Page 13 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

MOM

Had to drive Evie to her job interview. There’s pizza in the fridge.

My eyes skim over my mom’s text as I pad toward my house with my keys in one hand. My best friend, Lacey, and her stepdad just dropped me off a few minutes ago.

I should’ve known when Lacey suggested that we have a slumber party this weekend that there wouldn’t be much sleeping involved.

We stayed up all night, stuffing our faces and talking about how nervous we are for our first day of high school, which is less than a week away now.

I text Mom a simple “Okay” as I trail to the front door and unlock it. Gray’s blaring music grates on my ears from the second I enter the house.

I don’t know how Kane puts up with it. He’s been sharing a room with my brother for a whole week now. If it were me sharing a room with Gray, I’d become deaf and murderous.

Kane doesn’t seem to mind the loud music. But then again, we haven’t said a word to each other since he moved in, so what do I know?

Kane spends most of his time in Gray’s bedroom, playing video games and bickering with my brother. I guess I was stupid to think that living with him would give us an excuse to spend more time together.

I cringe when the bass of the techno song makes the walls of the house shake. I was hoping for a quiet Sunday afternoon.

I could always go pound on Gray’s door and demand that he turn his music off, but knowing my brother, he’d turn it up just to spite me.

I decide to save my breath and head straight for my art studio in the backyard.

My mouth curls into a smile when I spot the white shed in a corner of the yard. Mom and I gave it a new coat of paint last week, and it looks so much better like this.

I’m a few feet away from the shed when a low, melodious voice stops me in my tracks. I think it’s coming from the inside.

There are no instruments playing.

No guitar or piano.

Just Kane.

Singing a cappella.

What is he doing in my shed?

I move closer to the door. I can’t hear the lyrics he’s singing, the words blurring together. I don’t recognize the tune either.

I press my ear to the door without a sliver of shame. It doesn’t do much, but I’d be an idiot not to jump at the opportunity to hear him sing again.

I notice he stops himself every once in a while, pausing for a moment and then starting again. He replaces a few words in each sentence like he’s testing them out, trying to decide if he likes the way they taste in his mouth.

I think he’s writing a song.

Why else would he stop constantly, switch up melodies, and alternate between lyrics?

This goes on for a few more minutes, and I eat it up, listening to him drum up lyrics with a fluttering heart. Then his singing halts abruptly.

“Whoever you are, you’re not slick.”

My breath catches in my throat.

How did he know?

“I can see your shadow under the door,” he elaborates.

I consider running away.