you. But you really can’t pronounce me talented, since you’ve never heard me play.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. “We’ve been through this already, dude. You go to Berklee. They don’t let untalented wankers into your school.”
This time, she can’t keep herself from giggling. And, I swear, at the sound of her adorable laughter, I feel like fucking King Arthur after pulling the sword from the stone.
“Lemme guess,” I say, my smile stretching from ear to ear. “You’re the kind of person who’s shy and quiet, at first, but then, after you get comfortable, everyone goes, ‘Who the hell is this talkative girl?’”
“Yes! If I’m comfortable with you, and passionate about a topic, I’ll talk your ear clean off!”
Hot damn. Something amazing is happening between this girl and me. Something different. Something real. I can feel it in my bones. On my skin. In my quickening pulse.
“Challenge accepted,” I say. I gesture to two vacant loungers in a far corner of the patio. “How about we move our conversation over there? Frick and Frack are getting pretty rowdy in the pool. It’s getting harder to talk over their splashing.”
Alessandra looks at Keane and Zander in the pool, who are splashing and roughhousing like crazy, before returning to me with a lovely smile. “I’d love that.”
“Great,” I say calmly. Even though I want to shout, “Hallelujah!” And as we begin to walk together to the corner, I add, “By the way, I’ve got two ears, but I only need one. So, please, feel free to talk one of ‘em clean off.”
Four
Fish
As soon as Alessandra and I reach the loungers in the far corner of the patio, a roving waiter appears like a genie to take our drink orders. We make our requests—a craft beer for me and bottle of water for Alessandra—and get situated.
There’s another splash in the pool and we both glance over. This time, it appears Keane and Zander are competing in some sort of belly flop contest.
“They’ve been friends forever,” I explain. “They’re total goofballs.”
“They’re funny.”
And you’re cute, I think. But what I say is, “Yeah, they’re really funny.”
We’re quiet for a moment.
Smiling at each other.
Fidgeting.
I can’t believe she’s not immediately launching into asking me a thousand questions about my band. About Dax, maybe. The making of the video for “People Like Us.” How we got our name. How and when we formed the band. All the usual topics that always flow with every pretty girl I’ve met around the world—especially the ones who cop to loving my band.
But, nope. Apparently, even though Alessandra has already admitted she loves 22 Goats, she’s apparently not going to gush about us. Nor is she going to flirt with me or otherwise blow smoke up my ass. Which, I freely admit, is something I’ve come to count on in situations like this. I’ve got no game, after all. Or, at least, very little, when it comes down to it. So, of course, I’m relieved when a woman I’m talking to takes the reins and starts brazenly flirting.
I fidget again, at a loss for what to say. I kind of feel like I should stop asking her about school, but it’s the only thing popping into my head. I ask, “What year are you at Berklee?”
“I just finished my second year.”
“So, that makes you . . . nineteen . . . twenty?”
“Nineteen. I’ll be twenty at the beginning of August.”
“Cool.”
There’s a beat. Another awkward silence. Another series of shy smiles exchanged.
Alessandra chews on the inside of her cheek while I twiddle my fingers and race through possible discussion topics again. World news? God, no. My band? No. If we’re going to talk about that, she should be the one to bring it up, or else I’ll come off like a narcissist.
The waiter comes with our drinks, saving me from myself, and we thank him. When he leaves, I sip my beer and try to act relaxed and casual, even though my heart is racing and my skin is alive with an intense attraction to her.
“Where are you from?” I ask. That seems safe.
“Antelope Valley. About an hour from here.”
“I’ve never been there.”
“There’s no reason to go. It’s in the boondocks. Known for poppy fields and not much else. My mother is a florist, so it’s a good place for her to live.”
“Ah. That’s cool. My mother is a teacher. Third grade.”
“That’s cool. Where are you from?”
“Seattle.”
“I’ve never been there.”
“It’s awesome. You should go.”
“I’d like to. From what I’ve seen in movies and stuff,