Chapter 25 #2
Izzy may not have known that my dad told me I was the reason my mom died, but she knew I always felt like he resented me for having to raise me alone.
The fact that she chose to console the man who all but forced me out of the house, who made it clear he would’ve been better off without me, is like a deep lash of fire to my chest.
“Oh good,” I say. “God forbid he have to live with his choices.”
“Some would think that you, of all people, would value the ability to forgive and forget.”
“Why me of all people?”
Her eyebrow lifts, and she opens her mouth before closing it again. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. We’re supposed to be hanging out so you can write music. So, I guess we should do that.”
I’m walking toward the corner where I have my guitar propped when I spot a large paper bag. “What’s this?” I ask, picking it up and peering inside.
“I found my parents’ old GuitarStar game and thought we’d play, but I don’t really feel like it anymore. We can just hang out here, and I’ll fuck around on my phone while you do your thing.”
I pull the console, a mic, and two guitar-shaped controllers out of the bag, realizing that’s not all she brought. “Marshmallows, too?”
“And chocolate and graham crackers. Surely you still know what s’mores are, even if you look like you haven’t had sugar in the past fifteen years,” Izzy says as she scans me from head to toe.
My body heats at the perusal, my dick suddenly reminded of what we’d done on Thursday.
“I don’t think you have much room to talk, Iz.”
She lets out a laugh. “Right.”
There’s a hint of sarcasm there, but I’m not sure what it means.
She’s clearly beautiful with her strong, athletic build and girl-next-door features.
Growing up, everyone was half in love with Izzy.
I’d been the odd man out, our friendship far outweighing any romantic thoughts.
Now, though, that’s no longer the case. Sure, I want to be her friend, but other feelings are swirling beneath the surface too.
Feelings that are certainly not platonic.
Feelings I’m not sure I have any business having.
“Let’s do it, then,” I say, grabbing the console.
Izzy shakes her head. “I’d rather read.”
“Nope. You brought this all the way out here, you clearly want to play it. Come on.”
“No.”
“Izzy.”
“Fine,” she says, throwing up her hands in annoyed surrender.
After a quick search of the back of the TV, I give Izzy the bad news. “I think this system is too old. This TV doesn’t have the little yellow, red, white little plug-in things.”
Her face falls. “Oh, shoot. I didn’t even consider how dated it is now. That’s fine. Like I said, I’d rather just read on my phone anyway. Or we could watch something. Oh! I think your dad said he moved the old TV from in here up to his room. Maybe you could—”
“No,” I say, not waiting for her to finish her thought. I won’t be going into my dad’s room. Based on the way her face morphs into one of hurt, she must notice that the tension in the room has gone from awkward and chilly to downright freezing. Fuck. I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings.
“The one in the basement,” I offer instead. “I’m pretty sure it’s still the one from when we were in high school.”
“Okay,” Izzy replies, the skepticism still clear in her eyes. “I’ve got the guitars; you bring the console.”
Fortunately, we set up the game without any more issues, and after a minute of re-learning how to play, we start up a game, challenging each other to see who the better guitar player is when the guitar in question has colorful buttons.
Izzy wins three in a row and is laughing so hard by the end of the fourth that I manage to come from behind to claim the victory.
It’s really fucking fun. Izzy is such a calm, centering presence, but at the same time, she’s hilarious and turns even the dullest things into something entertaining.
“What would your fans say if they saw you losing to a random woman with no musical ability?” Izzy teases as she leans back into the old couch that’s taken up the bulk of our basement since I was young. “Do you think they’d take away all your awards?”
“They’d correctly assume you have musical talents,” I say with a smile.
“You’d probably have multiple agents calling before the day is out.
” Izzy may not have been obsessed with music like I was growing up, but she can play a couple of different instruments, and she can sing.
I’ve met enough great vocalists to know she’d have to put in a lot of work to ever make it in the music industry, but she’s far better than the average person—or at least she was.
My fingers move along the neck of the plastic guitar as a new chord progression flows through my head, the one I know is the foundation of the chorus I’ve been needing.
“Go,” Iz says, nodding at my fingers as they dance over the nonexistent guitar strings. “We can move upstairs so you can write.”
I shake my head. “No. Just let me go grab my stuff. You stay here and play. I think it’ll help me.”
“Fine.” Izzy sighs dramatically. “But you remember the sacrifices I made when you’re being forced to interact with my extended family in a few weeks. I expect you to really sell your obsession with me.”
“I think I’ll manage.”
“By manage, you’d better mean you’ll convince a room full of my closest family and friends that you can’t live without me.”
“Clearly,” I say as I make my way up the unfinished stairs to grab my guitar and notebook.
Unfortunately, the more time I spend with Izzy, the clearer it becomes that I won't need to convince anyone—they'll all see how I feel about her.