Hearing it the first time is what stirred up all the weirdness in my head. Yet, I really hope he does.
“You know what? Come here.” He motions his head toward the stairs and jogs up them, stopping midway to see if I’m following. I hesitate for a beat, but the temptation and the possibility that his guitar is upstairs are too strong.
We round the short wall that divides the stairs from a small loft space with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and Tory runs his thumb along a row of tightly packed albums. I take this opportunity to nose around his upstairs, a place I’ve never been, not even for one of their infamous parties. It’s a strikingly modest home inside despite the grandeur of the outside façade. I guess it’s the large open space in the living room where the fireplace towers up twenty feet, a monument of ivory rock with a massive rustic beam sliced through the middle for the world’s most ostentatious mantle. The obligatory family portrait sits atop it, the twins maybe seven or eight in the photograph-turned-painting. I was a little surprised to still see it there when we walked in.
Up here, things are tighter, the space more intimate. This loft area has a built-in desk with a computer I assume Tory and Hayden have to share. Their school bags are both tossed in the corner, and phone cords poke out from a charging station on the wall. To the right is a set of double doors—I’m guessing the master bedroom—and behind me, on the opposite end of the house, above the garage, are two doors divided by a bathroom. I already know what Hayden’s looks like. He took me on a video chat tour when we first started talking. His room is spotless, like a military man. Something tells me Tory’s is probably on the other end of the spectrum.
“Found it!” His exclamation draws me back in. I step closer as he pulls a record from a sleeve. There are probably a hundred or more albums organized on these shelves.
“Wow, this is some collection,” I say as he tips the lid up on a sleek black turntable. Tory leans to his side and brings his eyes level with the record as he gently sets it down on the player. A small speaker tucked between a row of books crackles when he turns the device on, and he quickly turns the dial to keep the volume low.
“Shhh,” he says, holding a finger to his lips, then pointing toward the stairs where Lucas is still sawing dreamy logs.
“I don’t think he could hear it at full volume over that racket he’s making,” I say.
Tory’s smile is sweet, and he holds his soft gaze on me for a single blink of his eyes before returning his attention to the record, which is now spinning. He picks up the arm and rests it gently on his thumb, finally engaging it somewhere in the middle of the album. I recognize the melody almost instantly, not that I’ve heard this song more than once.
“Beach Boys, Pet Sounds. Maybe one of the greatest albums of all time.” He grins after that statement, maybe expecting me to challenge him. I couldn’t. My knowledge of music is limited. I could, however, debate him until Sunday on classic film.
“I think my dad likes this stuff,” I say, falling for the sway of the melody. It sounds just as it did when Tory sang it, minus the threat of a tornado and plus the digital mastering of a music studio.
Tory clicks his tongue against his teeth and shuffles his feet closer to me, holding out a palm. I stare at it for a good, long, awkward while, but finally place my hand in his. He threads our fingers together and pulls me in, his other hand gingerly resting at my waist like a gentleman.
“Time for a music lesson,” he says, careful to look anywhere but directly into my eyes. I’m thankful. This, so far, feels safe.
“School me, Salvatore,” I say, sparking a short laugh from him.
“Your dad likes this stuff because this stuff is good. Music made in the sixties has backbone. Words mattered, and sound was a constant experiment. Most real music fans would list a dozen albums from this era on a best-of list before even touching something contemporary.”
While he’s looking away from me, I’m drawn to stare at his eyes. I have no idea who this is that I’m dancing with, but this is not