Every Last Word (17 page)

My mouth drops open and the single syllable “I” falls right out, as if my body’s ready to spill everything, even though my brain is telling me in no uncertain terms to zip it.
He’s watching me, waiting for me to say more. “Can I get a glass of water?” I ask.

Chicken.

He raises his eyebrows. If he asks, I’ll tell him everything. The words are right there. They just need a little nudge, the tiniest bit of permission. But AJ says, “Sure,” and
steps backward, breaking our invisible connection.

I watch him leave the room, and as soon as he’s out of sight, I blow out a breath, shut my eyes tight, and dig my fingernails into the back of my neck three times. He just told me all
about his stuttering, and that couldn’t have been easy for him. I should tell him about me. He’d understand. I’m sure he would.

The water is running in the other room, and when I hear it stop, I use that as my cue to pull myself together. I open my eyes and quiet my fingers before he returns.

“Here you go.” He hands me the glass.

“Thanks.” His lips are full and they look like they’d be really soft. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.

“Follow me,” he says, and so I do, down the hallway, past two other bedrooms, and into his. He closes the door behind us.

I’ve seen plenty of boys’ bedrooms, mostly at parties, but stepping into AJ’s room feels different, like I’m doing something scandalous. Kurt was the most serious
boyfriend I’ve ever had, but his mom had a strict rule that girls weren’t allowed beyond the kitchen. One time, we snuck into his room anyway. I don’t remember feeling like
this.

I recognize some of the bands in the posters on his walls, like Arctic Monkeys and Coldplay, and I’m pretty sure the guy with the guitar is Jimmy Page. His desk is cluttered with mountains
of loose papers, notebooks, gum wrappers, and empty soda cans. I can barely see the computer monitor and its matching keyboard.

His bed is just a mattress and box spring sitting directly on the floor and pushed into a corner under the window. It’s neatly made with a navy blue comforter and white pillows, and I try
not to stare at it.

“So this is where you write?” Every time he steps on stage to play a song, he begins by saying, “I wrote this in my room,” and it always makes me wonder what it looks
like. In my head, I have this picture of him sitting at a desk with his guitar on his lap and his notebook in front of him. But there’s no room on that desk for even the smallest pad of
paper.

He holds his arms out to his sides and says, “Not much to see, but yeah. This is it.” He struts over to the corner of the room and lifts his guitar off the stand, and it sort of
floats along with him, as if it’s part of his body. He sits on the edge of the bed and starts playing. I’m not familiar with the song, but it’s soft and melodic, like a tune
I’d put on my
In the Deep
playlist.

I’m not sure where to go. I’m dying to sit next to him, but that feels too awkward, so I finally settle on leaning against his desk. On top of a stack of papers, I spot a
tortoiseshell guitar pick. I start fiddling with it to distract myself.

Actually, I like this spot. From here, I have a perfect view of his hands. I stare at his fingers, mesmerized by the way they slide up and down each string, and I begin to picture them sliding
up and down my body instead, tracing the curve of my hip and slipping over the small of my back. I watch his mouth move, too, enjoying the way he unconsciously smiles and licks his lips as he
plays. He glances over at me. I suck in a breath. And before I know it, I’m taking slow, cautious steps, moving in his direction.

When I’m standing right in front of him, I wrap my hands around the back of his neck. “Don’t stop playing,” I say as I rest my elbows on the edge of his guitar and bring
my mouth to his. His fingers continue to glide along the strings, his notes still filling the room as his tongue slips slowly over mine in perfect synchronization with his song. My fingers move
through his hair. I ease him closer. Then the music stops.

“This is all the stuff I’m working on,” he says.

His words jolt me back to the room and I realize he’s holding up a clipboard bursting with paper, and I’m still standing next to his desk, at least six feet away from him. I cover my
mouth and catch my breath, as AJ drags his thumb through the pages. “There’s a lot of crap in here, but the ones on top might actually have potential.”

It sounds like an invitation to join him, so I slip his guitar pick into the front pocket of my jeans, and with shaky legs, I walk toward his bed and sit. I’m still trying to breathe
normally and block out that kiss that didn’t actually happen, but it’s even harder now that he’s this close. And when his lips still look so insanely soft.

