Chapter 46

Shuttingthe screen door behind me, I pocket my phone, and go join the others at the kitchen table.

Shawn is pulling out the seat next to Phoebe on one side, and across from them, Waylon sits there next to the only remaining chair, scowling, stabbing his fork into a piece of chicken.

"Did you talk to Jeremy?" Mom asks from where she's bringing a dish over from the island. She smiles, and fuck if it doesn't feel good to see. I honestly can't remember the last time she smiled.

God, I've missed so much.

Nodding, I say, "Yeah, we FaceTimed."

"He actually answered?" Waylon says.

Mom shoots him a pointed look, and I grimace.

"His roommate did actually. Gave him no choice," I say.

Waylon grunts at that.

"Jeremy's just going through some things," my twelve-year-old sister says, nodding. "He'll come around."

The three of us send her varying looks of amusement. Shawn just sits there, staring down at his plate, miles away.

"What?" she says with a shrug.

"Nothing, Squirt," Mom murmurs, fighting a smile.

"Mom," Phoebe drags out from the corner of her lip. She darts a look at the looming dark figure sitting next to her, shoulders hunched, seemingly oblivious to what's going on around him. But I know better. Pretty sure Mom does too.

Phoebe bugs her eyes, shaking her head, and Mom mouths, Sorry.

Suppressing a laugh, I pull out the seat next to Waylon, joining them.

Mom asks how Jeremy's doing in college as we pass the mashed potatoes and corn around.

"He's going clubbing tonight."

Phoebe gasps. "A gay club?" Her gray-blue eyes are as bright as the smile stretched across her face.

I frown. "Um, he didn't say actually." Reaching for my water, I take a sip, feeling eyes on me.

When I look up, I find Shawn watching me with those fathomless dark eyes.

"What?" I say, before setting the glass down, and sitting up straight. "You don't have a problem with that, do you?" I blurt a little more harshly than I anticipated.

The room plummets into silence.

Next to me, Waylon is rigid.

"Mason…" Mom says carefully.

Shawn blinks, completely unfazed. "No."

I stare at him, trying to decipher what he's really thinking. We've known each other for three months now, and while I like to think I've become pretty damn good at reading him. Sometimes…like now…I've got not a fucking clue where his head's at.

"He doesn't," Phoebe chirps happily. She shoves a piece of chicken in her mouth, chewing as she says, "Knos‘m shmans, and coo wiffit."

I frown. "What?"

Waylon visibly relaxes, and I wonder when he started speaking whatever language that just was.

Probably somewhere in the last two years, seeing as I might as well have not even been around, for how fucking checked out I was. And that's before I was physically not here.

The bite of food I just swallowed goes down rough at the reminder, and I rub my fingers over my sternum.

"Phoebe, swallow your food first, please," Mom says dryly.

My sister rolls her eyes, tipping her head side to side as she does what she's told.

Finally, she says more clearly, albeit with all the attitude in the world, "I said…he knows I'm trans, and is cool with it." She stabs her fork into her corn, sending little kernels everywhere. "If he's cool with that, then he's cool with everything."

We just stare at her—Mom and me…even Waylon—our forks hovering in the air halfway to our mouths.

That is the first time I've ever heard her say the words outright.

In front of a practical stranger, no less.

Except he already knows…

She whips her head around to look at Shawn who's currently taking a sip of water. "Right?"

He swallows, and sets his glass down, the bracelet on his wrist peeking out from under his sleeve at the movement. He murmurs, "Right."

Okayyyyyy…

"Phoebe…" Mom says gently.

"What?" she says, like she didn't throw us all for a loop.

Mom's eyes dart from her to Shawn, to me, to Waylon, and then back to Phoebe.

"I know you wanted to wait, but I'd already told him. Sorry."

Mom's gaze darts to mine, and we share a long, weighted look.

"Sweetie," she says slowly, turning to my sister. "You don't have to be sorry for that. It's your decision who knows, always. I just didn't know you told him. I was surprised."

Phoebe just shrugs. "He's a good secret keeper. I could tell."

I look at Shawn, arching an amused brow, a look he returns with a flat look.

"Well, then," Mom says, smiling. "Okay."

"So where are you from?" Waylon says about as harshly as my earlier question. I don't have to look over to see that he's got hostility shooting from his eyes. His entire body radiates it.

"Dude," I mutter, just as Shawn replies, "Scranton."

"And you went to rehab because…"

"Way," I say sharper this time, cutting him a fierce look to quit it.

This time, Shawn says nothing, and like before, tension blankets the room. Tension only he seems to be unfazed by. At least on the surface.

"It's a valid question," Waylon says quietly. Defensively. "We don't know him, and now he's here, living under our roof. He?—"

"Waylon," Mom interjects not unkindly.

