Escaping Indigo started to get into the swing of recording over the next day or two. They split their day into two parts: one to write new stuff and straighten out the songs they did have, and another to record. Sometimes they did the writing in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon and evening. It depended, mostly, on how they were feeling.

There wasn’t a lot for me and Micah to do. We could sit there and listen and say we liked something, or liked this other something better, but that was pretty much it. When they were writing, the band got lost in each other, this relationship that was as intense and inclusive as any close friendship or love affair. Different, of course. But there was something that happened between the three of them when they were making music that no one else could touch or come into. As if the music wrapped around them and held everyone else out.

Micah was used to being a musician’s partner. He’d done it for years for Eric, for all that they’d been friends and not lovers. I remembered coming into the apartment the two of them had shared and seeing them sitting side by side on the couch, Micah with his eyes on a book, Eric holding his guitar and picking out chords. It hadn’t looked like Micah was paying any attention, but if Eric paused and asked him something, he not only had a response, but thoughtful things to say about whatever music Eric was making. Micah was doing the same thing now, except he’d exchanged the book for a sketchpad and a pencil. When Escaping Indigo went into their world, he went into his, and he only came out if one of them needed him.

I couldn’t quite do that. As much as I loved the band and knew they wanted my opinions, and took what I said seriously, I always thought of myself as very slightly separate. I worked for them. I took care of them. And they made the music. That was something I didn’t do, had never done.

On the third day of recording, I was sitting next to Ben at the soundboard, watching him push buttons up and down, adjusting sounds and bringing vocals to the front, and generally doing a bunch of stuff I had no clue about. I’d been watching him do it for days, but I didn’t think I’d ever really understand.

Bellamy was on his other side, and they were talking in half sentences about levels and measures. I’d wondered whether Bellamy would be okay as a producer—some bands liked to produce their own stuff, and others wanted someone to help them. But somewhere along the line, Bellamy had picked up a lot, and he seemed to know what he was doing. And Ben seemed happy to fill in the gaps too.

I glanced through the window in front of us to the main recording room. Ava was tapping away at her snare, very softly, while she talked to Tuck. She caught my eye and waved, but she was involved in her conversation. I waved back and turned to Bellamy and Ben again.

I had to clear my throat to get their attention. On my other side, Micah stifled a laugh.

“Would it be okay if I wandered around the studio?” I asked Ben when he finally focused on me.

He pinched his eyebrows together and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

I shrugged, surprised. “’Cause it’s your house?” I didn’t mention that he might be justifiably worried about all the expensive equipment he had around too.

He laughed, but it wasn’t an unkind sound. “Knock yourself out. I don’t know how interesting it’ll be. They’re empty rooms, mostly.”

Behind him, Bellamy was peering over his shoulder at me. “I can go with you, later, when we’re done here.” I heard Micah take a breath, as if he was going to offer the same thing.

I shook my head and stood up. “That’d be cool. But I’m fine on my own for right now.”

Bellamy cocked his head, studying me, but then he nodded.

“There’s a couple rooms in the back with couches and stuff, if you want to chill,” Ben said. He was already turning back to the board and Bellamy and their conversation.

I nodded, but he wasn’t paying attention to me anymore. I wondered if Ben was choosy about what bands got to record here, and that was why he didn’t care if I poked around the place he lived. I wondered if he only picked people he liked, or thought he’d like. He was certainly well known and sought after enough to do that.

Micah raised his eyebrows at me, but I just smiled back at him and lifted my hand in a wave before I made my way to the door.

There were a lot of rooms down here—a warren of big and small spaces, all for different purposes. Mostly storage—musicians brought their own gear, and tended to stick with it, but if someone needed a cymbal that was slightly sandier in sound, or an effect pedal that did this particular weird thing, or that perfect guitar that they wouldn’t get to use anywhere else, Ben probably had it. There were several different rooms to record in too. Small glassed-in rooms for vocals—some wood paneled and warm, with thick, dark red carpets and lamps set on tables. Other were rougher, more raw, the walls close and painted a dark gray, so it seemed like they were built right into the rock of the hill. They were all still and silent now, microphones and flimsy stools left seemingly abandoned.

