Page 11 of Sounds Like Love

And I think it might have been then—just then—that the songs in my soul went out. I didn’t realize it until I got back to LA and the apartment was so empty and I had another song due to a client and … I had nothing. And the more I tried, the quieter my head got until there was nothing at all.

I hated myself for that, because I needed to do this, to make it worth it if I was going to sacrifice all this precious time I could have had with Mom. Time I could never get back.

Time Iwillnever get back.

I guess I could have talked with my parents about my feelings, but they weren’t the type. They were Olympic-level champions of ignoring things.They ignored things right up until those same things became bigger things. Like the leak in the women’s bathroom at the Rev. And the hole in the roof that turned into a great entrance for a colony of bees. The hole where a seagull had snuck in to make a nest in the rafters.

And Mom’s forgetfulness.

“And whenever I get on the phone with Mom,” I went on to Gigi, because the words just kept pouring out, “she never wants to talk about it! Even when I ask her. I have to learn about her doctor’s appointments fromDad,” I stressed, “and you know he never takes notes!” I pushed myself back into the seat in frustration, running my hands over my face. “I just feel so out of the loop. Helpless. The worst child ever.”

“You definitely aren’t,” Gigi replied soothingly. “I have to remind Mitch about their birthdays. The bar is literally on the ground—and Ichosehim.”

“Even worse, gross.”

She shrugged. “He’s got talents, too. I mean, the things he can do with histongue—”

“Nope.” I cut her off before she could go on.

“Seriously, that Duolingo is helping him out with more than just Italian …”

“You’re theworst, you know that?”

She smiled. “Just trying to lighten the mood. They’re so proud of you. They love you, and you love me.”

I pretended to scowl. “Out of necessity.”

“Because I keep your ego grounded, Miss Hitmaker?” she teased.

I scoffed and dropped my hands from my ears. “My ego isalwaysgrounded.”

“Says the girl with a Cheeto in her hair.” And she pointed to the orange chunk stuck in my braid.

I snorted a laugh, rolled down the window, and tossed it—but the wind just buffeted it back to smack me in the forehead. She burst into a howling laugh, so infectious I couldn’t contain a giggle. I missed her laugh. I forgot how much I did whenever I went back to LA. It was big and boisterous. It made you want to laugh louder just to keep up.

Georgia Simmons had been my best friend since third grade. We were ride or die in the way only friends who bonded in the girls’ bathroom during lunch could be. We had a sort of friendship that wasn’t broken by miles or disagreements or finding out your best friend was doing the horizontal tango with your brother when you came home for Christmas, did laundry, and found a pair of lace underwear she bought the year before on a shopping trip with you. I had been in the middle of pounding back a probiotic soda and ended up almost dying right there in the hallway as I inhaled it from the shock.

No, Gigi and I were set for life. If she needed to bury a body, the only thing I’d ask was if she had a shovel.

She ran the only singing telegram business within a hundred miles of the OBX, and she was successful enough to have full-time work and a rabid—if small—social media following. The Unsung Hero was a job she stumbled into in high school when she needed money and her grandma wouldn’t let her work at the Revelry, and she kept at it even when she went off to college. We both got into Berklee to do the whole music thing, but I was the only one who ended up going even though she had been the one to get a full ride for voice performance. She defected to Duke instead and graduated cum laude from the business school with a degree in international relations.If she couldn’t sing, she’d see the world, she said. But then she found herself back in Vienna Shores, taking care of her grams, and now she was singing in pickle costumes to people at work functions and baby showers. She was one of the smartest and most talented people I knew.

And unlike me, she came back to Vienna Shores. She stayed.

Sometimes I had to wonder if she ever regretted it, but she never said so, and I never knew how to bring it up. But if she hadn’t stayed in Vienna Shores, she wouldn’t be dating my brother.

Speaking of which—

“So howismy terrible older brother?” I asked, wiping laughter tears from my eyes.

“Good,” she said—much too quickly. Then she realized she had and clammed up. “I mean, why wouldn’t things be good? Did he say anything?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Opened it. Then just … “Should he have?”

“No.” This time, her response was level. She rubbed the back of her neck. “No, we just … got into an argument a few days ago. Everything’s fine now,” she added, staring straight ahead at the traffic. The sun was just beginning to sink, though it wouldn’t for a few hours yet. Summers on the Outer Banks sometimes felt like they lasted forever.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.” She fiddled with the air-conditioning, turning a vent toward herself. “It’s stupid. We got into a fight about whether we should get a bigger bed because Buckley sleeps between us or make Buckley sleep on the couch.”

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