“SO YOU PLAYED a honky-tonk waitress today?” my mom asks, chopping vegetables for a stir-fry while I set the table.

“Yeah, in some hole-in-the-wall on Lower Broadway,” I reply, grabbing silverware for five out of the drawer.

“Was it like yesterday’s shoot?”

“Not really,” I answer. We had our second day of shooting for my video today, and my mom wants the full play-by-play. “Actually, the owner’s name is Dylan, and I told him I have a brother with the same name.” I pause and look over at my brother, who’s staring at his computer screen, in a world of his own. “Except this guy had a really great personality,” I say. Grinning, I wait for him to react. He just ignores me.

But Jacob looks up from his homework and smiles. “Burn.”

I nod, and we bump fists. “Anyway, the director thought it would be an interesting role reversal if the guy I want to notice me is the singer and I’m just a fan in the crowd.”

“Hmmm,” my mom murmurs as she checks the rice cooker.

“And the extras were all really nice,” I say, coming back into the kitchen for the plates and bowls. “This one guy—” I begin, but Dylan startles me by clearing his throat so loudly I’m worried he might’ve hurt himself.

Mom and I look over at him, but he keeps his eyes glued to his computer as if it was nothing. I glance at my mom, who shrugs her shoulders, and then at Jacob, but he’s got his head down finishing up his homework. Wonder if he’ll let me copy his later, I think as I take the dishes into the dining room.

“So anyway,” I start again when I come back to the kitchen for a pitcher of water. Then Dylan starts tapping his pen against the counter, something he knows I absolutely abhor. It doesn’t seem to be on purpose, since he’s totally absorbed in his work, so I try to ignore it.

“This one guy actually said he’s seen the Barrett Family Band play before,” I tell her, but Dylan starts tapping louder. “I think it was a few years ago before I’d hit my growth spurt, because he said I was only ‘yay big,’ which, what does that even—” I can’t take it. “Dylan! Do you mind?”

“What?” he asks, looking up innocently as his pen tap, tap, taps against the countertop.

I make a face, gesturing toward his pen.

“Oh, this?” he asks, tapping away.

“Yes, you know I hate that,” I say. “I can hardly keep my thoughts straight.”

“Imagine trying to do your homework while your kid sister babbles on and on about her music video starring the boyfriend she’s never had,” he says, closing his laptop.

I’m taken aback. “If my talking is bothering you, you can ask me to stop,” I say.

“Okay. Stop.”

“Hey, hey,” my mom says, trying to diffuse the situation. “Dinner’s ready.”

She hands Dylan some hot pads and Jacob the napkins, and I follow them into the dining room, setting down the pitcher a little more firmly than usual. My dad walks in, kisses my mom on the cheek, and as everybody sits, I fill our glasses. I can’t help but think about the video shoot again… and about how much more fun waiting tables at a honky-tonk is than doing it at home.

“Dylan, will you say grace tonight?” my dad asks as I take my seat. I think he has some kind of sixth sense, always picking whichever one of us is in the worst mood.

We all fold our hands, and Dylan says his usual prayer for football season. When he ends with, “And, Lord, if you’re watching football…” we all know to join in with, “Please take the Titans to the Super Bowl. Amen.”

That usually makes me smile, but I’m still pretty ticked off about what he said in the kitchen.

“Did Bird tell you all about the shoot today?” my dad asks before shoveling a forkful of veggies into his mouth.

“Yep,” Dylan says, nodding emphatically. “Oh yeah. We heard all about it.”

I bristle.

My dad seems mildly confused by his antagonistic response. “It was a fun day. We—”

“When are we going back on tour?” Dylan cuts in, putting his fork down midbite. “Seriously, it’s been a month and a half of sitting around this apartment doing jack squat. I want to get back on the road.”

My parents glance at each other, exchanging one of those looks that say they’ve discussed the issue but were putting off talking to the rest of us about it. “Well,” my dad begins.

“We can’t just leave Bird,” my mom explains.

“And we can’t tour without her,” my dad continues. “I’d say we’ll be here for a couple more months at least. We’ll wait and see how her record goes and then make plans from there.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Dylan asks impatiently, gesturing toward himself and Jacob. “Just sit around Nashville watching the world revolve around Bird?”

Nobody says anything.

“Seriously,” he continues. “What about the Barrett Family Band? What about our careers? Our music?”

“Maybe Adam knows somebody who needs musicians,” I offer.

“Our own sister doesn’t want us as her backup,” Jacob pipes up, not unkindly, but matter-of-fact. “Why would somebody else?”

I suck in air, feeling punched in the gut. “That’s not—”

“I’m not hungry,” Dylan says, throwing his napkin down in frustration. He picks up his plate and stands. “It was good, Mom, but I’m not hungry. May I be excused?”

My mother looks slightly pained but nods, and he carries his plate to the kitchen, slamming it down a little louder than necessary. Jacob stands and follows suit. I sit, stunned by how quickly a perfectly wonderful day turned sour.

“Bird,” my mom says, reaching her hand out to cover mine. But I pull away, feeling a lump in my throat.

“I’m not hungry, either,” I say, and before she can stop me, I get up and go to my room.

“So do you like it?” Stella asks on our video call, aiming her laptop toward the mirror she picked up at the flea market the other day.

“I wouldn’t even know it was the same mirror,” I say, once again in awe of her artistic eye. “It was so dirty and cracked before.”

