“The hell I am.”

Aunt Ruthie clears her throat in a way I should probably find significant.

“You’re in the Lord’s house, young man.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Aunt Ruthie. I mean . . . the heck I am.”

“You might be singing a capella anyway, Kai.” Aunt Ruthie’s expression is rueful. “Ms. Hargrove’s son had an asthma attack, and she’s rushed him to the hospital.”

“Oh, no. I’m sorry to hear that.” Kai frowns and then after a moment, shrugs. “Well, it won’t be the first time I’ve sung without music.”

“What song is it?” I ask. “Maybe I could help?”

Kai’s already shaking her head, but she’s not fast enough. Aunt Ruthie bounces on her toes and claps her hands.

“What a treat, Kai. To hear you and Rhyson sing together.”

“He didn’t say sing, Aunt Ruthie.” Kai looks up at me, her expression guarded. “He may not even know the song, and I—”

“What’s the song? Is it a carol?” I ask. “I know most of those.”

“It’s ‘O, Holy Night,’” Aunt Ruthie interjects. “You’d sound amazing on it together. It was her mama’s favorite carol, and Kai’s sung it every year since she was eleven.”

“I’m in.” I take in Kai’s slightly shell-shocked expression. I think she’s still stuck back there somewhere with Ms. Hargrove, but Aunt Ruthie and I have moved forward with our plan. “Got an acoustic guitar somewhere around here?”

“Huh?” Kai fixes vacant eyes on the floor. “Um . . . yeah. Upstairs.”

“When are we on?” I direct the question to Aunt Ruthie since Kai still seems to be wrapping her head around us singing together.

“In about twenty minutes.” Aunt Ruthie grins at me and claps again.

“I thought you needed my help in the kitchen, Aunt Ruthie.” Kai sounds like that might be preferable to rehearsing with me.

“Oh, we can spare you, honey, for this,” Aunt Ruthie assures her.

I’m getting excited. Me and Kai singing together at the church she grew up in? Singing her mother’s favorite carol? This could save Christmas.

THIS COULD RUIN CHRISTMAS.

Me singing with Rhyson Gray? I mean, yes, he’s my Rhyson who rides dune buggies and watches Sex and the City marathons and throws French fries at me, but lest we forget . . . he’s still Rhyson Gray. His voice . . . I can’t even really articulate what his voice and the words he wrote meant to me when I was stuck here in Glory Falls those last years. “Lost” became my anthem in the mornings, my lullaby at night, my lifeline anytime I was sinking. To sing with Rhyson could be the most terrifying and possibly most blissful experience of my life. To sing Mama’s favorite carol with him on Christmas Eve?

I don’t know if I’m ready for that. If my heart is ready for that.

Rhyson glances up at me, sitting on the stool, acoustic guitar resting on his knee.

“What key?”

“What what?”

Could I speak intelligibly? Nope.

“What key do you wanna sing it in?” He frowns, dark hair dragging over his eyes. “You okay?”

“Um. . . . yeah, sure.” No. “B flat?”

He nods, sliding the capo down the neck of the guitar.

“How about you start and I’ll listen the first time through.” He begins strumming the melody that always brought Mama to tears. “I’ll come in later. I’m thinking if I just harmonize on the chorus, it’ll have more impact. Especially at ‘fall on your knees.’”

It was the chorus that always got Mama, and hearing him play, it’s what will probably get me too.

“I’m not sure about this.” I press my palm to my stomach, afraid I won’t be able to breathe normally, much less the way I should to sing.

Rhyson’s fingers never pause, moving with agility over the strings of the guitar. His gift, his greatness as a musician, goes deeper than skill. This old guitar, barely in tune, responds to his touch like he found some hiding place where it was keeping this beautiful sound just for him. It’s like he gives some of himself to each instrument until it speaks for him, saying things Rhyson may never voice. He might be guarded in public or in conversation, but not with his music. He strips every barrier away that would separate him from the listener. I’ve heard people say this musician or that one pours their heart into the music. It’s more than that with Rhyson. I think what he gives it is his soul.

“Any day now, Pep. I’m going grey here.”

I realize he’s run through the first verse a few times waiting for me to start.

“I-it’s hard with you here.” The admission comes out stilted.

“It’d be hard for me to accompany you and not be here. Even I’m not that good.” Rhyson’s fingers never stop, almost absently plucking at the haunting melody, but his eyes hold still with mine. “Why’s it hard?”

“Because you’re . . . well, you’re . . . I’m . . .”

He’ll think I’m ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.

“There’s a reason you haven’t heard me sing much.” I shove my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “I’m afraid you won’t . . .”

I hate this. It only highlights the inequities I always try to ignore.

“Afraid I won’t what?”

“You won’t like it. You won’t like my voice. My singing. Maybe I am just a dancer who sings. I’ve been working on my compressions, and I think I’m getting better and improving my tone and stretching my range, but—”

“You’re not just a dancer who sings, Pep. Don’t be nervous. I’ve heard you sing.”

“I sang like a few notes for a breathing exercise. You haven’t really heard me sing.” I study my shoes. “What if you don’t like it? If you think I’m no good?”

“I’d tell you.” Rhyson stops playing, leans the guitar against the stool, and crosses over to me, forcing my eyes to meet his with a gentle finger under my chin. “I’ve heard enough to know you have a beautiful tone, a disciplined instrument, and a trained voice. That’s more than I can say for half the people on the charts right now. Is there room to improve? There always is. As professionals, we’re always growing. So keep growing.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“I don’t do that.” His eyes hold mine as he shakes his head definitively. “Not with music. Certainly not with you. Is that why you haven’t sung for me?”

“That, and well, I just kind of wanted to put our music in a box that we leave alone and separate from our . . . our friendship for now.”

The contact of his finger under my chin doesn’t seem to be enough, so I wrap my hand around his broad wrist.

“Rhys, there are so many things that could screw up our friendship. I don’t want music to be one of them.”

His thumb caresses my jaw and emotion smolders his eyes to pewter.

“Nothing will screw up our . . . friendship.” His smile promises things that make my heartbeat stutter. “If anything, sharing our music will only add to what we have. You know how important music is to me, right?”

I nod because, obviously.

“And you know how important you are to me, right?”

I don’t nod. I don’t breathe. The warmth in his eyes slows the blood down until I’m sure it’s merely crawling through my veins. Everything in my body pauses, waiting for his next words. He leans closer, both hands cupping my face, our eyes still connected by this sweet, fiery thread.

“I was almost glad to have an excuse to get out of my parents’ house today.” Rhyson is so close that his breath begs entrance at my lips. “It was hard to leave you on Christmas Eve. This is where I wanted to be.”

He drops a hand to touch the Pepper nameplate necklace he gave me for Christmas, something in his eyes, in his fingers, laying claim.

“You are where I wanted to be.” His hand slips beneath my hair to stroke the sensitive skin of my neck. “That’s how important you are to me.”