Page 23 of Behind the Net

“It’s nothing.” I force a smile and shake my head. Then I roll my eyes. Too much, I tell myself. Too fake. “It’s my old guitar that Hazel doesn’t have room for. I bought it for myself after graduation.” Alarm bells ring in my head as I veer closer to the topic of high school. I roll my eyes again, trying to convey ano big dealvibe, which I’ve never been able to master. “I don’t even play anymore.”

He’s doing that staring thing again that makes me feel like I have no clothes on. “Why not?”

“Um.” All I can think about is Zach on stage with that new woman, and how easily replaced I was. With a better model, too. New and improved.

“I don’t know.” I frown at my sneakers. “I learned when I was twelve, and then I met Zach—” I glance at him. “My ex.”

He makes an unhappy noise of acknowledgment.

“We would always mess around with music and stuff. I’d play a tune, and we’d sing it together or something.” I play with the hem of my jacket. “Even when we were on tour, sometimes I’d play if it was just me and him hanging out.” Shame settles in my stomach, and I worry my bottom lip with my teeth.

I hate being the girl who got dumped. I hate that Zach left an ugly mark on me. The breakup is like a weight holding me down.

I lift my gaze to Jamie’s, and there’s something in his expression as he listens to me talk. Something sweet and sharp, and it makes me want to stay here in this dog park for a whole day, talking.

“Whatever,” I say, putting on a smile to shove away the weird Zach feelings. “It’s in the past.”

His eyes move over my face. “You have a nice voice.”

My face falls, and embarrassment weaves through me. “You heard me singing?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he nods. “That day I…”

Oh, right. The day he nearly saw me naked. Cringe. My face heats. “Everyone sounds good in the shower.”

“No.” He gives me a hard look. “They don’t.”

Jeez, he’s so intense. A tiny shiver rolls down my back at his firm tone. Is he this firm in bed? I try not to bite my lip at the arousal that shimmers through me. The idea of Jamie Streicher on top of me, naked, sweating, and wearing a look of agonized ecstasy, is very, very hot.

“You have a great voice,” he tells me again. “You know you do.”

When my grade twelve music teacher said that to me, Zach made it seem like the teacher was being nice. Like the teacher felt sorry for me.

“I’m not going to do anything with it.”

He glares at me.

“I’m not performer material,” I tell him, echoing the words Zach said years ago.

You don’t have it, he’d said. Oof. It’s still embarrassing that I even tried. Especially when my mind flicks to his new manic pixie dream girl.

“It’s okay,” I reassure Jamie.

“Your ex is a fucking loser to let you go,” he bites out.

My breath catches. His eyes flash with fury, and I tilt my head, studying him. He frowns harder. He’s about to keep going, but I cut him off.

“Let’s go.” My tone is bright. I don’t want to be sad, hurt loser girl right now. I just want to forget.

His gaze lingers on me for a moment before he nods and drops it. As we walk home, I ask him about his upcoming schedule and fish for other ways I can help around the apartment. He’s resistant, though, and besides taking care of Daisy and ordering groceries, he doesn’t ask for much.

I make a mental note to buy more cupcake ingredients, though.

We’re a block from the apartment when something in the window of a music store catches my eye, and I stop short.

Oh my god.

The guitar of my dreams sits on display in the front window, gleaming. The photos in the guitar magazine I flipped through a couple months ago didn’t do it justice. In person, I can see the fine craftsmanship, the details in the grain of the wood, the shape that I can practicallyfeelresting on my leg as I play. It’s beyond beautiful. My gaze traces every line, each string, every fret, memorizing it.

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