Page 35 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

Leela side-eyes her, but then nods in agreement. “Yeah, I am,” she laughs. “I’m just so excited to meet Reggie’sfriend!”

“Well, you met her,” Ryan says with a playful eye roll. “Now, time for you to go. We’ve got work to do.”

They give each other a quick peck, and then Leela heads out, giving me one more aggressively smiley look. Either the girl is actually really happy to see me or completely hates my guts.Whatexactly did Reggie say about me...?But no. I push that thought out of my mind. I’ve got enough to worry about now.

“Thank you so much for doing this,” I say, but Ryan quickly waves that away.

“Oh, of course,” she says. “I’m honored you came to me. Truly. And I’m all about helping out another girl in this scene—especiallyanother girl of color. There’s so few of us.”

I nod. “There are. And that’s why I’m just so—so in awe of you. I’m such a fan.”

“Awww, shucks. Same, girl!” she says with a laugh. Clearly joking, because that couldn’t possibly be true. “Come on.” She motions her head toward the side gate. “My space is back here.”

I follow her, taking the opportunity to fully gawk at her outfit. She’s wearing a floral lace dress, studded denim vest, and pastel pink Docs. Instead of red, her hair is now electric blue, and it’s growing out into a cool, asymmetrical cut. So I guess her perfectly outrageous looks aren’t just for the stage. It makes me like her even more.

We walk through her backyard to a detached garage. But instead of housing a couple cars or piles of old junk, like most people’s, this place is decked out like a professional studio. It’s maybe even nicer than the place that Asher dished out tons of money for us to record in back in February.

The walls are covered in shiny wood paneling, striped light and dark. On one side, there are six guitars mounted on the wall, in a rainbow of colors, with drums, amps, and gold mic-stand below. And on the other side, there’s a lounge area with a green velvetloveseat, leather chairs, and a pink mini fridge. The whole room is cast in a rosy glow from the neon sign that says “Love” in loopy script.

“This is... so cool,” I say, slowly spinning to take everything in.

“Right? My parents let me go all out.” She beams. “They’re all about my music, which I know is a huge blessing ’cause most parents aren’t like that. But when I told them I was starting a band, they were like, ‘Okay. How do we get you to Coachella?’”

“That’s really cool,” I repeat. And IknowI’m repeating myself, but it’s like my brain is robbed of all other adjectives—actually, all other words. I want to impress her, show her she didn’t make a complete mistake agreeing to teach me. But that pressure is just making my mind go blank.

“My mom’s only request is to use the space for her book club,” she continues. “Those aunties can get pretty rowdy.”

“Oh, ha-ha.” Another stupid generic comment. I look around, searching for something, anything, to say so she doesn’t send my cringey butt out of here right now.

“Is your last name really Love?” I ask, pointing to the neon sign on the wall.

“No,” she says with a giggle, and I get another wave of mortification. Of course it’s not. Maybe I should just see myself out. “My last name is Lo, but Ryan Love and the Valentines just sounds so badass. Also, Love is generic. Lo tells bookers exactly who I am. And some bookers—they don’t want to give stage time to a girl named Lo.”

“Really?” I squeak out.

“You’d be surprised.” She stops, cocks her head to the side. “Actually, no... I don’t think you would be. Things are easy in our liberal bubble of Long Beach. But you know as much as I do that we can cross over into the next county and enter an entirely different world...especiallywhen it comes to their precious rock music. And I don’t want to give some ignorant shit on a power trip the chance to turn me down before I blow them away.”

“That’s so unfair...” I sigh, and shake my head. “But you’re right. It’s reality.”

“Yeah, the game’s not fair, but I’m going to win regardless.” She saunters over to her mini fridge and pulls out two LaCroixs, handing me one of them. I don’t love them, but I’m for sure going to drink whatever this enlightened rock goddess role model gives me. She sits down on one of her leather chairs and nods for me to do the same.

“So Delilah.” She leans forward on her knees, and her eyes narrow at me, assessing. I don’t think she’s trying to intimidate me, but my heart rate speeds up all the same. “Before we get started, I want to know your why.”

My why?My why??

My heart races even faster, so loud she definitely hears it. What kind of question is that? I’m at a guitar lesson, not therapy.

“My why...?” I ask, trying to buy myself time.

“Yeah.” She smiles, like this is a totally normal, totally easy question. “Why you want to learn to play guitar, why you want to play your own music.” She must see the absolute panic flashing across my face because she adds, “There’s no right answer. Don’tstress. I just want to make sure I’m helping you the best I can.”

I search my mind for the right thing to say, because there is always a right answer. People always have a response they’re looking for, no matter what they say. And I want to find Ryan’s. I want to sound cool.

But my mind is still blank. And since sitting here in silence is not an option, as that would bethe mostcringe thing possible, I decide to be honest. It’s all I’ve got.

“I guess... Well, I love who I am when I’m up there. On stage,” I mumble, looking down. “And I—I want to feel like I deserve it. I think if I could actually play music I’d deserve it. Like the guys do.”

“I get that,” she says, and my head whips up in shock. Because how canthe Ryan Loveunderstand what I’m saying at all? But she has a smile on her face, and it’s an easy one. Not stretched too wide with pity or condescension. “I’ve seen your show. You’re good. You hold your own. But who gives a fuck what I think? The only one who can tell you that you deserve it is you.”

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