She turns the computer back to herself and grins. “I got this frosted spray paint and treated the entire glass with it. And I found these twigs out in the field while I was at your music-video shoot. I’m going to give it to my mom for Christmas.”

“That’s so cool,” I say. My phone beeps. “Oh my gosh, Adam just texted me.”

“Ooh, tell me.”

“Okay,” I say, opening the message. “ ‘Late night, no crowd. Miss the BFB.’ ” I look up at her and pout. “Aw, poor Adam.”

“You going to write that?”

“No way,” I say, but then a knock at my door turns my attention from the video call. “One sec,” I tell her, getting up from my bed and opening the door. I’m surprised to see Dylan standing there.

“Can I come in?” he asks quietly. He holds up both hands. “I come in peace.”

I shrug and open the door all the way before heading back to my computer where Stella waits.

“I’ll call you back,” I tell her, reaching for my laptop.

“Cool.”

I close the computer and take a seat at my desk. Dylan sits on the bed and looks down at his sneakers, obviously thinking about what he wants to say and how he wants to say it. I’m still hurt from his outburst at dinner, but I give him a minute to gather his thoughts. He doesn’t seem to want a fight.

Finally, he sighs heavily. “Bird, I guess first off, I need to say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you earlier.”

I nod. “Thank you. And I’m sorry I was distracting you and Jacob while you were doing your homework. That was rude.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, we’ve worked through a lot more distractions than that in the RV.” He runs his hand through his strawberry-blond hair and then pats it back down again absentmindedly. “The truth is… I guess I’m jealous. I mean, I’m happy for you. I really am. You’re a talented musician, and if all this were happening to me, I’d be just as excited as you are.” He looks at me and smiles sadly. “But it’s not. It’s not happening for me, and now we’re here and I feel stuck. Now nothing’s happening for me.”

I sigh heavily. I know he wouldn’t want me to, but I feel guilty. I wish this were happening for him, for the entire Barrett Family Band. As happy as I am that I’m getting all these opportunities, it’s moments like these that make it bittersweet.

“I love music,” he says quietly. “You know I love making music. I passed on college to keep touring with you all. I loved picking out songs together and playing dive bars and honky-tonks. I loved it, Bird. And I want to be there for you, and I really am happy for you. But I’m unhappy for me. And I hate it. But I am. And I’m a little angry, I guess. And it’s not fair. And…” He stops and gulps back a frog in his throat, which breaks my heart. “I don’t know what to do about it. I just…” He exhales loudly. “Yeah, I feel stuck.”

I nod, feeling awful for my big brother. It’s so strange to hear him say that he’d want to trade places with me. I’ve always been the one who wanted whatever he wanted, had to do whatever he did. I’ve always looked up to him: Dylan the charismatic one, the confident one, the charming one. Dylan, for whom all things seem to come easy.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

“No, Bird,” he says, scooting over so that he’s closer to me. “That’s not what I want. You shouldn’t have to apologize. I just have to grow up and realize that your success doesn’t cancel out the possibility of my own.” He sets his mouth into a firm line and nods his head decisively. “I just have to work harder.”

I grin. “You been talking to Dad?”

He looks up at me sheepishly. “He’s old, but wise.”

I laugh softly. “Dylan, you know you’re really talented, too, right? I mean, you have an incredible ear, and you pick up songs and harmonies faster than anyone I know.”

“No, I know,” he says, nodding. “I guess I just feel a little left behind.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s so stupid. It’s actually kind of embarrassing.”

I sigh. This stinks.

As we sit, I try to think about ways I can make this up to him—to everybody. I can hear the whir of the ceiling fan, a car horn outside, the TV on low in the living room. And then I hear the hum of a small white lie forming in my brain. Words that may not be true tumble out of my mouth, but I can’t stop them.

“You know, I played our song ‘Before Music’ for Dan, and he really likes it.”

Dylan looks up at me, surprised.

I forge ahead, knowing I shouldn’t. “Since the song is pretty personal, you know, being about Caleb and all, I think maybe Dan might want the whole family on that one.”

“Really?” Dylan asks, brightening a bit.

I nod, wringing my hands and hoping to God that I can make this happen.

“Oh, Bird, that’s awesome!” he says, pumping his arm in the air. “Aw, man, why didn’t you tell me?”

I bite my lip. “Um, I don’t know for sure that we’re recording it for this album, and I didn’t want to get everybody’s hopes up,” I say, realizing the magnitude of what I’m promising when I see how excited he is. If I can’t make this happen, he will be completely devastated. “So don’t tell the others,” I add quickly. “But yeah. I think it’ll be pretty cool.”

“It’ll be amazing,” he says, his smile wide and relaxed.

His blue eyes sparkle and he looks like my big brother again—the one who led impromptu jam sessions at RV parks when he was thirteen. The one who convinced our parents to let him drive Winnie over the Golden Gate Bridge when he was sixteen and had just gotten his license. The one who has my back at all times, who loves his family, who loves his music.

When he leaves my room, I turn around to my desk and open my laptop. Stella is still online, so I video call her again. On the third ring, she answers, her friendly face filling my screen.

“Oh no,” she says, immediately seeing the worry on my own. “What’s wrong?”

“Have you ever made a promise you’re not sure you can keep?”

She sighs. “Tell me everything.”