And then I’m in his arms, and we’re kissing again. Just like before.
Chapter Fourteen
KAT
AT THE END OF THE day, Alex waits for me at my locker, and then we head to his car. He’s talking about who-the-hell-knows-what. I’m not listening. Instead I’m taking mental note of the people watching us together. I think back to how worried I was back in September, on the first day of school. It’s funny, the stuff I used to think was a big deal. Now I realize that none of it f**king matters.
“Have you heard a single word I’ve said?”
I turn to face Alex. He’s got his navy wool beanie hat pulled down super low over his ears, but a lot of hair still comes curling out the sides. It’s turning dark again, now that’s it’s full-on wintertime, with just a few flecks of rusty red.
“Honestly, no, because you’ve been talking nonstop since the bell rang.”
He laughs, like I’ve said something hilarious, and then chugs the last of his water bottle. It crinkles in his grip. “I’m nervous, Kat.” I think for a second he’s joking. But there’s something about his voice that makes me know it’s true. It’s low and kind of deep-sounding. That and he doesn’t look at me when he says it. Instead he keeps his eyes focused straight ahead.
“Nervous? About what?”
“That you’ll hate everything I play.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, even though I’m a little worried about that too. What if Alex’s music really does suck? I mean, he rocked his “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” solo during the Christmas tree lighting. But I’ve never heard his original stuff before. And that’s the kind of program he’s applying for at USC—songwriting. I’ve already come up with a few stock compliments in case shit is really rough, but he’ll probably see right through them. I don’t have the best poker face. If his songs blow, should I still encourage him to do this? Or would it be better to tell him the hard truth, that I don’t think he’s good enough, like the judges on those stupid reality show music competitions do?
Ugh. I never should have agreed to this in the first place. “Well, we could always do it another day. Or . . . like . . . never.”
“I want to do it,” Alex says. “We’re doing it.”
“All right.”
We get into the car, and Alex turns the key and starts it up. His stereo kicks on loudly to the CD I burned for him.
“I like everything you put on here,” he says, turning it down. “But I don’t sound anything like these guys.”
Uh-oh. I give his arm a friendly squeeze. “You don’t have to. You just need to sound like . . . you.” Whatever that means.
* * *
An hour later I’m sitting on the edge of Alex’s bed, sipping soda from a cold can. He’s on a wooden stool across the room. He has his head down, strumming his guitar. He doesn’t even look at the notebook he has propped open on a music stand. He knows the words by heart.
This is the third song he’s played for me. And they’ve all been about the same thing—actually, the same person.
Lillia.
Which, yeah, I’ve known that he has a thing for her. But damn. The kid’s in love. From the sound of it, he’s been in love for a long time. Maybe forever.
He lets the last note vibrate out to quiet. And then Alex sets his guitar down and wipes his brow. “Those are the three I’m thinking I’ll submit.” He picks up a pencil to take notes. “Okay. So. First thoughts.”
I tell myself to keep my mouth shut, about a thousand times, rapid-fire in my head. Don’t be an ass**le, Kat. Just focus on the music. I lean back and try to say it as casually as I can. “Do you have any other songs? Or do they all sound like those?”
His face wrinkles up. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“You don’t think I can take it? I can take it. Tell me. What do my songs all sound like?”
I start talking fast. “Fine. I’m only being critical like this because this is an application process, and the people who are going to listen—”
“Just say it!”
“They all sound like junior high love songs about Lillia Cho, dude.”
Alex’s mouth drops open, and his whole face turns bright-ass red. “What?”
I start ticking points off on my fingers. “The first one was about a black-haired girl who comes to your window at night. The next, a dark-haired girl who doesn’t know you exist.”
“Now, wait a second, Kat. I—”
I don’t wait a second. I keep going. “And what was that last one? A rich girl who holds your hand on the gritty streets of Boston? I’m sorry but . . . seriously?”
He stands up fast, so fast that the stool tips backward onto the floor. Alex’s eyes are stormy, and he has them lasered on me. “I know you don’t like Lillia for whatever happened between you guys in the past, but I’d appreciate it if you could try to be objective and keep your comments about the song and not the person.”
The hell? “Excuse me, Alex, but Lillia and I are actually cool with each other. This isn’t about her. It’s about you showing some range. I’m trying to help you, remember?”
“I have other songs.” He picks up his notebook and holds it out. “I have a whole notebook full.”
I shrug. “Great. Can’t wait to hear one.”
Alex flips through a few pages and then frowns.
“Ha!” I give my knee a slap. “I knew it!”
“It’s not that.” He lets out a deep sigh as he turns around and rights the fallen stool. “Shit,” he says under his breath, and plops down onto it. “It’s pretty much exactly that.”
I see his confidence wavering, and it makes me feel like a dick. I shouldn’t have called his music “junior high.” That was messed up. “Look. It’s not that your songs aren’t good. They are. They’re sincere and, um, heartfelt. Which is Alex Lind to a T! But thematically speaking, they do sound the same.”
“Forget it, Kat. Don’t blow smoke up my ass.” Alex flops into the chair. “And if you and Lillia really are friends, then you must know if something’s going on with her and Reeve.”
I force a swallow. “What do you wanna know?”
“They left the New Year’s Eve party together.” He won’t look at me when he adds, “Plus, Lil told me they did kiss before. I mean, she said she regretted it, but—”