Page 73 of Sounds Like Love

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” He closed the pizza box lid, and we cleaned up our impromptu picnic area.

I said, “You’re actually nothing like I thought you’d be. I was wrong—during our first songwriting session. Wildly wrong.”

“I was wrong about you, too,” he replied, following me to the bar. “That night in the balcony.”

“Youreallymade me angry that night.”

“Trust me, I know. I’m good at that. I think that’s why people called me abad boyor whatever. Because I just”—he waved his hand in front of his face—“put up a wall. It’s easy, pretending that you can summarize someone without knowing them. They’re less like people and more like …”

“Stories,” I finished, putting the pizza box in the trash.

“Stories,” he echoed in agreement. “But really, you shouldn’t take to heart how some asshole whose biggest career move in a decade was guest starring onCelebrity Bachelortreated you.”

“Hey, you gave Riley Madds solid advice.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ah yes, my shining achievement.”

“People screw up love all the time, and as far as I know, Riley Madds is still married.”

“To a gaffer named Ned he met on the show,” he pointed out. “So, inadvertently, I guess?”

I laughed. “True love can find you anywhere. My parents, for instance, met right here at the Rev.”

And I spread my arms out wide.

He looked up at the balcony, and the steel beams, and the lights, and the outdated wood paneling that my dadsworemade the music sound better. “This wouldn’t be a bad place to fall in love.”

“It would be the best,” I agreed, imagining my parents dancing in the middle of the theater to a slow song on the jukebox.It was a good love story. One of the best. A backup singer in a rock band and a nerdy scientist who came back home to take over the family business.

Maybe that was why I felt like my own love story had such big shoes to fill.

I thought about telling Sebastian my parents’ story, but just as I decided on where to start, he pushed himself to his feet.

“Okay, it’s been long enough,” he said, reaching a hand down to me. “I’mdyingto know what you wrote.”

And the story on my lips fell away. I took his hand, and he pulled me to my feet. “You’rethatexcited?” I took my notebook out of my purse and sat down at the piano. I hesitated. What if I showed him what I’d jotted down yesterday, and it was all crap?

He joined me a minute later and pulled the keylid up for me. “It won’t be crap,” he told me. “C’mooooon, lemme seeeeee.” He stretched out the words into a whine, like a puppy begging for a bone. He even pouted.

So I relented.

He looked over it, nodding. “Oh,” he murmured, and took it out of my hands, pulling the pen from between the pages.“D major?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” I began. “I mean, I was just thinking …”

“Something bright,” he filled in for me. “Then a key change?”

I picked at my fingernails. “I know—it’s not very popular, but I think for the final verse …”

“No, but …” He scratched in a small note beside the key signature.“I like it.”

“It’s not much,” I said, an excuse.

“But it’s something,” he defended. “A foundation.” Then he propped the notebook up on the stand and played the melody with one hand,the axis chord progression with the other. He hummed as he went, fitting the chords to the melody, fast and exciting, but …

It’s too fast.

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