Our roof.

Because Waylon moved in not long after he turned eighteen last spring, and no longer had to stay with his legal guardian—his uncle. And with Shawn here now too…

Well, it's lucky this is a big house, but it also means Shawn and Waylon have to share the guest room until we get another bed for the attic.

Tonight's going to be interesting…

Waylon lifts his head, meeting her soft, understanding gaze.

Meanwhile, I'm over here, gritting my teeth, fighting the urge to throttle him. As per usual when he acts like this, but especially when it comes to Shawn. I've gathered enough in rehab—from the pieces he offered up in group, and in all the things he didn't say—to know the guy deserves a fucking break.

If anything, these two share far more in common than either know. More than either would be probably willing to admit, at least not yet. Probably not for a while, seeing as both are equally tight-lipped about the shit they've been through.

"Do you really think I'd let someone live here who I thought was dangerous?"

Waylon just stares at my mom.

She sighs.

"I could go."

At those three gruff words, I snap my gaze to Shawn.

Before either Mom or I can object though, Phoebe sighs dramatically. "No, you're not going anywhere. Ignore him. We do."

"Hey," Waylon protests, and she responds by sticking her tongue out at him.

With a huff, he slouches in his seat.

To Shawn, I say, "She's right." I cut a long sideways look at Waylon. "He'll get over it."

When caustic hazel eyes slide to mine, I add, "And if he doesn't, he's got an uncle across town who'd be happy to take him back."

His face hardens, nostrils flaring.

"Because he stays here out of choice," I say pointedly."And he'll do best to remember that."

Despite the vitriol blazing back at me, I see the wheels turning in his head. When it clicks, he drops his gaze, his jaw working furiously.

Yeah, asshole.

Waylon might've had a shit upbringing, but at least he has multiple people who'd fight like hell to keep a roof over his head. Shawn has no one but us. If my mom didn't get assigned to him in the hospital, if she didn't push him into going to rehab, if she didn't insist he come live with us when we both got out today…

He'd be back on the streets.

Probably dead by now.

"May I be excused?" Waylon says tightly, not looking up from his plate.

Mom's frowning. "You know you never have to ask that."

With a short, tense nod, Waylon pushes away from the table, grabbing his plate setting, and taking it to the counter. He hesitates, like he's warring with himself.

"It's okay, I've got it," Mom says.

Frowning, I watch as the tension leaves his spine, and he quickly ducks out of the kitchen, disappearing down the hall. A moment later, footsteps can be heard thudding up the stairs.

Turning back to Mom, I find her giving me a small smile.

Across from me, Phoebe leans over, stopping just shy of actually touching Shawn. I don't miss how rigid he gets. He doesn't even breathe. He's frozen.

"His dad was a dick," she whispers before I can so much as tell her to give him space.

"Phoebe!" Mom admonishes.

My sister retreats with a shrug. "What? It's true."

Shawn's gaze meets mine, and I purse my lips, unsure what to say. She's far from wrong…but it doesn't feel any more right dishing out Waylon's past to him, than it would to tell Waylon about Shawn's.

His eyes tighten, and a dangerous sort of knowingness peeks out from their depths. Not breaking my gaze, he gives me a small nod, telling me without words he knows it's not personal.

Releasing a breath, I reach for my water, taking another gulp.

In the corner of my eye, Mom lifts her glass, flashing me a small, rueful smile. "Welcome home, kids."

Knockingon the door for the second time in a matter of seconds, this time I call out loudly, "Seriously, dude? Let me in."

I'm about to knock for a third time, when finally the door swings open to reveal slitted hazel eyes glaring back at me. "What?"

"Are you done feeling sorry for yourself yet?"

His lip curls in a sneer, and I arch a brow.

"Fuck you."

I make a come-hither gesture with my fingers. "Keep it coming. That all you got?"

The look on his face is vicious, the fury in his eyes more unrestrained than I've ever seen it.

Come on, asshole. Let me have it.

But just when I think he might, he shuts down. His gaze hardens, growing flat. "Go away."

He goes to slam the door shut, but I kick my socked foot out, catching it.

"Feel like letting off some steam?"

He huffs, and wrinkles his nose at me, brows furrowed. Not for the first time, I can't help but catalog all the little changes. He has more ink now, scrolling up his arms.

He's filled out some too, like maybe he started working out. I know he runs—something Mom told me over the phone while I was gone. But he's got muscles now too—nothing crazy, just some definition that wasn't there before.

He's also pierced his tongue. I noticed that earlier.

Still haven't asked when that happened. I think I'm scared to find out he did it before I went to rehab, when I was just too high to even notice. Same with the tattoos, though I know he's had that one on his middle finger for a couple years now. It was his first one. Two connecting Xs.

