Her expression becomes thoughtful as she considers my words. “I’ve always loved rock. It’s my favorite genre to listen to.”
“You sound like a rocker when you sing your own songs.”
Her eyes brighten in a way I’ve never seen when she talks about her career. “Really? You think so? I hear the songs in my head with a full band behind me. Heavy guitars, drums, bass, the whole deal.”
“I can see it,” I say, squinting at her. “And now you’re turning me on. You’re kind of a badass when you sing your own stuff. You just need a tattoo or two.”
She snorts a dry laugh. “Right. I’ve always wanted one but Mom doesn’t think it’s a good idea. ‘Fads are always changing, Genevieve,’” she repeats in a mocking tone. “‘You can’t lock yourself into a permanent one.’”
I study her bitter look. “Why does your mom have a say over your body? You’re an adult, right?”
“Everyone has a say over my body except for me.” She must see my irritation at that, and her eyes narrow. “What about you, Mr. Athlete With A Messed Up Knee? Who owns your body?” She’s got a point. Still, that feels completely different.
“If you want a tattoo, you should get a tattoo,” I say.
She reaches over and traces the one on my chest. “What about yours? What do they mean?”
I pull in a deep breath as she studies the slow outline of her fingers over the detailed design. Are we ready for this conversation? I’ve demanded honesty from her since the moment we met. Don’t I owe her the same?
“Brother. Friend,” she reads in a soft voice. Her touch is feather-light, sending chills over my skin. “Who’s your brother and friend?”
“It’s for Thomas,” I say finally. “I told you I have four sisters and two brothers. What I didn’t tell you was that only one of my brothers is still living.”
Her eyes widen, and I look away. “Thomas was the oldest of us, three years older than I am. The protector, you know?” I swallow a hard lump in my throat. “Anyway, one night he was hanging out with friends at a lake near my house. I guess they’d been drinking. They said they didn’t even know at what point he went under. They just realized later that he didn’t climb back on the dock with them.”
“Oliver…”
I clear my throat. “There was a big search, but his body wasn’t found until three days later when it washed up on the opposite shore. So yeah. One night I had my best friend, and the next, I became the oldest and the protector.”
“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.” Her palm spreads over my heart, pressing against the sudden ache. “Is that why you don’t drink?”
I nod. “One of several reasons. He wanted me to go with him that night. I’ve always thought if I’d gone, I could have saved him. I’m a stronger swimmer, the athlete of the family. Maybe that night I should have been the one looking out for him. He’d been there so many times for me, but I wasn’t there when he needed me.”
She shakes her head, touching my jaw to draw my gaze. “That’s not the way tragedy works, Oliver. We don’t get to rewrite the beginning after the fact.”
I manage a weak smile, surprised by the insight and depth of her response. It’s strange how in some ways she’s so unnaturally innocent and in others so beyond her years. Maybe I’m the same. At twenty-three my life has taken a very different trajectory than most of my peers. I have more in common with teammates who are a decade older, than I do with the average person my age. How much of that is hockey and how much is life circumstances, I can’t begin to guess. All I know is that I haven’t felt like a kid in years. Ever? Even at age ten I had the work ethic of an adult. I had to in order to be the best, and once Thomas was gone, the pressure to provide for my family became another unspoken layer of maturity. I study Genevieve beside me, sensing she was never a child either. A girl who’s been a woman her whole life. No wonder she doesn’t know herself. She never got to grow up.
“Will you play more of your songs for me?” I ask, searching her eyes. I love the way they light up again, so different from the fear and anger when I first saw this other side of her.
“You really think they’re good?” she asks with a sincerity that tugs at me. She’s not fishing for compliments. How can one of the biggest voices in the world not know how good she is?
“They’re amazing. You should record them.”
She laughs, her grin fading when I continue to stare at her. “Wait, you’re serious?”
I shrug. “Why not? Don’t you record songs for a living?”
“Yeah, but, not those kinds of songs.”
“So record those kinds of songs.”
Her expression darkens as she straightens to a sitting position, clasping the sheet to her chest. “It’s not that simple.”
“Does it have to be simple?”
“I have a brand, Oliver. People expect me to perform stuff like ‘Boy Crazy’ and ‘Horizontal.’ They want me to make them feel light and carefree while they dance to my music in a club. I can’t just become an angsty rocker all of a sudden.”
“Why not?”
“Because! Do you have any idea how huge my platform is? How much rides on everything I do or say? I can’t even wear a new outfit without a global discussion, let alone change everything that makes me me.”
“But it’s not you. That’s the problem. Your own music makes you happy. That’s you.”
She cringes, and my frustration builds again. I hate how she reacts as if she can’t think of anything worse than
