I inspect the case, noticing tiny cracks where the wood split. I open the lid, and the ballerina dog inside starts todance.
It’s almost as good asnew.
“Where’s the music?” Iask.
He rubs a hand over his neck, the most fleeting and un-Tyler-like display of uncertainty I almost miss it. “I figured you’d rather make yourown.”
My chest expands so much I can’t breathe, can’t evenspeak.
Yes, I’d rather make my own. The fact that it even occurred to him has my heart thudding in mychest.
“If that’s too cheesy,” he goes on, “Ican—“
“No. It’sperfect.”
“Fine. Let’s go.” It must be my imagination that has his voice sounding rougher than before as he jerks his chin down the hall. “You said you want to kill the musical. You said the problem’s Carly, but if you get more confident in your own craft, rehearsal will go smoother no matter what she does. You’re getting better, but there’re some things we can workon.”
I trail him down the hall and out the side door of the house, stopping to grab flip-flops in the hall. “You’ve beenlistening.”
“Can’t help it when your window’s open. Sometimes I see youtoo.”
He turns back to look at me in the garage to see if I’m coming, but I’m frozen in thedoorway.
“Come on, Annie. I won’t tell Brandon you get off to him every night if that’s what you’re worriedabout.”
Tyler cocks his head, grinning, and that spurs me intomotion.
I chase after him, shove him with every inch of strength I possess. “You’re full ofshit.”
His laughter should be annoying, but I love the sound of it as I follow him down to the renovated tour bus in thedriveway.
Inside, a glass door separates the studio from the couches in the lounge area, and Tyler lifts the guitar over his head as he drops onto one of thecouches.
“Ryan’s right. You do need a new guitar.” I drop onto the seat across from him, shifting forward to trace a finger across the body of his instrument. The wood is cheap to begin with, and it’s bangedup.
“Yeah, well, they don't exactly grow ontrees.”
I blink up at him. “They do. They'rewood.”
“Smart-ass.” The slow smile that stretches across his gorgeous face is one more reminder something has changed since yesterday when he turned medown.
He’s cautiously open. Carefullyreceptive.
“First guitar I ever played was my dad’s,” he goes on. “Did I tell youthat?”
I shake my head, trying not to look as if I’m living for what he saysnext.
He starts to play, fingers moving over the strings like it’s a dance he’s done a thousand times. “He wanted to make a career of it. He had a band, used to play local gigs outside of work, odd jobs mostly. He had trouble holding one down, but he did land a gig cleaning at Wicked for a few months. Hell, he even met your dad once when I was too young toremember.”
I’m not listening to his playing anymore, I’m too focused on his words. “Wow. Does Dad rememberhim?”
His thoughtful expression turns flat. “I wouldn’t be here if hedidn’t.”
I start to press, but Tyler stops playing, cutting off the sound before rapping his knuckles lightly on the body of hisguitar.
“So, here’s the thing,” he begins. “If you’re gonna stand on that stage, you need to know you’re enough. Don’t worry about what you’re making them feel—think about what you’re creating. What happens after you make it is none of your business. What happens before that is your onlyjob.
“You can hide nerves when you’re playing an instrument with your hands. When it’s your breath, that doesn’t work.” He runs a hand through his hair, making his biceps jump under the T-shirt. “How much do you know about resonance? Reverb?Timbre?”