He shoots me a dirty look. The only seating options he has in here are the couch and his bed in the far corner of the room. I fully expect him to knock my legs off the cushions so he can sit, but instead he sinks down to the floor and leans his back against the front of the couch by my feet.
Sometimes I feel guilty thinking about how my brother lives in a studio, while I own a mansion in Nashville, and I bought my parents a house as well. I could easily pay for him to have a bigger place, but he’s refused every time I’ve offered.
And I know he’s not refusing out of pride. Luxury truly doesn’t matter to him. He’s really happy here, with the career he chose and the life he’s made for himself. Who am I to act like what he has isn’t enough?
Slapping my leg, he asks, “So when do I get to hear some new songs?”
“Uh... when I finish writing some.”
Which doesn’t feel like it will happen any time soon. Lately, every idea I have fizzles out after a few lines.
“I would have thought you’ve been doing a ton of writing while you’re here.”
Yeah, that was the plan. I was going to use my time in exile to be productive. But. “Guess I’m lacking the right inspiration.”
Andrew laughs. “Not much of a dating pool for you in Mayweather, huh?”
I know he means it as a joke and that he respects me and my musical career. And I’ve joked with him plenty of times before about my dating history and penchant for writing breakup songs, but today, I bristle at the comment.
Rather than trying to explain how much I want to be known for something more than my string of failed relationships with self-centered men, I kick out at him and force myself to laugh. “I could always go pay a visit to Connor’s farm.”
He stiffens at that. “You said you weren’t still interested in Connor.”
Sighing—because we’ve been through this, and I was only trying to go along with the joke—I assure him, “I’m not. That ship sailed when I was like eighteen.”
“I’ll say it did,” he says, his body relaxing. “It sailed you all the way to Nashville and the Grand Ole Opry, didn’t it?”
This time, I laugh for real. “Yeah, it really did.”
As soon as Andrew starts tapping a beat out on his knee, I know what’s coming.
“Don’t,” I warn him, even though he’s not going to listen.
“Apple of my eye,” he croons, pitching his voice higher to try to imitate mine. “That boy is sweet as pie.”
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you stop.”
“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to make him mine.”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Apple of my eye.”
I grab a throw pillow and start swinging it at him, but that doesn’t stop him either. Although the words are harder to make out now through his laughter.
“Not gonna lie. If he ever looked my way, I just might die.”
“Are you done now?” I ask when he stops to catch his breath.
My evil brother gives me a faux-innocent smile. “You know, I would’ve loved to see Connor’s face the day he first heard a song about himself on the radio.”
“He doesn’t really know it’s about him, though, does he?”
Suddenly, I’m feeling mortified at the thought. I always figured since Connor barely knew I existed when we were younger, he never would have considered that he’s the guy I wrote half the songs on my first album about.
With a snort-laugh, Andrew says, “Riley, you called him ‘the boy on the farm.’ Hate to break it to you, but I’m sure he knows. It’s a small town, and he’s the only boy who lived on a farm. Unless you were crushing on his dad.”
“Oh, god,” I whine, covering my face with the pillow.
