My phone vibrates. It’s a text from Brennan, which only makes me feel worse about the fact that I’m stuck.
Brennan: It’s been weeks. Please tell me you have something.
Me: Working on it. How’s the tour?
Brennan: Good, but remind me not to allow Warren to schedule this many gigs on the next leg.
Me: Gigs are what gets your name out there.
Brennan: OUR name. I’m not telling you again to stop acting like you aren’t half of this.
Me: I won’t be half if I can’t work through this damn block.
Brennan: Maybe you should get out more. Cause some unnecessary drama in your life. Break up with Maggie for the sake of art. She’ll understand. Heartache helps with lyrical inspiration. Don’t you ever listen to country?
Me: Good idea. I’ll tell Maggie you suggested that.
Brennan: Nothing I say or do could ever make Maggie hate me. Give her a kiss for me, and get to writing. Our careers are resting squarely on your shoulders.
Me: Asshole.
Brennan: Ah! Is that anger I detect in your text? Use it. Go write an angry song about how much you hate your little brother, then send it to me. ;）
Me: Yeah. I’ll give it to you after you finally get your shit out of your old bedroom. Bridgette’s sister might move in next month.
Brennan: Have you ever met Brandi?
Me: No. Do I want to?
Brennan: Only if you want to live with two Bridgettes.
Me: Oh, shit.
Brennan: Exactly. TTYL.
I close out the text to Brennan and open up a text to Warren.
Me: We’re good to go on the roommate search. Brennan says hell no to Brandi. I’ll let you break the news to Bridgette, since you two get along so well.
Warren: Well, motherfucker.
I laugh and hop off the bed, then head to the patio with my guitar. It’s almost eight, and I know she’ll be on her balcony. I don’t know how weird my actions are about to seem to her, but all I can do is try. I’ve got nothing to lose.
Chapter Two
Sydney
I’m mindlessly tapping my feet and singing along to his music with my made-up lyrics when he stops playing mid-song. He never stops mid-song, so naturally, I glance in his direction. He’s leaning forward, staring right at me. He holds up his index finger, as if to say, Hold on, and he sets his guitar beside him and runs into his apartment.
What the hell is he doing?
And oh, my God, why does the fact that he’s acknowledging me make me so nervous?
He comes back outside with paper and a marker in his hands.
He’s writing. What the hell is he writing?
He holds up two sheets of paper, and I squint to get a good look at what he’s written.
A phone number.
Shit. His phone number?
When I don’t move for several seconds, he shakes the papers and points at them, then points back to me.
He’s insane. I’m not calling him. I can’t call him. I can’t do that to Hunter.
The guy shakes his head, then grabs a fresh sheet of paper and writes something else on it, then holds it up.
Text me.
When I still don’t move, he flips the paper over and writes again.
I have a ?
A question. A text. Seems harmless enough. When he holds up the papers with his phone number again, I pull out my phone and enter his phone number. I stare at the screen for a few seconds, not really knowing what to say in the text, so I go with: