widened, excitement coloring her cheeks. “Please. Please tell me you auditioned for American Idol and that there is footage of this somewhere.”
“Yes and yes,” Dylan confirmed.
“Oh my God. I need to see this,” Melody said gravely.
Grateful to be distracted from all the songwriting he wasn’t doing, Dylan whipped out his phone and pulled up his videos.
“Aw, man,” Tank whined, “you’ve still got it?”
“Dude, I have hard copies in my apartment and backups saved to the Cloud,” Dylan said. He offered his phone to Melody. “Enjoy.”
She picked up her knitting supplies and transplanted herself onto the couch next to Dylan, grabbing the phone excitedly. She was so close. He took the opportunity to sniff her hair—he hoped he was covert enough that no one noticed him doing so—and sighed. Coconuts and pineapple, just like that toxic green drink she’d spilled on him the night they’d met. Melody was tropical beaches and fresh fruit, and miles of smooth, creamy skin just begging to be touched—
“Ohmygod, you’re singing Foreigner,” Melody squealed, and Dylan’s attention was drawn back to his phone. On the screen, a much younger Tank, pre-gym membership, was belting out Foreigner’s most famous ballad, assuring the world that he wanted to know what love is.
“I’m telling the guys on the forum that’s Tank’s favorite guilty pleasure song,” Rip said, fingers flying across the keyboard.
“I hate you all,” Tank moaned.
Melody grinned at him. “You won’t say that when you’re rocking the most kick-ass hand-knitted hat and scarf set in all of rock ‘n roll.”
“The words ‘hand-knitted hat and scarf set’ do not belong in the same sentence as ‘all of rock ‘n roll’,” Dylan observed.
“Seconded,” Rip agreed, with much more bite in his tone than was strictly necessary.
“You guys suck,” Melody said, wincing as a knitting needle grazed one of her burnt fingers.
Dylan felt like a jerk for the tenth time that day. “Are you okay?” he asked her quietly.
She smiled at him. “I’m fine. I just have to be more careful. I’m still sort of clumsy with the needles.” She nodded her head at his arm. “What about you?”
“Same,” he said. “Look, I’m really sorry—”
“It’s fine,” she said, letting him off the hook with an easy kindness that Dylan envied. “We’re both walking wounded.” She looked at him carefully, as if deciding how far she wanted to push her luck. “You seemed upset yesterday on the phone,” she probed gently.
He had to tell them. He knew he had to tell the guys what was going on (they loved Emma, too; she was the unofficial band mascot), just in case…in case something...
“Yeah. I talked to Grace,” he said quietly. All of a sudden the clacking of the keyboard stopped, and American Idol went silent.
“Who’s Grace?” Melody asked slowly.
“My sister,” Dylan said. “My niece is…sick.”
“Sick?” Melody repeated. He could see the same expression in her eyes that he saw in everyone’s when he told them. There was the hope that Emma just had a cold, the certainty that it must just be a simple seasonal bug.
“A rare heart defect,” he confirmed, watching the sadness settle over her, dimming her bright green eyes as her heart went out to a little girl she didn’t even know. There was another painful crack in his chest. “She, ah, isn’t doing well.” He looked up at Tank and Rip. The worry on their faces was only a fraction of what Dylan felt.
“Is she…?”
Dylan didn’t let Tank finish the question. “She’s gonna be fine,” he said, even though Grace hadn’t said anything like that over the phone. You might want to prepare yourself, was what she’d actually said, with enviable fortitude in her voice. She was so unlike Dylan, so much stronger than he was. Grace had practically raised him, even though she’d only been three years older.
“How old is your niece?” Melody
“Yes and yes,” Dylan confirmed.
“Oh my God. I need to see this,” Melody said gravely.
Grateful to be distracted from all the songwriting he wasn’t doing, Dylan whipped out his phone and pulled up his videos.
“Aw, man,” Tank whined, “you’ve still got it?”
“Dude, I have hard copies in my apartment and backups saved to the Cloud,” Dylan said. He offered his phone to Melody. “Enjoy.”
She picked up her knitting supplies and transplanted herself onto the couch next to Dylan, grabbing the phone excitedly. She was so close. He took the opportunity to sniff her hair—he hoped he was covert enough that no one noticed him doing so—and sighed. Coconuts and pineapple, just like that toxic green drink she’d spilled on him the night they’d met. Melody was tropical beaches and fresh fruit, and miles of smooth, creamy skin just begging to be touched—
“Ohmygod, you’re singing Foreigner,” Melody squealed, and Dylan’s attention was drawn back to his phone. On the screen, a much younger Tank, pre-gym membership, was belting out Foreigner’s most famous ballad, assuring the world that he wanted to know what love is.
“I’m telling the guys on the forum that’s Tank’s favorite guilty pleasure song,” Rip said, fingers flying across the keyboard.
“I hate you all,” Tank moaned.
Melody grinned at him. “You won’t say that when you’re rocking the most kick-ass hand-knitted hat and scarf set in all of rock ‘n roll.”
“The words ‘hand-knitted hat and scarf set’ do not belong in the same sentence as ‘all of rock ‘n roll’,” Dylan observed.
“Seconded,” Rip agreed, with much more bite in his tone than was strictly necessary.
“You guys suck,” Melody said, wincing as a knitting needle grazed one of her burnt fingers.
Dylan felt like a jerk for the tenth time that day. “Are you okay?” he asked her quietly.
She smiled at him. “I’m fine. I just have to be more careful. I’m still sort of clumsy with the needles.” She nodded her head at his arm. “What about you?”
“Same,” he said. “Look, I’m really sorry—”
“It’s fine,” she said, letting him off the hook with an easy kindness that Dylan envied. “We’re both walking wounded.” She looked at him carefully, as if deciding how far she wanted to push her luck. “You seemed upset yesterday on the phone,” she probed gently.
He had to tell them. He knew he had to tell the guys what was going on (they loved Emma, too; she was the unofficial band mascot), just in case…in case something...
“Yeah. I talked to Grace,” he said quietly. All of a sudden the clacking of the keyboard stopped, and American Idol went silent.
“Who’s Grace?” Melody asked slowly.
“My sister,” Dylan said. “My niece is…sick.”
“Sick?” Melody repeated. He could see the same expression in her eyes that he saw in everyone’s when he told them. There was the hope that Emma just had a cold, the certainty that it must just be a simple seasonal bug.
“A rare heart defect,” he confirmed, watching the sadness settle over her, dimming her bright green eyes as her heart went out to a little girl she didn’t even know. There was another painful crack in his chest. “She, ah, isn’t doing well.” He looked up at Tank and Rip. The worry on their faces was only a fraction of what Dylan felt.
“Is she…?”
Dylan didn’t let Tank finish the question. “She’s gonna be fine,” he said, even though Grace hadn’t said anything like that over the phone. You might want to prepare yourself, was what she’d actually said, with enviable fortitude in her voice. She was so unlike Dylan, so much stronger than he was. Grace had practically raised him, even though she’d only been three years older.
“How old is your niece?” Melody
Similar Books
