Page 24 of Poetry By Dead Men
"It’s just not as nice as where you live," he says with a shrug, averting his eyes.
"You’ve never been to my house. I could live in a one-room studio with four other families and no plumbing for all you know."
"Yeah, no. I looked up your address on Zillow. It’s a legit mansion. You could fit nineteen of my apartments in that house," he says, not an ounce of shame in his expression.
"What?" my mouth drops open with mock outrage. "I can’t believe you did that. You cyber-stalked me!"
"You actually can. Fit nineteen of my apartments in there, I mean. I did the math. And I was just doing some basic reconnaissance. Making sure you weren’t some weirdo before I slogged all the way across town to see you every day."
His admission makes my stomach dip and my cheeks warm. "Let me in the apartment." I cross my arms.
"Okay, but prepare to be disappointed," he relents, stepping to the side.
"Oh my God, I’m not going to be disappointed." I roll my eyes and open the door to a surprisingly bright and clean apartment. The room is small, but they’ve used the space well, and the only mess I see is a pile of papers on the floor between a leather couch and a black armchair.
I turn around to tell him I love it, but stop when I find Bobby still standing in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.
"What in the world are you worried about?" I plop down on the couch, reaching around the coffee table to grab the song on the top of the pile. “And where are the bodies?"
"They’re in the back. You really like it?" he asks, his dimple appearing, and I have the sudden urge to grab a pen and write out every facet of it in lyrical stanzas I know still won’t do it justice.
"It’s perfect," I say honestly. "Comfortable."
I think Bobby blushes, but he hides it by gesturing toward the hallway. "Anyway. We share a bathroom. It doesn't lock, but I already told Johnny to knock before he goes in. My room’s to the left, and his is in the very back."
"Got it." My stomach flips at the thought of being so close to his bedroom, but I keep my butt firmly planted on the couch. "What does Johnny do? Is he in school?"
"He's studying music production, but he plays guitar as well." Bobby gestures to the six guitars hanging on the wall near the kitchen.
As if saying his name summoned him, the front door swings open, and a tall, dark-haired boy around our age walks in.
"Well, if it isn’t the famous Beth," he swings his arms wide and smiles broadly, and I warm to him immediately.
"I thought you were working today," Bobby stabs a finger at him, his brows narrowing as if accusing him of something sinister.
"And I thought you weren’t doing anything fun today. Thank God I looked at your phone and saw a text from your girl here about comingover so I could drop in. He's been trying to hide you from me, Beth." Johnny crosses his arms and sticks his lip out in a pout.
Bobby’s jaw drops, his mouth gaping open as if he’s trying to figure out how to reply.
"Not his girl." I save him, standing up to shake Johnny’s hand. I don’t like the way the words taste coming out of my mouth, but I swallow down the bitterness.
"Interesting… that’s what he keeps saying, too," Johnny says, and something wilts inside me, but I force a smile as he steps past my outstretched hand and wraps me in a bear hug. "Semantics. Either way, I’m glad to meet you. You sure seem to inspire Bobby. He’s written some of the best music I’ve ever heard in the past couple months." He pulls back but keeps his hands on my arms.
Bobby's gaze locks on Johnny's fingers, his eyes narrowed. I've been under the impression they're friends, but based on how tense Bobby is, I'm wondering if they're more roommates who tolerate one another.
"Do you guys play together?" I ignore his absurd insinuation that I am the reason Bobby’s been writing great songs and take a step back, hoping to break the tension.
“Sometimes." He shrugs. "But I’ll play for anyone who will hire me. You don’t need any backup guitar by chance, do you?” he jokes.
"Considering that I sound like a drowning cat when I sing, that would be a firm no." I hold my hands up in front of me.
"I can’t imagine you’re bad at anything," Johnny says. "Not with the way Bobby talks about you. Does everything you touch turn to gold?"
"Oh my God. Leave her alone. Don’t you have somewhere to be, Johnny?" Bobby wipes his hands on his jeans.
"Unfortunately," he sighs dramatically, "I do."
"Great!" Bobby stands up straighter. "I mean… Oh no, don’t go," he says, his voice flat.
