Falling Under (8 page)

And then there’s the fact that I’m pretty sure both Nell and Colt saw my burn scars and knew exactly what they were. I don’t know what to do with that.
 

I’m standing in the middle of the recording room, gaping like a fish, frozen in place. Kylie comes up behind me, and I flinch at her touch on my back.
 

“Oz?” She moves around in front of me. “Are you okay?”

I shake myself out of it. “Yeah. Just…your house is pretty amazing. I’ve never been in a house this big.”

She frowns. “This? This isn’t all that big. One of my friends is the daughter of a major label exec. Now,
her
house is massive. Like, I actually got lost once. Wandered around totally lost for literally twenty minutes before I called Lin on my cell phone. She had to, like, get landmarks so she’d know where I was. It was ridiculous.”

I can’t fathom that. “I don’t know why anyone would need a house that big.”

Kylie shrugs. “You don’t. It’s totally unnecessary. Lin actually kind of hates it. She says she gets tired just walking from her bedroom to the kitchen. There’s really no point to a house that big.” She gestures at the house above us. “This? It’s only four thousand square feet. Compared to most of my friends’ houses, it’s tiny.”

I snort. “And my mom and I live in an eight-hundred-square-foot apartment. It’d fit in your kitchen.”

She seems chagrined. “Oz, I—”

I push at her arm, gently, teasingly. “Ky, it’s fine. It is what it is. We just come from different lives.”

“Not that different,” Kylie says.

“Yeah, that different. Totally different. Nothing at all alike.” I peruse the selection of guitars, admiring all of them. “Which makes me wonder. Why are you going to a community college? Why don’t you go to Vanderbilt or wherever, like Ben and your other friends?”

Kylie blushes. “I’m still technically in high school,” she mumbles.

“You’re
what
?” I demand, turning in place, choking on my own surprise. “How old are you, Kylie?’

“I’m seventeen, almost eighteen,” she says. “How old are you?”

Shit. I thought she was at least eighteen. Fuck. Not good. Not good. “I’m twenty-one,” I say. “So if you’re still technically in high school, how is it you go to the community college?”

She fiddles with the cover of the keyboard. “I tested out of most of my senior classes. I’m in a co-op that lets me attend the community college for college credit. I’ll graduate high school with more than twenty college credit-hours.”

“Damn,” I say, impressed. “So you’re wicked smart, huh?”

She shrugs. “I guess.”

“When do you turn eighteen?”

“Two months,” she mumbles. “Why does it matter?”

It matters because eighteen is on the very edge of acceptable, seeing as I’m twenty-one, but seventeen? Not so much. I don’t look twenty-one, which is probably the only reason her parents are even letting me be around her. Because we’re not really dating, I suppose. Just hanging out. Friends. Just friends.

I don’t know what to say to her, though. “It doesn’t, I suppose. I just thought you were older, is all.”

She eyes me warily. “You’re not going to suddenly vanish on me now, are you? I’ll be eighteen soon. Stop worrying about it.”

“I’m not worrying about.” Lies. I totally am worrying about it. I like her. I want to do dirty things to her. But she’s not even eighteen, not even out of high school. Fuck me, I’m an asshole.

“So, let’s play,” Kylie says, dismissing the topic.

“Okay,” I say, and grab a guitar from the rack. Not the nicest one, not the vintage Martin. That one’s probably worth more than my entire existence. I take an older one, a classical acoustic Taylor. It’s old, but beautiful. Kylie stops playing abruptly, hitting a wrong note.

“No! Not that one. That’s Mom’s favorite. Pick another one.”

There’s a Yamaha, mid-grade, basic black. “This one?”

She nods absently, lost in the music-trance. “That’s fine.” She grins at me. “You should play the Martin.”

I make a face of mock-horror. “Are you kidding? Do you even know how much that’s worth?”
 

Kylie frowns. “Obviously. But you’re not going to, like, break it, are you?”

I sigh. “Ky. I’m not playing your dad’s Martin. Those are worth thousands of dollars
used
, for a standard.
That’s
a vintage, in mint condition. Gotta be worth more than a good used car.”

“I thought you didn’t play acoustic? How do you know the value of Martins, then?”

I growl. “I don’t play acoustic. I’ve looked into it, though. Thought about it. I just haven’t been able to afford a new guitar.” I find a stool and perch on it, settle the Yamaha across my knee. “This is fine. More my speed.”

