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He’s alone, leaning against the counter with his back to the doorway, looking through the dark window above the sink.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.”

He glances over his shoulder, then turns back to the window.

I walk in anyway.

I fill a glass from the tap and lean against the counter beside him. Our arms are almost touching.

“So,” I say. “Luca’s a lot.”

Cal huffs a laugh. “That’s him behaving.”

“That was him behaving?”

“He once got us banned from a hotel in Milwaukee because he convinced half the floor there was a ghost in the laundry room.”

I turn towards him. “Was there?”

“No.”

“What did he do?”

“Stole a sheet from housekeeping, covered himself in it and stood behind the dryers making ghost noises.”

I laugh. “What does a ghost sound like?”

Cal’s expression goes blank.

Then he does the weirdest ghost noise ever.

I clap a hand over my mouth.

“That is deeply upsetting.”

“Luca’s always been like that,” he says. “He makes everything fun. Even when it definitely shouldn’t be.” There’s so much affection in his voice, I think about how much he must miss the band and playing together.

The laughter fades from the kitchen as Cal turns his glass against the counter.

“Can I ask you something?” He glances at me. “The guitar Sydney mentioned—is it yours?”

I look toward the kitchen. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“It was my dad’s.”

He nods. “You play, though.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Calluses.” He points at my left hand. “Fingertips.”

I curl my fingers into my palm. “You noticed my hands?”

“I notice most things about you.”