"I feel like being alone."

Rolling my eyes, I wave him toward the stairs. "Just humor me, okay? I want to try something."

"Try what?"

With a huff, I cut him a look. "It's me, okay? You can cut the shit."

He scowls and looks away.

"Sorry," I mutter.

Rather than say anything, he gestures for me to lead the way.

Downstairs, Shawn's waiting for us with his guitar case strapped to his back. I feel more than see the moment Waylon spots it.

"Come on," I say, grabbing the guitar I'd bought on the way home today, and head for the basement door. Mom had to work when Shawn and I got out, so Gavin picked us up. He tried to buy this for me, but I refused to let him spend his money on another instrument for me.

Not after what I did to the Yamaha he gifted me so many years ago, my most prized possession.

Yeah, I know, I'm such a piece of shit.

Of course Gavin doesn't hold it against me. But it's definitely up on my list of worst, most regrettable moments. That thing was my baby…

Don't think about that right now. Nothing you can do about it.

This guitar was dirt-cheap. Used as fuck, but it works. It's enough for now until I can save up for something better. Just need to find a job first…

Waylon's eyeing my guitar with a mix of wariness and confusion. "What's that?"

"A guitar."

"I know it's a fucking guitar, asswipe."

"Then don't ask stupid questions, dickmuncher," I throw back, flipping the light switch connected to the bulb swinging over the stairwell, and I hold the basement door open for him.

Waylon gives me the finger as he passes, and I fight a small smile.

It's met with heaviness in my chest of course, but I'm getting used to it. I don't see it leaving anytime soon after all. Not until Izzy comes back.

And she will…

I know she will. Be it tomorrow or fifty years from now.

I won't accept any other outcome, and fuck anyone who says otherwise.

If they want me clean and functioning, then this is the way it has to be.

It just has to.

Shawn meets my gaze, and I give him an encouraging nod. Just trust me, man.

He looks even warier than Waylon, but there's also something else there—something akin to what I saw in him that first night in the hall, when his strumming called to me in my dreams.

Curiosity. Reluctant as it may be.

Downstairs, I find Waylon standing in the center of the room. He spreads his arms. "What now?"

Shaking my head, I flip on the overhead lights. They buzz, crackle, and flicker a couple times before settling, and lighting the unfinished space up. Cinder blocks line the walls, and save for a throw rug, Waylon's drum set he'd moved here from the Montgomerys to Reggie's and now to my basement—Ray and Eva bought it for him three years ago—and a ratty gray couch in the corner, it's empty.

Shawn's already got his guitar out, and is tuning it. I'm quick to follow.

"We starting a band or something?"

I cut Waylon a look over my shoulder. "You still know how to play the drums, don't you?"

His eyes narrow. "Obviously." And unable to help himself, he adds, "Unlike you, I didn't quit."

Walking up to him, I stop a foot away, meeting his gaze. "You're right. So excuse me if I'm a little rusty."

"You suck at guitar."

I feel Shawn watching us.

"I never sucked. I just didn't care."

"And you do now?"

I shrug, throwing the strap around my neck. "It helps fill the void."

He flinches at that, and I realize a second too late how many ways that could be construed.

"So, what, you guys played together in rehab or something?" he asks.

Is that jealousy I hear?

Situating the guitar, I run my fingers over it, getting accustomed to its shape and feel just like I did when I decided this would have to be the one for now.

"You'd be surprised how much down time there is," I murmur, looking at my fingers dancing over the frets. "Couldn't sleep too great either."

He says nothing to that, so I dig my pick out from my pocket and start playing. The same melody Shawn and I worked on that first time months ago. The first of many incomplete songs.

"What is that?" Waylon says after I run through it the first time.

"It's music."

He groans, and I smile to myself as I play it again. Glancing over at Shawn, who starts playing the same song, mirroring me, and syncing up, I say, "Watch this."

He keeps playing when I stop. Removing the guitar strap from around my neck, I hold the instrument out to Waylon.

He stares down at it.

I hand him the pick. "Go ahead. I know you want to."

Frowning, he looks over at Shawn, and my chest squeezes as I hold my breath, waiting to see what he'll do…

Steeling myself for how huge this feels.

He seems to sense it too. How big of a deal it is. But rather than draw attention to it, and try to get me to explain why I'm suddenly okay with this—music, playing again…

He takes the guitar, and throws the red strap around his neck.

Nodding his head, he places his fingers to the fretboard. "You did get better," he murmurs, closing his eyes.

"I know," I tell him.

"More confident too."

"Yeah, I guess."

His lip ticks up at that, revealing a single dimple.

I gesture for Shawn to keep going when the song draws to a close, and he immediately starts from the top again.

