“I’d flip the pages of paperback books just to listen to the fluttering sound. I’d fill glasses at varying levels and hit the sides with spoons. I’d force Jack to jump on different floorboards in my dad’s ancient apartment just to hear the sounds while I strummed utensils along the metal spines of notebooks. Well, one day while Dad was at work, Jack and I came up with a whole routine.”

I smiled down at my hat, thinking about our ridiculous song.

“I’d recorded a song on the Casio so it was ready for playback. As soon as I hit the button, Jack lightly clapped his hands.” I clapped my hands lightly. “Then as he’d build to a louder clap, I’d blow air over a half-filled beer bottle. I didn’t drink it,” I added, and the kids chuckled. “Then I would tap a spoon against Dad’s pizza pan.

“After exactly two minutes of clapping, Jack would start jumping on the one floorboard we discovered had a sharp-pitched creak.” I tried to copy the sound out loud, but it came across as a mating dolphin, and the kids winced.

“And then we’d do it louder and faster, until my cheeks hurt, and I knew Jack’s thigh was aching. Then, at just the right moment, we’d stop and let the piano music take over. It was beautiful and complicated, you know?”

A few of the kids shook their heads, not following my train of thought.

“It was complicated because it was hard. The process of arranging the sounds perfectly after trial and error. But it was beautiful because when it all fell together, it was unique. Jack and I made music from an old piano, a pizza pan, a beer bottle, Jack’s hands, and a creaky old floorboard. Something you’d never hear on the radio. Two little kids running around an old one-bedroom apartment, repurposing objects until they sang.”

I stopped, feeling a painful lump in my throat, and Gray moved to the front of the class. “Maybe we should take a break,” he said, his eyes never flickering from my face. “Let’s thank Sydney for such a colorful personal story, and when we get back, we’ll critique.”

A few thanks were muttered, and then that little shorty with the terrible eyesight (thirty-eight!), Parker, spoke up. “Did your Dad like it?”

I stared at his bright-eyed smiling face, but I couldn’t break his heart.

“He loved it,” I finally answered, feeling old wounds tear open.

The kids spread faster than wildfire, heading out into the hall to use the restroom or get a drink of water. Gray waited for them to leave before wrapping his arms around me in a warm, safe hug. “Awesome story, Sydney.” He dropped his hand down my back and led me toward the easels. “Let’s look at what the kids think.”

We walked from picture to picture. I laughed at a few of them, not because they were funny, but because they were cute. One had a purple keyboard and a young boy dancing in the background, who I guessed was Jack. One kid drew me doing a wheelie off a park bench, but it looked like my arm was broken in half.

“Needs some work,” Gray mumbled as he tickled my side.

I stopped in front of Parker’s picture, and Gray shook his head. “Well, at least he used a lot of color.”

“That’s the log truck,” I said, pointing to brown cylinders at the top of the page. It was held up by a grey rectangle that must have been the truck body. Underneath that were three vertical lines: pink, black, and blue. They were all connected by one dotted gray line. “And that’s me, my dad, and Jack.”

Reading my face, Gray grabbed my hand as if he knew I needed the comfort.

“And all that color, those rings behind us? See how they start off light and almost nonexistent in the center, then grow in intensity as you move toward the outer rings? That’s the music,” I choked out as hot, frustrated tears poured down my cheeks.

Immediately, Gray pulled me into his side. “Shh… Sydney,” he murmured into my hair. “I didn’t want this to be a negative experience. It was supposed to be fun. I’m sorry.”

“I loved it,” I said honestly. “It was cathartic. I could envision my dad right in front of me, smiling, as I described every carefully planned sound. I just wanted him to hear it.”

Gray kissed my forehead and smiled. “Then tell him next time you see him. I’m sure he’d appreciate you remembering that day so clearly.”

I shook my head. “Not the story, Gray. I just wanted him to hear the song.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Gray, will you stop shoving food in my face? I’m gonna need a power scooter at the grocery store if you keep cramming nachos down my throat.” Sydney pushed the plate of nachos away from her and crossed her arms. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d dribbled salsa down the front of her sweatshirt.

I am a world-class idiot. Why did I press her to tell those kids a story?

She shook her head, reading my mind again. “I didn’t have to tell them that story, Gray, but it was nice to get if off my chest.” Glancing down at her chest, Sydney growled and wiped the salsa off with a napkin. “I mean, it was ten years ago.”

Tossing her wadded napkin at my face, she said, “Maybe I should have told them about your Porsche’s quinceañera?”

Blocking her shot, I snickered. “Don’t give those punks any ideas, Sinister. Besides, they would have picked up your guilt right away.”

“Guilt wasn’t the feeling that came to mind,” she joked, taking a sip of her soda. “But seriously, I don’t want to talk about it, and don’t mention Dad’s death to Jack. It was a really hard time for him. He lost his only friend that day.”

Sydney’s father had been in a logging accident that day. The truck’s trailer came loose, and when he stopped on a sparsely traveled logging road to inspect it, the whole thing toppled over. He wasn’t found for hours. Sydney and Jack were just sitting in his apartment, peeking through metal blinds, anticipating his return.

“Jack lost his father, too,” I added, feeling that now familiar sting of remorse coat my throat. “I’ve been such an ass to your brother. Why didn’t he tell me about this? No wonder he—”

“We don’t talk about it,” Sydney said quietly. “Jack and I have each another.”

“What about your mom?”

“You don’t get it.” Sydney smiled and shook her head. “Mom never cared. In fact, I think she was secretly glad Dad died. That meant she got us all to herself.”

“You can’t mean that, Sydney.”

“I do,” she snapped, then lowered her voice. “I’m all Jack has. He’s all I have. We look out for one another. Well, mostly, I look out for Jack.”

“Not anymore.” I laid my hand over hers. “I’ll look out for the both of you.”

“We don’t need to be ‘looked out for,’ Gray. I have this handled.”

“Sure you do,” I said, picking at her plate of nachos. “I’m onto you, Sydney. You act all tough and gruff, but deep inside, you’re a big softy. Sometimes you need to put your trust in someone else and let them inside. You can whip me senseless with your snarky words, but I’m not going any—”

“I never understood why people do that,” Sydney interrupted, clearly uncomfortable with our discussion. A disgusted look washed over her face as she jerked her head toward the corner of the diner. “It’s weird. Don’t you want to look someone in the face while you’re talking to them?”

Glancing over my shoulder, I spotted a couple sitting next to each other in a booth, facing the empty other side.

“Maybe they’re in love?” I flashed my eyes back to Sydney, and she focused down at her hands, smoothing them over her sweatshirt. “When people are in love, they want to be near one another. Is that so wrong? They want to touch one another.”

Continuing to avoid me, she moved her focus to the chipped speckled counter edge and picked at it with her finger.