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“Bradley,” Casey wheezed. “Nash. They’d make a terrific couple. They’re both equally certain that the universe revolves around them and that anyone would be lucky to have them. And since they never listen to what anybody else says, they’d never realize the other wasn’t paying proper homage.”
“Fuck them,” Dev growled.
“No, but if we could arrange for them to fuck each other—”
“Casey.” Dev’s grip tightened on Casey’s shoulders and he gave them a tiny shake. “I don’t want to talk about them anymore, but I want you to understand. I don’t regret leaving Nash behind, and I don’t regret leaving the band.”
Casey gazed up at him. “But do you regret leaving music?”
“Honestly?” Uncertainty clouded Dev’s gaze, as though he wasn’t used to people asking for his opinion.
No, as though he wasn’t used to people asking about his pain.
“Yes. Honestly.”
“Honestly.” He swallowed. “Okay.” He pulled Casey against his chest and rested his cheek against Casey’s hair. “After the accident, it was like music was… I don’t know… invisible. Gone. I didn’t even listen to it anymore.” He kissed the top of Casey’s head. “But then you came. And I…” His chuckle rumbled under Casey’s cheek. “I wrote a song about you.”
The rhumbaing butterflies staged an encore. “About me? Really?”
“Yeah. First one in eighteen months.”
He tilted his head so he could look up at Dev. “I kept hearing snatches of guitar music the week I first got here. Was that it?”
“Yeah.”
The butterflies switched to disco. “Can I hear it?”
Dev grimaced again. “I’m not sure you want to.”
“Are you kidding?” Casey bounced on his toes. “A song about me? Of course I want to hear it.”
Dev rubbed the back of his neck. “You might want to rethink that. I, uh, wasn’t exactly being reasonable after Bradley’s unexpected appearance in the summer kitchen.”
“Oh.” His heart settled. A little. Because Dev wrote a song about him. “Is it a screw-you song?”
“More like an unrequited love song with screw-you overtones.”
Casey flattened his palms over Dev’s pecs. “I’d still like to hear it. If you’re willing to play it for me.”
Dev took a shaky breath. “It’s still pretty rough.”
“I don’t care. If you’ve been divorced from music for almost two years, you can’t expect to be perfect right out of the gate.” Casey crossed to the window, retrieved Dev’s guitar from its stand, and held it out. “Please?”
Dev hesitated briefly, but then took the guitar with a shaky breath. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“Absolutely.” Casey settled onto the sofa, his hands between his knees, while Dev sat in the Kennedy rocker, a twin to the one in Harrison House’s living room.
After fiddling with the pegs for a couple of minutes until he was apparently satisfied that the guitar was in tune—or else was simply done stalling—Dev glanced up at Casey once, then lowered his gaze to his fingers on the strings.
There you stood,
Smiling, haloed in the light.
And, no excuses, I knew better,
But surrendered to the sight.
You said nothing, and why would you,