There were bigger rooms too. Medium-sized rooms for drums, so cymbals wouldn’t bleed into guitar sounds. Rooms that faced one of the soundboards—most of the rooms faced one soundboard or another—rooms with huge glass walls, black in the darkness, until I flicked on a light. Rooms with double walls to make the sound quality better, richer. One room with an entire second room built underneath it, and a gap all the way around the floor, so the air space was doubled.

I wandered into one empty room and flicked on the light switch, only to realize this room was attached to the one Escaping Indigo was working in. Somehow I’d walked in a circle and hadn’t realized it. Everyone turned to stare at me, and Ava waved cheerfully. It was almost a shock—I’d been so lost in the space and the muffled sound of distant music that I forgot for a minute that anyone else was down here with me. I waved back, shut the light off again, and moved on.

After that, I went on in the dark without turning any more lights on. I wanted to explore by myself. I caught glimpses of the band as they sat around and worked or talked. Sometimes I saw them through two or three reflecting glass walls, so the image was all bouncy and skewed. But unless they stared into the darkness, they didn’t seem able to see me at all.

I was still uncomfortable with being underground, even though it was technically really a huge basement. Some of the rooms I explored were actually above ground, in what had once been the garage. But there weren’t any windows to the outside—regular windows and recording music weren’t a good mix—and it was like being buried, sometimes. Trapped. Locked away in muffling walls and rock that had heard hundreds and hundreds of songs, hundreds of conversations and arguments and shared jokes between band members. That had seen history being made, and had probably seen bands fail and fall apart too. Thinking of it in that way made it more immersive than frightening, although it was still overwhelming in a lot of ways.

Every now and then I escaped upstairs, to the bright kitchen, or to the bedroom I was sharing with Tuck, with its many windows looking out onto green lawn, or out the back door, to stand on cracked pavement and breathe in fresh air. And when I was standing in the sunlight, I’d wonder why I was letting my mind go down those paths, about music and history. I wondered what it was about this place, this process, that was making me think about things I’d never really considered before. Or about things I’d been able to push down for most of a year. Things I’d thought I was finally coming to terms with, able to live with.

I didn’t have an answer. When it felt like too much heaviness, I’d go back to the band instead, and surrounded myself with their music and laughter. Then I could remind myself that everything was normal, even when it felt, sometimes, as if something important had clicked out of place.

On one of my excursions the fourth day we were there, I wandered into the other half of the studio, near where Rest in Peach was recording. As it was with the rooms where Escaping Indigo was playing, there were several rooms here, loosely surrounding the room with the soundboard. The vocals booth was ready for use, the lamps on, creating a soft, almost cozy glow. Two walls of the booth were glass, and from the hallway, I could see through, into the room beyond, where Rest in Peach was in the middle of a song. The sound was slightly muffled—if I’d been standing by the mixing board, it would be crystal clear. But I could still hear it, and it was enough to make me think it was going to be an amazing album, loud and sweet and raw and tender, like all of their music. A strange mix, Ty liked to call it, and that was accurate.

I felt a little odd, standing here, almost spying on them while they played. But this was a recording studio. Standing and listening to music was what this space was built for. Still, I didn’t want to intrude or be distracting. I leaned back against the wall, tucking myself away in the shadows, and listened.

Rest in Peach’s music was different than Escaping Indigo’s. No one could say that what Tuck, Bellamy, and Ava wrote was straightforward, but it was more reliably rock based, more . . . familiar in its feel. Which was effective, because by the time you picked up on the lyrics, or all the slight intricacies and oddities in the sound and the melody and the way the band played, you were already hooked. But Rest in Peach didn’t care about being familiar in any way. They were bold and aggressive, and at the same time, delicate and beautiful in their sounds. And it worked just as well to draw listeners in.

I liked them because of how different they sounded, how refreshing their songs were. And I liked what Ty sang about—being in love, or in lust, feeling left out, feeling like you were loved by your friends, being the person who was a little on the outside, being accepted. Dichotomous and opposing themes in the same album, sometimes in the same song.

I hadn’t closed my eyes, but when the song ended, it seemed like I was falling back down to earth, coming out of the music in a way, and landing here, in a dim hallway. And when I blinked and looked up, Nicky was staring into my eyes.

