Page 62 of Second to None

Porto Cervo, Friday, August 29th

‘He doesn’t love me like that.’

The words rattled around my head like pebbles in a tin can. It had been a fun little thing I’d done with Emily—she’d been four, going on five, just before Jessica’s cancer diagnosis flipped our worlds upside down. No responsibility, just an afternoon with my adorable niece because my sister had a headache and I had no plans other than figuring out the rest of my life. So Emily and I had built instruments out of pebbles and tin cans and sticks, got a rhythm going, and pretended we were on stage, playing to thousands.

‘He doesn’t love me like that.’

Something about Cass’s tone when he’d said it stayed with me—not matter-of-fact but sure and a little resigned, like it was something he knew to be true at least for now.

Was it?

The question had niggled at me all throughout dinner last night—pizza served fresh from the outdoor oven where I’d grabbed Cass just days ago, desperate to get my hands on him. It wasn’t just physical; I knew that. It was our past blurred with this new kind of friendship we’d built, melting in with a blinding attraction and dusted with appreciation for the man he’d become. But love? No. I couldn’t do this again.

I woke up to find him already gone, a dent in the pillow where he’d slept. Morning warmth drifted through the open window, along with the faint strumming of a guitar. Single chords followed by a slow progression of notes, like he was still testing the outline of an idea.

Coffee first. I brushed my teeth, slipped on a T-shirt, and wandered through the kitchen for an espresso and a fresh pastry. My dad must have dropped by the bakery already.

I found Cass in a snug sitting area formed by slabs of granite, their weathered look softened by cream-coloured cushions. Sunlight filtered through branches that wove a loose canopy overhead. In a tank top and faded shorts, hair a messy tumble, he seemed miles removed from the boy who’d longed for bright lights and city thrills.

‘He doesn’t love me like that.’

I hovered at the edge of the stone path, listening to a warm, relaxed progression of chords, Cass humming along under his breath. Not a big showstopper, nothing loaded with recognisable hooks—just sweet, maybe even a bit raw.

He glanced up and caught me looking. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Hey. You just gonna stand there?”

“Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not.” His voice had dipped low on the statement, as if it meant to encompass much more than just this moment—like he would welcome me anytime, anywhere.

I sat down on the stone wall beside him, shy for no real reason. “New song?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He looked down at the fretboard, pressed his fingertips against it, and released another gentle chord. “Not sure it’s album material. Maybe a bonus track or something.”

“Show me what you’ve got so far?”

He nodded. His body curved over the guitar, head bent as he picked out a delicate melody. His lips formed silent words, testing lyrics against the music. I’d always loved watching him like this, focused and unguarded.

He didn’t have Mason’s skill with a guitar—none of us did because Mason had played well before the band. The rest of us had learned it mostly for something to do on the bus, for messing around backstage before a show, because it was a useful tool once we’d started working on our own music. The label hadn’t been too enthusiastic about that at first. So, no, Cass didn’t have Mason’s skill, but the way his slender fingers moved over the strings made me swallow hard.

“It’s nice,” I said quietly. “Really lovely. But something about the chorus—can you…?”

He complied without question, moving through the same sequence. Around us, the garden seemed to have fallen into a hush, nothing but the faint rustle of leaves and the steady, quiet hum of insects.

When the notes faded, I leaned back against the stone and pulled one knee up to my chest. “I think I keep waiting for a drop, and it never quite hits. Your third chord—you keep hitting a major when I think a minor would…”

He shot me a quiet look that made it suddenly difficult to breathe. “You think so?”

“Just try it.”

He did, shifting his grip. The chord change darkened the progression and gave it a bit more depth.Better. His brows drew together as he repeated the sequence, finishing with a half-formed smile.

“I like it.”

“Yeah.” Stupidly, my cheeks warmed. “Got lyrics yet?”

“Just snippets. Images, mostly.” He pushed his notebook towards me, open on the oddly shaped stone table that served as the centrepiece of the seating group. Thattied it together—he’d always mocked me when I used language like that, gently so, laughter woven into a playful challenge to ‘be more gay, I dare you.’ Somehow, I knew he’d outgrown that kind of talk.

I scanned his lopsided scrawl, no clear order yet to his disjointed thoughts.An old knot comes undone. In places we have yet to find. A rose-hued, patient sky. Certain steps, no rush.

---