Slowly, Waylon starts plucking, then strumming along, figuring it out by ear…

Using some unexplainable gift inside him, a gift he acts like he couldn't care less about.

It used to drive me fucking crazy.

Now though…

Now, I can't help but feel like I understand.

He was terrified he'd lose it before he even had it. I'm terrified to lose it again now that I've finally got it back.

Music fills the small space, and the acoustics are far from ideal…

Nothing like the studio in the Montgomerys' basement.

Has anyone been down there since?

Shoving the thought away, I focus on Waylon's fingers. His hands plucking and strumming along. The easy roll of his shoulder, and bob of his dark head.

Hazel eyes meet mine, and I don't miss the wariness shining back. The fear that I might rip this away from him. Rip this away from us…

He slides his fingers up a couple frets, shifting pitches, and I grin.

Shawn stops playing. "What was that?"

Waylon stops and turns his head, studying him for a beat. Then he turns fully to face him, and positions his fingers. "It felt right. Play it your way again."

So Shawn does.

He's harmonizing, I realize.

He'd do this sometimes when he and Izzy would play piano together.

Shawn's brow furrows as he keeps playing, but his gaze is honed in on Waylon's fingers. He switches to a different song, then another, and another…

It starts off with Waylon recreating the melody, then drifting into a harmony.

A seamless sort of give and take, as they work off each other.

They jam for a bit, and I find myself stepping back, just watching them as they find their groove. Communicating in the only way they seem capable of.

After a while, Shawn draws to a close, and Waylon follows suit, the final notes ringing out in the air.

Walking around him, I grab his drum sticks from the pouch, and bring them over to him.

"The first song. We'll start with that. Think you can make something of it?"

Waylon rolls his eyes, and hands me back my guitar, exchanging it for the sticks. "Please."

"For someone who likes to deny they're a savant, you sure are fucking cocky," I say.

His lip curves up as he sits behind his drums. "Because it drives you batshit."

Not waiting for a response, he points a stick at Shawn. "Just start playing.

Shawn nods, and kicks off the first song, as Waylon wiggles around, getting comfortable. "Are you just gonna gush over us like a groupie, or are you gonna fucking join us?"

"Funny," I say, bringing the guitar up, and easily melding in with Shawn's playing. I wasn't lying before when I said I know in response to Waylon saying I got better. More confident too…

Mastering the guitar has pretty much consumed me these last three months.

And Shawn's actually a pretty good fucking teacher. Or we just click. Who knows?

Waylon nods, and starts tapping out a beat.

And I imagine it—what this would sound like with an electric guitar instead.

A bass mixed in.

Keyboard…

Shaking my head, I play harder, with more intensity and grit, not holding back. The days of numb, bruised fingers are mostly forgotten; the sensitive skin replaced by thick callouses.

Humming, I let the music work its way through my body. Pulsing in my temples…my chest. It floods my veins, like I'm a conduit—music in, music out.

Lyrics I'd been working on, tweaking and piecing together into the later hours for months now, work their way up my throat.

I've always known I could sing.

I guess in a way, like Waylon and his magical ear, it's just something I don't really think about or brag about, because…where would it get me?

I just always figured mastering a single instrument would open more doors.

I never actually expected to be a performer for a living. It's not realistic. It's why I was going to major in education, and minor in music theory.

But then everything changed.

My voice is low and raspy at first, growing stronger as I become more confident as I sing about siren songs and voids with claws; lost love and a nameless hunger.

And what happens between the three of us in this moment…

It can only be defined as magic.

No, it's not perfect. Far from it.

We've got crap acoustics. No speakers or amps or mics. Nothing.

We're raw and exposed, stripped down to the bare bones, with nothing but what's inside us to rely on. Nothing but these withered hearts in our chest that refuse to quit. They pound and they pound—war drums beating out from the very depths of us, crying out as we charge into this nameless battle.

Everything we've been through…

Every gaping, rotted wound…

See me, feel me, hear me.

Our pasts won't break us.

No, they'll fuse us together.

When we come to a sudden stop, as if planned, I open the eyes I didn't even realized I closed and look around.

Shawn's panting, as is Waylon.

Waylon…who's also grinning, wider than he has in a long time.

"Dude, what was that?" he chokes out on a breathless laugh.

I glance at Shawn and swallow. "See? I told you."

His mouth twists—that rare, barely-there smile of his finally making an appearance for the first time since coming home with me.

To Waylon, I say, "Fuck, I missed this."

His eyes redden, and he nods. "Me too."

Something tells me he doesn't just mean music.

Cracking my neck, then my knuckles, I look to each of them. "So, not to be a total fucking cliché…"

I pause, and despite the ache resounding in my chest—an ache I almost welcome at this point, if only because it still means there's hope—I grin.

"How do you feel about starting a band?"