He was watching me. Staring right at me, like he had the very first day. No hiding it, no glancing away to make it seem like he wasn’t. He didn’t seem to care if I knew that was what he was doing. But it wasn’t aggressive or possessive or anything. It was . . . like he was curious. Like he was taking me in and trying to figure me out from a distance.

My first instinct was to look down myself. Pretend this wasn’t happening. I’d gotten involved with Nick before, and it had been . . . wonderful. But it had been a fantasy, and it wasn’t ever meant to last.

But I didn’t turn away. I couldn’t. His face was so open. His whole body was turned toward me—the angle of the drums made that happen, but there was something in the set of his shoulders and the twist of his waist that almost made it like he was holding himself open for me. For my stare.

I pulled in a harsh breath. This was . . . intense. Intense and not what I’d expected, definitely not what I’d been prepared for when I walked down this hallway. Nick was all sweaty and slightly out of breath, like that first day, and he was hot. There was absolutely no denying that. He was incredibly . . . hot. I wanted him. Watching him like this, our gazes connected, made me remember all the ways we’d connected in the past—with our bodies, by sharing a joke, by catching that private smile he had, just for me, out of the corner of my eye.

But mostly, I was obsessed with the way it felt to have his eyes and his attention on me. Solely on me. That focus, like I could feel it on my skin. I remembered that from when we’d toured together. The way I’d glance up from setting up Ava’s kit or laying out cords and find him watching me from the other side of the stage. Back then, he’d always blushed and turned away. Now he didn’t. Now, he was bold, but I wasn’t offended by it. I liked the sensation too much. It was addictive and I wanted more of it.

Nicky glanced to the side. Elliot was talking to him, drawing him into a conversation. I couldn’t make out any words. I started to turn, to walk back the way I’d come. Now that the stare was broken and I was remembering where I was, who we all were and what we were here for, I felt silly. That couldn’t possibly have been as intimate a moment as I’d imagined. But Nicky put his sticks down on his snare, balancing them carefully against the rim, and stood up. He gestured out to the hall—not to me, I was pretty sure, but that direction in general. Ty and Elliot nodded, and Danni turned away from her keyboard.

Then Nicky was coming out of the studio door before I could disappear back to our own studio, or outside, or upstairs, or anywhere that would take me away from this . . . whatever this was.

“Hey.”

“We should stop meeting like this,” I blurted, and it was a joke, but I was almost half serious too.

Nick grinned at me. “Maybe. But I kind of like it.”

I turned to face him, because I was an adult, a grown man, and there was no way I was running and hiding from a scary social situation. I gestured toward the recording room. “It sounded really good, back there. Really . . .” Fuck, I was so bad with words. I never knew how to describe anything so it made sense.

Nick smiled at me, though. “Thanks. We’re happy with it, so far.” His voice was soft, almost like he didn’t want to say it too loudly and jinx anything. But there was a quiet confidence behind his words too. “We want to still sound like us, you know? But . . . new.”

I nodded. It was a simple way to put something that wasn’t simple at all. And doing that was treading on a fine line.

Nicky raised a hand and rubbed it over the back of his neck, suddenly awkward. Or more awkward, now that we didn’t have a ready conversation topic. Then he sighed sharply, as if he’d decided something, and gestured down the hall toward the stairs leading up to the house. “I’m going to grab some lunch. Want to come?”

I hesitated, but then I nodded. There wasn’t any reason not to. Nick and I had mutually agreed to leave the past in the past, and I wanted things to be easy between us again. We’d all—Escaping Indigo and Rest in Peach—gone out to dinner last night. It had been simple and fun, like when we’d been on tour together. Friends hanging out. This wouldn’t be any different. Just smaller scale.

Nicky led me up the stairs, then around to the back door out of the studio. We circled the house and came out on the sidewalk. Nick stopped and turned back to look at the place. From here, it seemed like nothing more than a big house with a slightly oddly shaped garage. Aside from the two large trailers and abundance of cars in the driveway, there was hardly anything to distinguish it from any other house on the block. No music leaked out from the studio. It was clean and quiet and calm from here. Not the raucous, rowdy party atmosphere I might have assumed of a rock music mecca. No people spilling half-clothed out of doorways. No one sleeping on the lawn. No wailing guitars, screeching into the still air of the neighborhood.