“May I?” I ask, pointing toward the clipboard. He gives me a single nod as he hands it to me. I can’t imagine offering up my three notebooks and letting someone have their way
with them, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He goes back to playing.

AJ plucks and strums next to me while I read page after page. Some of his songs are funny—humorous observations on mundane things like microwave burritos and car washes—and some are
much deeper, far more intense, and not funny at all. I go from laughing to chills and goose bumps and back to laughing again.

“Stop it,” AJ says. He looks amused as he watches his fingers pick at the strings. He’s still filling the room with notes.

“Stop what?”

“You’re being too nice to me. They’re not that good.”

“They are,” I say, flipping to another one.

AJ stops playing. He holds his hand out. I give him the clipboard and he drops it on top of the comforter, slightly out of my reach.

I expect him to start playing again, but instead he shifts position and lifts his guitar over his head. “Here,” he says as he loops the strap around my neck.

I try to push the guitar away. “No way. I don’t have a clue how to play this thing. I liked listening to you.” I reach behind us, feeling for the clipboard. “Play
something you’re working on,” I say, but he stands up and grabs my arms, and I freeze in place. I hold my breath. I look at him. I don’t move because if I do, he might move his
hands.

“Right now I’m working on teaching you to play guitar,” he says.

He adjusts it in place and shows me where to put my fingers, saying things like,
That string. Good. Now index finger on that one. Not so flat. Bend your fingers more. Use the tips, not the
pads. Better.

“That feels weird.”

“Then you’re doing it right.”

It feels like my hands can’t stretch far enough.

“Now strum.”

A sound comes out. It actually resembles a chord.

“Good, now move this finger here.” He lifts my finger off one string and moves it to another. “Now strum again.”

Again, that sounds like a chord. It even sounds like those two chords work well together.

“That’s good,” he says. “Now play both of them.” I move my finger back to the first string, play the chord, move it again, and play the next one. And then he shows
me how to play another, and I put the three together, over and over again. AJ returns to his spot on the bed, watching me.

“See?” he says. “Told you. Piece of cake.”

“I’m not bad.” I play my three little chords again, this time with a little more shoulder and a bit of attitude.

“Okay, this next one is trickier.” He climbs onto the bed, and now he’s on his knees, right behind me. I feel his thighs brush against my hips. “Scoot back a bit,”
he says, and I do.

Oh, please let this be real.

He moves in even closer, resting his chest against my back and reaching around me, looking over my shoulder, repositioning my hands.

“There, that’s easier.” He says it like he’s a teacher and I’m his student and this is totally normal, just part of the job. His voice is low, but he’s so
close to my ear, I can hear him breathing. “Pinkie here. Okay, try that,” he whispers. I strum, and when I do, it sounds like a real note.

“Now play the other three and add this one.”

I’m not sure I can do this when I can feel his chest rise and fall against my back, but I go for it. The last note feels awkward, and it takes me a few tries to get it right, but
eventually I get all four chords to work together, and it sounds a lot like music. “That’s really good,” he says. “How does it feel?”

His breath is warm on my neck. “It feels incredible.”

“Want to play it one more time?” he whispers in my ear. My fingers are glued to the strings and I can’t move them. I shake my head, because I don’t want to play it one
more time. I want to bring my hand to his cheek because it’s right
there
, and I want to turn my head a little more to the left and kiss his lips because they’re right there too.
He’s quiet. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am.

He’s not. Teaching moment complete, he scoots out from behind me and sits by my side again, this time leaving slightly more space between us. I miss him instantly.

“Thanks.” I give him his guitar, and he takes it without putting up a fight this time.

“That wasn’t so horrible, was it, Sam?” he asks, as he feeds his head through the strap.

Sam. I’m still not used to hearing him say my name.

“No. It wasn’t.” I’m all buzzy. To clear my head, I stand and walk around the room, shaking out my hands, giving all my attention to the posters on the wall. On his desk,
behind a big stack of papers, I see the top half of a silver picture frame. I pick it up.

