“It’s the height,” I say with a shrug. “Haven’t grown an inch since I was fifteen, and most people assumed I was already in college back then.”
“How tallareyou?”
I tip my chin down, clocking him to be four or five inches shorter than me. “Six-five.”
“Damn, man. I bet the ladies love that.”
“Ah, yeah,” I say awkwardly, running my hand over my hair. “Listen, if you’re serious about jamming together, I’m in the music building most afternoons.My classes will be done by three, so I’ll probably be in there afterwards until I get hungry.”
“You’re sure you wouldn’t mind me interrupting your time?” he asks, biting at his lips.
Movement from behind him draws my attention, and I catch a pretty brunette watching him impatiently. I swallow my disappointment again with a nod. “I don’t know a lot of people here yet, and with a voice like yours? Yeah, man, I’m definitely in.”
He huffs another of those shy laughs. “Okay. Cool.”
“There’s a practice room on the first floor, right past the vending machines. It’s open for free use, but usually empty. Look for the keyboard case that looks like it lost a fight with a sticker factory, or the drum set that’s carved up in teenage angst. That’s me.”
He chuckles, glancing at his own decorated case. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he promises. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I agree with a nod. “Nice meeting you, Eric. And seriously, great set. You’ve got something real.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate you saying that.”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” I promise, before flashing him one last smile. “Enjoy your night, man.”
“You, too.”
I turn toward Tyler, getting pulled into the hum of the crowd as I make my way back to our booth. Myheart’s still thudding a little too hard, and I know I’ll be thinking about him for hours. That voice, and the way he looked under the spotlight.
It’s a tragic recipe for a crush.
But the tinge of disappointment is overshadowed by the possibility of finding a new friend, even if it’s never meant to be anything more.
Chapter 2
Two and a Half Years Later
Thelecturehalldoorsspit us out into the March sunlight at 3:12 p.m., same as every Tuesday and Thursday. Dmitri is already three steps ahead of me, his long legs eating up the walkway likehe can’t wait to escape into the fresh air, but he slows without looking back. He’s been doing that for two years now, like he knows exactly when I need him to wait.
“Still think Professor Hale’s take on modal interchange is bullshit?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Still think Hale should do us all a favor and retire,” I mutter.
Dmitri laughs in that low, easy sound that always loosens the knot in my chest a fraction. “Yeah, but if you didn’t have him, you’d just be in another programming class you hate.”
I grunt my agreement, shifting my bag on my shoulder and feeling the weight of the extra textbook for my next class. Music is my passion, but it doesn’t necessarily pay the bills. My parents encouraged me to pursue a music major, regardless, and claimed we’d find a way to make it work. Dad’s proud as hell, but no matter how much he tries to hide it, I know how tight they are. I won’t add an unemployed adult son to their stress. Computers may not be enthralling, but IT is a solid choice for a minor and a good fallback.
Dmitri falls into step beside me. We walk close enough that our shoulders brush, but it’s comfortable. Everything between us has always been comfortable. We’ve traveled this stretch of campus a hundred times, and I’m so familiar with it I could do it in my sleep. After we leave the music building, we head pastthe library to the edge of the quad, then circle the long loop around the fountain toward the off-campus shopping strip.
It’s our tradition after Advanced Music Theory, same as it was after Applied Music II last semester. We decompress, talk shit about class, then argue over whose opinion about the day’s lesson is correct until one of us buys the next round of caffeine. Once we’re past school stuff, we drift into the personal conversations I quietly eat up.
Today, Dmitri’s in the faded black hoodie I’ve seen a thousand times. His sleeves are pushed up in the warm afternoon, forearms flexing when he shoves his hands into the kangaroo pocket. His dark hair is still slightly damp from the quick shower he must have taken between morning drum lab and this class, because I can smell the cedar shampoo he’s used since freshman year.
I shouldn’t notice that.
I shouldn’t notice the faint scar on his left knuckle from a sophomore-year drumstick mishap, or how the laugh lines around his eyes are starting to deepen when he grins at me sideways.
“You’re quiet,” he says after we pass the fountain. There’s no accusation, just observation. He always knows when I’m stuck inside my head.