I’d bet it had seen some things, though.

“I probably drove by it when I was a kid.” Nick turned back to me. He shaded his eyes, smiling faintly. He looked almost a bit nervous, and as much as I didn’t want him to be anxious to be with me, it made me feel better to see it. Like all the emotions tumbling through me might be normal.

“Did you live far from here?”

He shook his head and started walking. “No, not far. I don’t know why I would have come down this street, I guess. But if I had—if I did—I wouldn’t have realized what was there.”

“Do you like it?” It was so bright out. Half of me wished I’d brought a pair of sunglasses to block all the sunlight bouncing off the pavement, flickering up in waves of heat. But the other half was glad I hadn’t. I had to squint to see Nicky, so I kept my eyes on the ground in front of me instead, and it made it easier to talk to him. To walk beside him.

“Oh, yeah,” he answered like it was obvious. “It’s the dream, right?” He laughed, and it sounded sharp and hard, as if there was some reason he shouldn’t be allowed to admit that. To admit he’d had a dream, and had done what he could to make it reality. “I mean . . .” He waved his hand through the air. “I didn’t honestly ever think this would happen. Ty and Danni and Elliot . . . they never believed anything else. They wanted it and they were going to do whatever it took to make it happen. Me . . . I wanted it. I wanted it so much. More than anything. But I didn’t think it would actually happen. I thought it was a fantasy.”

I was smiling now. He said it all so simply, as if it was a stream of consciousness. Like the details of his life, of how he’d gotten where he was, had fallen from the sky. Like they weren’t that important. But there was this thread of something close to awe in his voice. As if he knew exactly how lucky he was.

I didn’t think it was all luck, though.

“But you did make it happen,” I said.

He nodded and glanced back at me. He was walking slightly ahead of me. I was okay with that. Usually, I tended to care very little about how people looked. But Nick was different. He was striking and lean, and he walked with an easy confidence that put a swing in his hips. I liked the way his hips moved a lot. I liked that confidence more.

“Yeah, we did. And now we’re recording. It gets me every time. As close as we come to immortality, you know? Making it permanent. Like putting it down on paper.” He laughed again, lighter this time. “Except not really like that.”

“I know what you mean, I think.” Eric and Micah had never recorded like this, with a producer and techs in a fancy studio. But they’d paid for studio time at a place near our house, and they’d recorded stuff in the garage by themselves. I had a lot of those recordings, and sometimes, when I was feeling either particularly strong or particularly lonely, I took them out and listened to them. Listened to my brother’s voice coming through headphones, right into my heart. Listened to the sound of his hands sliding on guitar strings. Listened to the things he had written, the things he had created. The things he had left behind.

It was immortality, in a way. It was like . . . no matter what, he’d brought something true and purely him into the world, and it was still here, would still be here, with any luck, for years and years. For as long as it was saved. After I was gone. After Micah was. There might still be that music.

“Do you really think so?” I asked. We’d been walking along, neither of us speaking, while I turned those thoughts over in my head. We were passing under an orange tree that hung over the sidewalk. It was in bloom, and when I stopped, I could smell the scent of the flowers, thick and sticky sweet around me. “About making music being like some type of immortality?”

Nick stopped too, and turned around to face me. His expression had gone serious and I wondered how my voice sounded, to make him look like that. But I was having . . . a thing, a thought, something was going on in my mind and my heart, and I wasn’t sure I was entirely in control of what came out of my mouth.

He nodded, slowly. “Yeah. I really do. Quinn, are you okay?”

I didn’t know why, there, under the shade from the orange tree, with the heat from the sidewalk pooling up around us, the smell of exhaust and white petals, I could say what I hadn’t been able to before. What I’d struggled so hard with yesterday, and all the days prior. Maybe it was simply the right moment now. Here. Maybe I couldn’t hold it in one second longer.

“My brother died.”

My focus snapped away from whatever thoughts of Eric and whatever ideas about music I’d been having, and into myself, as if saying the words had released some tension. I came back down in time to see Nick’s face go through a range of emotions. Shock and sadness and horror and fear and confusion and pity. He settled back on sadness, and I was relieved. If he’d gone with pity, I wouldn’t have been able to stand it. I’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

“When?” he asked, and it was another surprise, a good one—he didn’t say he was sorry or offer some platitude. He went for the facts first. I liked that, especially coming from him. I already knew he was kind. It was good to know he was logical too.

