Page 58 of Reverb

I couldn’t read that word, her tone. “What?” I asked. “What does Ah mean?”

Mom put her knife down and turned to look at me. Her eyebrows rose.

I knew full well that this was a teacher trick—stare at a student with raised eyebrows and let him or her fill in the expectant silence. Still, it worked on me, just like it always had.

“He’s older than me,” I said. “He’s thirty-seven. He’s famous. I’m writing a profile of him for Soundcheck that’s important for my career. We’re probably not going to cross paths often after the story runs. We’re very different. We didn’t like each other at first. He isn’t my usual type. I don’t think we’re really compatible.”

There they were, all my doubts spilled out on our kitchen floor like sour milk. I’d never met someone who shot at my equilibrium like Stone did, who sent me from a happy high to a doubting low and back again. I’d started out being more than content to insult him, argue with him, and nothing more.

But now? Now I wanted to climb him and shout at him and follow him around like a puppy. I still wanted to insult him, and I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to like me. I believed he did like me, until I remembered that he was a hot guitar god who could have any woman he wanted, and therefore he probably didn’t like me at all. Then I was mad at him all over again, and he wasn’t even in the room.

“That’s interesting,” Mom said, unaware that I was losing my mind. “The compatibility thing. You’ve always wanted someone who loves music as much as you do. You said that’s all that matters. Even more than looks.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. Because Mom was right. I always dated music nerds. I’d pictured myself ending up with a brainy guy who could talk about music with me for hours.

And that was Stone. We’d been seeing each other for nearly two months now. I sat in on Road Kings rehearsals. Stone and I went to clubs around Portland for my Soundcheck assignment, and we’d taken in all kinds of music—jazz, blues, hip-hop, even country. We listened to each other’s playlists. We’d done his three interviews for the magazine, during which we’d managed to keep our hands off each other in a professional manner. Stone had answered my questions about his life, and then we’d listened to some of the albums that had influenced his sound.

What was all of that if not talking about music? Stone and I had been having a conversation about music for months. Since the day he’d shared his library with me and I’d listened to it while I drove out of Cleveland.

No one understood my love of music, my absolute need for it in my life, like Stone did. No one.

“There are all of the other problems I listed,” I said to my mother.

She shrugged, taking a bite of her toast. “Well, I don’t see the rush. So you aren’t going to get married and have babies right away. You’ve always said that wasn’t in your plan, anyway. And thirty-seven is far from old.”

Her logic, in the face of my swirling emotions, was irritating. “You’re being awfully casual about the fact that I’m dating a famous musician.”

“That’s because you’re a smart girl with a good head on your shoulders,” she said serenely. “But if you want me to give a second opinion, invite him for dinner. Your father and I will assess the situation.”

“Mom, no.”

“Oh, yes,” she said in her inarguable teacher’s voice. “You’ll invite him to dinner, I believe. Saturday is good. Unless you have plans on Saturday?”

We locked gazes. I could tell her I had plans for every Saturday into eternity, but I would not win this contest. Mom was nice, but she had decades of experience directing teenagers. She was made of Teflon.

“I’ll ask him,” I hedged, even though Stone and I already planned to see each other on Saturday. “He might not come.”

“He’ll come,” Mom said. “I liked that boy. The scowly beard look is all an act. I’ve taught plenty of boys like him. He’s just unsure in social situations, that’s all. If you’re nice to kids like that, they open up.”

Mom made everything sound so simple.

To my surprise, Stone had agreed to dinner without any argument. Even when I warned him that my dad would make him listen to vinyl records, he’d just shrugged and said, “Sure.”

So here he was, striding up the driveway toward my parents’ house. I could see him from my bedroom window. By the time I got downstairs, Dad had already swung open the front door and was waving, as if greeting a ship docking at the harbor.

“Hello there!” Dad shouted.

Stone’s brows drew down, but after a moment he lifted his fingers in a tentative wave. He’d toned down the rock star look tonight, presumably in honor of my parents. He was wearing blue jeans that fit him like a thirsty dream and a green pullover shirt with a zipper at the collar. He’d left off his rings and any other jewelry. He’d never looked less like a guitar god, yet somehow there was no mistaking Stone Zeeland. It was in the scowl, the set of those big shoulders, the sauntering grace of his walk. To me, he was obviously a man who could own a stage.

When Stone got close enough, Dad grabbed his hand and shook it. “Nice to see you again, Stone,” Dad said. “Come on in.”

“Peter,” Stone said. He looked past Dad’s shoulder at where Mom stood in the hall. “Hi, Maggie.”

“It’s so nice to see you!” Mom grasped Stone’s shoulders in a hug and kissed his cheek. Stone looked startled, and then he politely patted Mom’s back before dropping his hands.

“Sure,” he said. His eyes locked on me, and when he saw my face, he scowled again.

“Come into the kitchen, Stone,” Mom said, and as she and Dad walked away, Stone moved close to me.

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