I try a basic C chord, get used to the spacing on the fret board with a few practice strums. I try a few more chords, just stringing them together without really thinking about the sound, just trying to get accustomed to the different feel of the strings, the different sound. I recall one of Nell and Colt’s older songs, try to remember the melody. Try the tune, search for the right chords. Finally, I get it, and I listen to the song in my head and try to make it come out via the guitar strings. I have to close my eyes to focus, and when I finally find the groove, I settle into it. It feels weird, but good to play like this. Slow, soft. Like I’m tapping into some other as-yet untouched portion of my musical soul.
 

When I finish the song, I open my eyes, and I’m embarrassed to see that Kylie is frozen at the piano, and Nell and Colt themselves are both in the booth, listening.
 

“Sorry, I—I was just goofing around.” I feel like I’m…imposing, or intruding on sacred territory, trying to play and probably murdering Nell and Colt’s music in their own home. What the hell was I thinking?

I set the guitar down, but Nell’s voice comes from the intercom. “Why are you apologizing? That was amazing!”

I shake my head. “Nah. I was just messing around. I’ve never played acoustic before. I just—”

“No, for real, that was
good
Oz.” This is Kylie, from the piano. “I’ve heard Mom and Dad play that live, and you got it just right on the first try. You’re seriously talented, Oz.”

I shrug, and scrape at a string with the pick. “Thanks, I guess.” I’m uncomfortable, embarrassed, and my instinct is to bolt. I want to throw the guitar down and run, fly on my bike back home. I don’t. I force myself to stay in place, and to bear up under the scrutiny. I glance at Kylie. “Play something for me.”
 

She strokes the piano keys, thinking. A glance at her parents in the booth reveals her nerves, but she sucks in a deep breath and nods. “Okay. How about…how about this. I’ve been working on this for a while. It’s ‘Freedom Hangs Like Heaven’ by Iron & Wine.”

A few beats of intro, and then she starts singing, and I’m blown away. Just…breathless. Having heard Nell and Colt, I shouldn’t be surprised that their daughter inherited their talent, but the scope of how good her voice is totally floors me. It’s got a soulful rasp to it, a la Adele, and of course she’s just absolutely pitch perfect. I steal a glance at her parents, and I can tell they’re both surprised, too, since they sit back and watch, mouths slightly ajar.
 

The piano hums as the notes fade, and Kylie looks at me for my reaction.
 

“Holy shit, Kylie. Just…holy shit.”
 

She laughs. “I guess it was okay, huh?”
 

Colt speaks from the booth. “
Okay
? Kylie, how is it I didn’t know you were that good?”

She shrugs. “I practice when you’re not here.”

“You should let me record you sometime,” Colt says.

Kylie shakes her head. “No. Not yet. Maybe once I’ve gotten a few gigs on my own.”

Nell comes around into the recording room. “You want to gig?”

Kylie lifts one shoulder, toying with the piano keys with the other. “Yeah. But I don’t want your help. I know you could get me a contract, and get me gigs, and all that. I want to do it on my own. Not because I’m your daughter.”

Nell glances at me. “Are you going to gig with her?”

I feel like my throat is clogged. “I. Um. I thought we were just doing the open mic night. I don’t know.”

Kylie frowns at me. “I told you my plan was to start with open mic night, just to get my feet wet. Now that I’ve heard you play, I know for a fact we could get a Thursday or Friday night spot somewhere off Broadway.”

“Ugh. Kylie, seriously? I don’t know.” I strum idly at the guitar. “I always saw myself in a metal band, not playing indie folk.”

“You can do both. Just do the open mic night with me. Please?”
 

I pluck my hat from my head and smooth a few wayward strands away from my face, replace the hat. “I guess. I told you I’d do the open mic night with you, so I will. But I’m not sure about the gigs. I’ve never performed in front of people before. You, and now your parents, are the only people who’ve ever heard me. And I’m dying here as it is.”

Nell pats my arm. “You’ll do fine. Just ignore the people. That’s what I did when I first started gigging. I was so scared. Ask Colt. He was there for my first gigs. I thought I’d pass out, I was so nervous. But you get used to it. Eventually, it’s fun. Although the first moment you step out on the stage? That moment never gets any less exciting, or nerve-wracking.”

