Page 12 of August Lane
“You should,” he declared, and it warmed her insides. She liked how he’d recklessly tossed it in the air like truth. A silent beat fell between them, then he cleared his throat and said, “You haven’t asked why I’m here. Lurking in the dark.”
“Do I want to? Is it gross?”
“No.”
“You have pants on, right?”
“Yes.”
“I should have asked you that sooner.”
“I’m cool, I swear.”
“Okay. I believe you,” she said. “So, why are you here?”
“My friends tried to make me ride the roller coaster. I hate it. Makes me nauseous.” He took a deep breath, and she was relieved to hear it. Earlier, he’d seemed seconds from passing out. “They were assholes about it, and I… I don’t know, I had to get away from them.”
“They don’t sound like very good friends.”
He paused, then said, “They’re my teammates,” as if that explained everything. And to an extent, it did. Friends should be chosen, but sports in Arcadia made a lot of those choices for you: who you hung out with, how you dressed, what weird rituals you followed that no one else understood. Her cousin Mavis, the middle hitter for the volleyball team, choked down cheese grits every Friday even though she hated them because her coach claimed they brought good luck before a game.
“Are you at least good at whatever you play?” August purposely kept the question vague so the conversation wouldn’t devolve into a ball playersob fest. She’d never cared for sports and would probably say the wrong thing.
“I don’t know.” He paused. “I think I hate it.” He sounded unsure of himself, like it was the first time he’d said the words out loud.
“You should quit,” August advised, probably with too much glee. “Do something you enjoy.”
“I’ve got a scholarship to LSU.” He announced it like a prison sentence instead of a free ride to the largest university in Louisiana. She understood. Most people in town couldn’t afford to turn down free money. “I play guitar, though. I enjoy it.”
“Well, are you good atthat?”
“Yeah.” She heard him shift against the wall. “I mean, I think so.”
“You said yes really fast. Don’t get modest now.”
He laughed again. The sound was just as good as his voice—warm and contagious, the kind that invited you in. “I’m kind of like you. I only play at church. They give me a solo sometimes, but that’s it.”
“Wow, you get solos? I’ve been banned from solos.”
“Banned?”
“By my grandmother. She’s the choir director. And before you ask, no, I didn’t deserve it. She thinks it builds character to deprive children of things they want.”
“Wow.” He paused. “She sounds—”
“Like Ebeneezer Scrooge? There’s a resemblance.” She pictured Birdie in her Sunday best, all big brown eyes and deep dimples, swathed in pastel florals. “I’m kidding. She’s only fifty-eight and immortally gorgeous.” So was Jojo. Kingdoms were known to fall when her mother and grandmother stood in the same room. They looked like the former beauty queens they were. August, in contrast, had strong, unforgiving features that would frighten small children if she wore too much eyeliner.
“Do you write music?” she asked, trying to move the subject away from her family. She didn’t want him thinking about the fact that they hadn’t exchanged names.
“No. I mean, yeah, but not for real. Just a hobby. Do you?”
“Yes,” August admitted, even though she’d probably regret it later.But she never talked about songwriting with anyone. Secrets were lonely. “I’m moving to Nashville after graduation.”
“To be a singer? That’s so cool.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Is that why you’re here? Rehearsing in the dark?”
He’d been honest with her about what brought him there, so she felt obligated to do the same. “I was hiding from someone. A guy from school.”
“Oh. Ex-boyfriend? I’m not asking to hit on you. I have a girlfriend.”
