, who’s the bigger fan? You or your sister?”
Brooklyn scoffed. “You should know the answer to that. Definitely my sister.” I eyed her closely, knowing very well that the blush creeping along her neck meant she was lying.
I scrutinized her, enjoying the fact that she fidgeted under my stare. “I don’t believe you. I think you’re one of those closet super fans.”
She scoffed again, placing her hand over her heart. “I am not a super fan! Ugh, if anything, I’m a lesser fan.”
I leaned back onto the door, still grinning. “A lesser fan? Please enlighten me.”
She crossed her arms over her flowy, cream dress. “A lesser fan is someone who may have been a super fan at one point but, after meeting the real you, changed their mind.” A smile was hiding behind her lips. “After meeting the real Reid King—the one who acts like a child most days with those pouty scowls and temper tantrums—I changed my mind.”
I threw my head back with a loud laugh. “You’re full of shit, Teach.”
“Ugh! Am not! You’re not the nicest person—even if you did jump off a stage to rescue me.”
I turned my head toward her and winked. “I’m a real-life Superman. How could you not be a super fan?”
Her cheeks instantly turned pink, but she quickly recovered and grimaced. “Ugh! Let’s just get to work!”
I bit my lip to hide my grin as Brooklyn pushed past me, guitar in tow. I knew I was feeling a little lighter lately, and I also knew that it had nothing to do with me strumming a few tunes together and had everything to do with the person that continued to push me into doing so.
My chest grew tight as I walked through the door, trying to hold on to the thought of Angelina and my last phone call with Carissa. But it was funny how hearing Brooklyn’s voice on the other side of my door caused me to break my nightly habit of listening to Angelina’s voicemail.
I had to reel myself back in before the need for the truth escaped me all together.
???
“This sounds fucking stupid,” I spat, pushing my guitar away.
Brooklyn sighed softly from beside me, her legs crossed at the ankle with a paper and pen in her hand. “Reid, it doesn’t sound stupid. Just because you think it sounds stupid doesn’t mean other people will.”
I tore my eyes from her legs. “If I don’t feel it, then it isn’t good.”
That was how I knew my music was good. I felt it. The words that had just tumbled out of my mouth were bogus; they were only words. There was no meaning behind them. None at all.
“Just because you don’t feel something from what you just sang, doesn’t mean I didn’t.”
I paused before pulling my guitar back over, my fingers plucking over the strings with as much familiarity as a boxer putting on his boxing gloves. I played the same melody I’d been messing with for the past two nights with Brooklyn and closed my eyes, trying to tie in another line of words.
I kept playing the same harmony, but nothing else came. I was too caged up, too uncomfortable, my mind going in ten different directions, none of which were the right one.