“Yeah, not sure that helps much, but thanks, Mrs. Calloway.”

“My name is Nell.” She pats my arm again. “Do the open mic night. See how it feels.”

I nod, and then she and Colt disappear up the stairs. I let my inner panic show. “Kylie! Why didn’t you tell me they were there? I was butchering
their
music in
their
house.”

She just laughs. “You didn’t butcher anything. You did great. And I was so surprised by how good you are.” She plays a few notes, then glances up at me. “Are you sure you can’t sing? Have you ever tried?”
 

I shake my head. “No. And no way. I’ll play for you, but there’s no way in hell I’m singing.”

She gets up off the piano bench and circles around to stand in front of me. “Come on. Please? Just try.” She puts her hands on my shoulders, pulls me in for a hug. I’ve gotten better at hugging, she says. Her voice is a whisper in my ear. It’s tickling and hot and too much to take. I shrug away and grunt. “Just try. Please? For me?” She’s leaning into me, and it’s not just a hug. It’s too intimate for that.
 

I let her hang on me, because the only way to move her away is to take her by the waist, and that’s entering dangerous waters. Dangerous for her, that is.

“Sing what?” I say, resigned to the fact that I can’t seem to ever say no to this girl, even when it ends up with me embarrassing myself.

“Anything. Something you know. I’ll sing with you. How about something generic?” She pulls away, but not all the way. Her hands are on my shoulders, held at arm’s length. She pops one hip and thinks. “Hmm. How about…god, I don’t know. What songs do you know that I’d know?”

Fuck me. She’s really pushing this. I don’t want to sing. I don’t want to go up on stage at all. It’s not that I’m scared, I’m just…okay, you know what? I am scared. I’m just like anyone else: afraid of embarrassment and rejection. If she was pushing me to get up there on my own and rip some metal riffs, pretend I’m Joe Satriani or something, maybe. But this? Singing and playing an acoustic guitar like some coffeehouse hipster dick? Yeah, no.

But damn it, look at her, sapphire-blue eyes pleading with me, her hands on my shoulders like it ain’t no thing, like her touch isn’t making my pulse pound. Like I have a snowball’s chance in hell of saying no.
 

The problem is, I don’t know any songs well enough to actually sing—at least, none that she’d know. Except one, and I don’t want to sing that one. It’s my mom’s song. Her favorite song. The one she sings when she’s falling down drunk and whatever secret tragedy haunts her is slipping out.
 

It’s the only song I know well enough to sing.
 

I sigh. “There’s one song. ‘Come On Get Higher.’”

Squeal-and-clap, giddy, eyes bright. “Matt Nathanson!” Shit, she’s gorgeous. “I love that song!”
 

She has her phone out, and she’s scrolling, scrolling, and now it’s playing. Tinny, small, distant, playing through her phone’s speakers. The guitar comes in, and I’m listening close, trying to track the chords and the rhythm. Easy enough, seems like. Yeah, I could play this song.
 

I close my eyes, sink in, delve down. I hear my mom’s voice. She’s got a decent voice, not great, but she can hold a tune. I channel her, because that’s the only way I’ll get myself to actually sing out loud. I mean, I
do
sing, but it’s alone, in my room, the music loud enough to drown my own voice. I try not to hear myself. I just sing along with the song. I hear Kylie, ’cause how could I not? She sounds like a freaking angel over there. I can’t help hearing us, though, and goddammit we sound good. Which means I’ll have to do this in front of the whole fucking school. I’m not great, but I don’t sound like a walrus being throttled, so there’s that.
 

The song ends, and there she is, staring at me like I’m a leprechaun or something. “What?” I demand.

“Just that you’re so much more talented than you think you are.”
 

I roll my eyes at her. “I’m not talented, sweetness. I just don’t suck totally.”
 

She frowns at that. “You don’t suck at all, Oz. At anything. Why are you so down on yourself?”

I groan. “Life? Just leave it at that, okay?”

She sighs. “You know, I’m always underestimating you. You have this habit of surprising me at every turn. You sounded
good
, Oz. For real. I know music, and I know talent, okay? You can play the guitar like nobody’s business, and you have a good singing voice. And you and I together? We have
insane
harmony. And that was just us goofing off.”
 

I don’t argue with her, since it’s pointless. “Why do you need me, again? Your piano skills are sick. You could dominate all on your own.”