“Right after the tour when you and I met. I went home, everything was fine. Or I thought it was fine. And then he overdosed and he was dead.”

Nick paled, maybe at how bluntly I’d put it, but I kept talking, determined not to give him a chance to say anything until I’d gotten this all out. I’d started—I might as well finish it.

“It was an accident. Just . . . an accident.” I swallowed. “That’s why I didn’t return your calls. Why I didn’t ever reach out. I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know . . .” The air in front of me shimmered, and I swayed. I’d forgotten what it was like, to say all of that out loud. Like I was making it more real, cementing the truth of it, by putting it into words.

Nick took a step forward, so he was nearly in my personal space. Not quite. But close enough I imagined I could feel the warmth of him, despite the hot Los Angeles breeze between us. I liked it, even if it was an illusion. “I had no idea,” he said.

I smiled at him. It was probably lopsided and wrong, because I wasn’t in a smiling mood at all. But it had been a relief to tell him. That was a surprise. “I know. I didn’t want you to. I figured you’d have wanted . . . to do something for me.”

He nodded and frowned. “I would have, yeah.”

“But we didn’t know each other well enough,” I replied, trying to explain.

“If you mean you fucking me silly didn’t equal us knowing each other, I’m gonna have to beg to differ.”

“That was—”

He held up a hand before I could finish. “Say it was ‘just sex,’ and I’ll walk away right now.”

I sighed, and slumped. “No. It . . . wasn’t.” It was good to say that. To get it out there. I hadn’t been sure, really, whether it had only been me who’d felt that, at the time. Like whatever small thing we’d started had been something important enough, something it seemed like we could build on it. “But we really didn’t know each other well. Not in any other way. We were . . . friends, maybe? And I didn’t think you needed . . . I didn’t want to get you involved. I wasn’t your responsibility.”

He didn’t pull back, but it seemed like he stepped away somehow anyway. “I get it.”

“It wasn’t personal, Nicky. I didn’t do it to hurt you. I wanted to . . . I didn’t know what I was doing. For a long time.” I pushed my hair back with my fingers. It was sticky with sweat at my temples. “I still don’t.”

He nodded. “I do get it,” he said, softer this time.

His voice was so gentle. At some point, he’d touched his fingertips to my elbow, as if he was anchoring me, or anchoring himself, and he hadn’t let go. And for some reason, the gentleness, the tenderness in the gesture and the words, made me think I might cry.

I hadn’t cried in . . . I couldn’t remember how long. Not when Eric died. Not when we had his funeral. Micah had cried. I’d heard him, in his apartment, when he forgot to close the windows. I’d stood outside, a floor down, and listened to the sound of his grief pour out. But I hadn’t let mine. There had been too much to do, too much to take care of. I’d had to be steady for my mom, for Micah. I’d had to be strong so the band wouldn’t know. I had already fucked up the most important job I’d had—taking care of Eric. Being there for him. I wasn’t going to fuck up any more, if I could help it. The band would have seen me differently, especially in those first months. Tuck would have tried to make me take time off. I couldn’t have handled that, not then. I needed them, the band and my role with them, to be normal. Crying in front of them would have ruined that.

But there was something about Nicky, some closeness he made me feel, that put me right on the edge.

“I’d like to hug you, but I think I might break if I do,” he said, and it was so perfect and so what I was feeling that I laughed out loud. The laugh was watery and strained but it was honest, and it was good.

“Sorry.” I took a deep breath, trying to center myself. “Sorry. I really didn’t mean to blurt all that out. Lay it on you like that.”

He shook his head. His hand was still on my elbow, the touch light against my skin. I hoped he wouldn’t move. “Probably the best way to do it, really. Like taking off a Band-Aid.”

I told myself I was okay. This was fine. I straightened my spine and met Nick’s eyes. “Do you want to go get that lunch?”

“Yeah, but . . . in a minute.” He slipped his hand down my arm and wrapped his fingers around mine, our palms pressed tight together. Then he pulled me over to a patch of grass. “Sit with me for a second.”