It’s AJ and a girl I’ve never seen before. She’s sitting between his legs, leaning back against his chest. Both of his arms are wrapped tightly around her waist and his chin is
on her shoulder. She’s pretty. Not in a glamorous way or anything, but in that natural, sporty kind of way.

I hold up the frame and ask, “Who’s this?”

AJ gives a quick glance in my direction, fingers still on the strings, but when he sees what I’m holding, he stops playing. “Um…that’s Devon.”

He sets his guitar on the bed and stands, combing his fingers through his hair as he approaches me. “We broke up last summer. I didn’t even remember that was still on my desk.”
He waves his hand toward the stack of papers it was hiding behind as proof.

I stare at the photo again. “Do I know her?”

“No. We met at one of Kyle’s tournaments. She went to Carlton.” Our rival high school, one town away. “She would have been a senior there, but her dad’s company
transferred him to Boston last July.” He crinkles his nose. “That was kind of the end of us.”

She’s a year older than him. Interesting. They’ve been broken up for more than three months and her picture is still on his desk. That’s interesting, too.

“We stayed in touch until school started, but then, I guess we got busy with other things. I haven’t talked to her in a while.”

“She’s pretty.” I say, running my finger along the silver frame, wondering if blurting is allowed or frowned upon in situations like this. I want to know about Devon. I
need
to know about Devon.

I feel that familiar swirling in my mind, starting like a whirlpool, spinning slowly, steadily, but preparing to build and speed, fed by information and the need for more information, until
it’s a full-on maelstrom.

“How long were you together?” I ask, against my better judgment.

“Almost a year.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yeah.”

I study the picture again. Her blond hair hangs down past her shoulders, her bangs swept to the side. There’s something about the way she’s squinting her eyes, like they’re
doing more than smiling, and I wonder if AJ said something that made her laugh right before the shutter snapped.

The questions keep coming. I can’t stop staring at the two of them. They look so comfortable together, so happy, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever feel that relaxed with
another person. Will a guy ever look at me the way he’s looking at her in this photo? Kurt never did. Brandon never even thought to. AJ and Devon were a real couple. You can tell.

I look up at him. “Did you love her?”

He studies the photo in my hands. Then his eyes fix on mine. “Yeah.”

“Do you still?” The corners of his mouth turn down, and I can’t tell if I crossed the line or if he’s simply giving his response some serious consideration.

“I don’t know.”

It’s honest. I’m not upset by his answer. It’s sweet, actually, and the information is satisfying in the way I need it to be.

I glance over at his bed, trying not to think about my next question. It’s right on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to ask it, even though AJ’s standing there,
patiently waiting for me to speak.

“Did you bring her to winter formal last year?” I ask instead, and he gives me a funny look.

“Yeah.” After a brief pause, he asks, “Who did you go with?”

“Kurt Frasier.”

“He seems nice.”

“He’s a dick.”

“Oh.”

“Worst school dance story ever.”

“Tell me.”

“You’re just trying to change the subject.”

“Yes. Desperately.”

That makes me laugh.

I drop the picture frame back behind the papers where I found it, but it barely leaves my grasp before AJ reaches for it and stuffs it into a drawer.

“Actually,” he says, “don’t tell me. It’s a really bad idea for wimpy musician guys like me to want to physically harm jock football players. You’ll tell me
he was mean to you, and because I’m your friend”—he brushes his elbow against my arm—“I’ll see him at school and feel the need to defend your honor, and an hour
later I’ll be in the ER getting stitches in my eyebrow or something.”

I smile. “We’re friends, huh?”

He takes a tiny step toward me. Close but not too close.
Friends
-close. “Can we be?” he asks.

Two weeks ago, I was okay with being his friend, but that’s not what I want anymore. I like him. I like everything about him. The way he plays. The songs he writes. The things he says. The
way he makes me want to speak out, not hold my words inside. That dimple. Those lips. I have to know what they feel like. Maybe this is like blurting? Maybe I’m not supposed to think about
it; I’m just supposed to do it. But I want him to make the first move.