Page 14 of The Music of Us
He looked startled, like I had told him the sky decided to stop being blue. “What?”
“I go by Lucy now.”
“Lucy?”
“Yeah, Lucy.” I stopped going by my full name by sophomoreyear, when I gave up fanciful things like silly crushes. I stood and wiped my hands on my apron, palms brushing against the thick linen. Jake watched, as if trying to decipher some kind of meaning out of the movement, or like he was looking for something. “Why does it matter?”
“You never used to go by Lucy. You always went by Luciana, y-you—” He stuttered for a second, a funny look on his face. “You said your name sounded like a melody.”
I did say that once upon a time, a few life lessons ago.
“Lu-sea-ahh-na,”eleven-year-old Jake repeated when we first met, the slight Texas twang stretching it out and making it sound musical on his tongue.
“It sounds like a melody,”I’d marveled.
“It does. It would fit a song.”
I shut the memory down, making it blink to black like a TV show turning off mid-scene.
“Well, life’s not a song,” I said.
Jake, international pop star, raised his eyebrow.
Okay, fine. Maybe it kind of was, for him. Living in a song was what he did onstage most nights.
The familiar, softthumpof a cat leaping down from the catwalk echoed from around the corner, but Jake must’ve forgotten the sound, because he looked alert as he glanced behind him. “Is your mom here?”
“No, just me.”
Jake nodded, looking at a loss for what to say. But those old Southern manners his mother used to lecture him about must’ve stayed lurking somewhere underneath five layers of leather and snark and larceny, because he asked, “How is she?”
Normally, the answer I gave people wasMom’s surgery went great. But that was for those who knew me. Jake didn’t even know Mom got into an accident. It seemed awkward to talk about it now and try to cover all that ground after we’d put miles between us.
“She’s fine,” I replied, voice clipped. I stood abruptly. “I need to close up the café.”
Jake blinked in mild surprise before standing too. He opened his mouth, about to say something, when Mittens walked in. Distracted, Jake stopped to watch her.
Well, he still loved cats. At least that hadn’t changed. It was what would hopefully make The Tiny Tiger popular again.
“Where are you staying?” I asked.
“The Jackson Motel, where my mom used to work,” he replied, eyes still on Mittens, who began sniffing his boots with deep interest.
“Do you think you’ll get recognized?”
“Nah—most adults don’t know who I am. But I requested a room under a fake name anyway.”
Inconspicuous. “What’s your alias?”
“Sylvester.”
Never mind. I stared at him, letting that fact sink in for a moment. Jake looked really good in that leather jacket. It was a shame I wanted to strangle him.
“Sylvester,” I echoed in a deadpan.
“Sylvester.”
I peered down at Mittens.Can you believe this?