The grass was shaded by a different tree, and the cool, deep green of it was tempting. But I was pretty sure it was private property. “I think this is someone’s lawn.”

He waved his free hand through the air. “It’s fine. It’s only for a minute. We’re not going to do anything but sit.”

He was so eager and earnest about it, I did as he’d asked and sat beside him. The grass was tucked in front of and between two houses, ending at the sidewalk. If I stretched my legs out, my heels hit pavement. There was a low, decorative stone wall behind us, and it shielded us. We were in plain sight, but I didn’t think we were actually on display if anyone glanced out their window.

Nick still had my hand in his. He twisted his fingers through mine. “I just . . . wanted to talk to you for a second. And I didn’t want to do it at the restaurant or whatever.”

I started to shake my head. This was some big emotional thing for me to have said, yeah. But this was enough. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Everything in me rebelled at the idea.

He must have seen the expression on my face, because he smiled. Still gentle, but a little bit teasing too. “Don’t worry. I get it. I’m not gonna go all Dr. Phil on you.” He squeezed my hand. I wondered if he was conscious of how connected we were there. How electric it was to be skin to skin. Or if he was as open and tactile with everyone. I couldn’t remember. I remembered the ways he’d touched me when we’d worked together, the brushes of fingers, or shoulders against shoulders. I’d tried to memorize each one. But that had been flirting, and I hadn’t noticed if he was that way with anyone else.

“Thought you might want a minute before we walked into a public place too,” he added.

I nodded. That was thoughtful. And probably true, although I didn’t really want to admit to it.

“How old was he?” Nick asked softly.

“Twenty-four.”

His thumb brushed over the inside of my wrist. “He was a musician? That’s why you asked about . . . music being like immortality?”

“Yeah.” I swallowed and took a deep breath. I couldn’t look at him while I talked about Eric. “He . . . It was like he lived in the music, you know? One of those people who almost exists somewhere outside of everything real? He was good.” I dropped my gaze to our hands, lying in the grass. “He was really good.”

Nick was quiet for a long time. I wondered if maybe we’d get up in a minute, and that would be it. We’d let the whole thing go. I started to hope for it. It wouldn’t solve anything, but it would be the easiest thing—I’d found that out, over the last year. If I wanted to keep living, keep moving—and I did—I had to make a conscious effort not to think about Eric until I was prepared for it. Maybe someday it would get easier, and I’d be able to think about him without this terrible mess of sadness and guilt, but I couldn’t yet.

Most days, my strategy worked just fine. I wasn’t getting over my brother’s death. I was learning to live with it, though.

Nick untangled our hands and dropped his in his lap.

“I have a son,” he said. “He’s two.”

I blinked. Of all the things I might have guessed he’d say in this particular moment, that wasn’t anywhere on the list. It was so out of left field it was baffling.

“What?” It definitely wasn’t the best thing to say, but I honestly didn’t think I could come up with anything else.

He glanced up at me, then away. “I didn’t tell you before because . . . It’s not like I don’t want to talk about him.” He gave me an embarrassed smile. “It’s just that I’m . . . protective? And I didn’t know where we stood, me and you. I would have . . . I would have told you, if we got together again. I would have wanted to.”

I nodded, trying to absorb that. I wasn’t angry he hadn’t told me. It made sense. But I was trying to sort what I thought I knew about Nick, and what I obviously didn’t, together.

“How did . . .” I waved my hand, trying to voice my question without actually saying it. “You and his mother . . . are you . . .?” I wasn’t sure why I was asking. Just that I wanted to know.

He shook his head. “His mother and I had hooked up for . . . god, maybe a few days? Got careless. We never got back together or anything. It’s better this way. We can . . . work as a team with him, in a way.”

I didn’t have the first idea how to process that, how to answer it. What to say. Kids were a completely foreign concept to me. I hadn’t ever considered them myself, except in the most abstract ways. It always made me feel so old when one of my friends had one. Made me realize how much we’d grown. Made me feel like my reality and their reality were completely out of skew.

Nicky had plucked up a blade of grass, and he was twisting it around and around his finger.

“Do you get to see him?” I asked, finally.

