Page 47 of Synced to Us

“You sure you want to keep taking those?” Wyn asks close to my ear. “They’re stronger than they taste.”

I raise my chin in his direction. “Why not? It’s been a while since I’ve let loose.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you anything other than immaculate.”

His comment, meant in jest, irks. I didn’t used to be this uptight with unwrinkled clothes and a put-together smile. Then again, I can’t remember the last time I allowed someone else to see the person I left behind.

I study the stage, then glance back at Wyn.

He reads my expression, and says, “Nope. No way.”

“You should. I’d love to see you get up there.”

Lucy pipes in, her cheeks flushed with red-headed sluts, “Omigod, are you asking him what I think you are? Yes, Wyn! Do it. Brad knows the manager of the band.” She swivels to her husband. “Stewart moonlights as a band manager but works with Brad at Thicketville High. You can talk to him, right?”

“Uh, does Wyn get a say in this?” Wyn raises his brows.

“Not really,” Lucy and I say at the same time. We break out in laughter.

Brad rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ. It’s not like I have an in just because my kid brother used to be someone and my wife and his girlfriend are drunk.”

“Not drunk, just eager to see Wyn play,” I correct.

Wyn leans in close. “You forget I don’t sing.”

“You don’t need words for the songs you play. They’re stunning in their own right.”

Wyn searches my eyes as if looking for the punchline. I make sure he finds none. This man lacked encouragement since the day Nocturne Court broke up. I’m not about to be like the rest of them.

Wyn’s eyes grow small, and I know he’s accepted the challenge.

He straightens. “All right. You win. I’ll go up there. No need to negotiate, Brad. I’ll just ask the band.”

Lucy claps. I smile. Brad glowers.

All three of us watch Wyn navigate to the stage. As he passes a few tables, heads turn, curious at first, and then sparking with recognition.

“Thicketville’s missed him,” Lucy croons, settling her chin in her hand. “Look at everyone. They’re figuring out who he is.”

“Was,” Brad grumbles.

“Lighten up, dear.” Lucy searches our table for remaining shots. “Here, have a slut.”

Brad declines, but the strangest expression crosses his face. He stares at me, and says, “No thanks. I think there are enough of those at this table.”

I stare at him, open-mouthed, but Lucy doesn’t react. She didn’t hear him. The comment was meant for me alone, and with that gleam in his eye, two words clang into my mind.

He knows.

17

Dee

Lucy and I knock back too many shots. I twist in my seat until Brad is in my blind spot and pretend it’s just Lucy and I watching Wyn set up for a song or two.

He doesn’t disappoint. The band was eager to pull him onstage and take over the keyboard, and the instant Wyn tests the keys, the bar goes silent. Someone positions a mic stand near his mouth, but he doesn’t use it as he starts the song he played for me in his childhood bedroom.

A part of me didn’t want to share that moment we had, that beautiful shift in the air that occurred as soon as he broke the quiet night with his music. It was special, private, mine. Selfishly, I want to keep it.

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