Page 15 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

He clenches his jaw. “I didn’t ask for a pep talk.”

“You didn’t ask for a shitty father either, but hey, you still got one.”

I think I see a small grin stretch his mouth.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re stubborn?” he asks.

“Only about the things that are important to me.”

Like you.

You’re important to me.

Of course, I keep that last part to myself.

“Look, all I’m trying to say is you’re talented. Like, super talented. And you need to believe in yourself. Also, your dad was a freaking twatwaffle.”

I make myself cringe.

I have no idea what twatwaffle means. I’m not even sure where I heard that word, but I know it’s not a good thing, which is weird since it has the word “waffle” in it, and waffles are delicious.

Kane doesn’t say a word, and I worry that I’ve offended him, but then he lets out a laugh.

It was a small laugh, and it was quiet, but I got him to laugh.

He’s smiling now, and I wish I could snap a picture in case it doesn’t happen again.

“Noted.”

Kane throws the last of the paper into the trash and grabs the notebook he left on the couch. I wonder how many songs are in there.

I surrender to curiosity. “How long have you been writing songs?”

He shrugs. “About two years. Give or take.”

If he’s been writing songs for two years, it means he’s also been singing for two years—if not longer. How come I didn’t know about this until this summer?

Might have to do with the fact that he waited for everyone to leave before playing his guitar when we were at the beach house. He must’ve been careful to hide it from people since he knew his dad didn’t approve.

That would also explain why Evie doesn’t know her own son is a prodigy. Her knowing could’ve led to Mr. Wilder finding out Kane was still playing music, and he didn’t want to risk his dad leaving a fist print on his face.

“Can I hear?” I push my luck.

I pick up the voice recorder on the couch, seconds away from pressing Play when Kane stops me by swiping the recorder out of my hand.

“Not happening.”

I try to steal it back. “Come on, I just want to hear one.”

He uses our height difference to his advantage, stretching his arm to keep the recorder out of reach. “Forget it, Hads.”

“What’s the big deal?” I push off with all my strength, trying to steal the recorder.

He shoves it into his pocket. “I’ve never shown my songs to anyone. Just drop it.”

“What if I show you something I’ve never shown anyone?”

He raises a brow. “Like what?”