He looked up at me and nodded, and relaxed slightly. “Yeah. Every weekend, for now. And holidays and stuff. I was going to switch my weekend for a weekday instead, while we’re recording, but I wanted to show him the studio. Ben said it’s fine.”

“Oh.”

“You could meet him, when he’s here. If you want. I’d like that.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

He raised his hands, and the grass fluttered to the ground. He turned them palm up, as if in supplication. But then he just stared down at them. He had such long fingers. I’d heard that was something that benefited guitar players and keyboardists. I remembered Eric staring at his hands and trying to figure out how to get them to make the complicated shapes he needed for the chords. I wasn’t sure if it was useful at all for a drummer. I didn’t really know anything about any of that. I could tune a guitar with one of those little pedals that lit up when you hit the right spot. But that was about as musical as I got.

“What’s his name?” I asked. I was only curious, but Nicky turned to me and grinned, and I knew it had been the right thing to say.

“Josh. Joshua.” He’d dropped his hands, and he seemed a little adrift without anything to focus on. I wished he hadn’t let go of my hand. It had been easier, somehow, to talk to him when we were connected. “It’s so weird. All that time. I never thought about having kids. But now it’s like I can’t imagine my life without him in it, you know?”

I nodded. I understood that backward and forward—maybe more backward, because it was more, for me, about figuring out how my life worked with this giant hole where Eric had been. But I did understand it, on so many levels, and it was still a mystery how it worked. I didn’t know how to say any of that to Nicky, though.

“I’m sorry,” he continued. “You were telling me about your brother and I went and said something about myself.”

He blinked at me. His face was always so open. I’d met a lot of musicians, and most of them had this . . . hardness to them. Like they’d been knocked around by life. Like the path to the stage had been incredibly difficult and it had scarred them in some way. And I figured Nicky had felt that. I knew he wasn’t naïve to it. But he didn’t have that haunted look in the back of his eyes. He didn’t secret pieces of himself away, to keep when the world got to be a little too much. He was all right there, right up front.

“I . . . wanted to give you something in return,” he said, softer. “Something about myself.”

I brushed my fingers over his knee. He was wearing comfortable shorts, to drum in, so I grazed fabric, then bare skin, the hair of his leg. It was the slightest touch, but it seemed intimate, weighty. I shouldn’t have done it, probably. I just couldn’t stop myself.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugged. I wondered if he’d felt that electric zing when I touched him too. Wondered if it had run through him like a current, the same way it had for me. Wondered if he was maybe better than me at pretending it hadn’t happened. “You’d have known, anyway, when I have him this weekend.”

I nodded. That was true. It didn’t feel like that, though. It felt like he’d given me something special, by telling me here and now. Like I’d opened something up for him and he’d done his best to return the favor. “Thank you.”

Nick nodded once, and stood up. He brushed his hands briskly over his backside, dislodging any stray pieces of grass. Then he held out his hand to me, and I let him pull me up beside him.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” he said as we started walking down the sidewalk again. He glanced at me, and our eyes met for a second before we both looked away. “And that’s fine. But if you ever do, I’m good for that. Just . . . so you know.”

“Thanks.” I meant it. It made me uncomfortable. Horribly uncomfortable. It made me want to roll my shoulders in, hunch over myself, make my large frame as small as I could. But it made me warm inside, too, to know he would allow me that, either way.

He didn’t push it, didn’t make me agree to talk, or to acknowledge it much at all, and I was grateful. We carried on with our lunch plans, like we hadn’t made that detour for awkward conversations. He took me to a burger place a few streets over. We sat inside, in the cool air-conditioning, and drank milk shakes and ate French fries that we dipped into a puddle of ketchup on a wrapper between us on the table. We talked about music, and the places we’d been since the last time we’d seen each other, and Nicky showed me pictures of his son. And it was easy.

When we got back to the studio, I was exhausted from all of it. From telling Nick about Eric, from simply . . . being with him and having all those emotions, untouched, in the air between us. But I was content in a strange way too. I went up to my room instead of going back down to see what Escaping Indigo was up to. I pulled out my laptop and played a game, to get some space to myself for a while. And for the first time since we’d gotten here, I felt more or less balanced, and safe, and okay.