Page 55 of Playing the Backbeat

She laughs. “You’re not even denying it!” She flops back onto the bed. “I’m an awful bartender, aren’t I?”

“Hey, you haven’t killed anyone yet.”

“That’s not the compliment you think it is.”

“Okay, fine. Only one customer had to go to the hospital, but he was fine after they gave him superstrength Tums and anexorcism. Don’t worry; I told the cops it was Vicki. They were too scared of her to do anything about it.”

“See? This is why you’re not my boyfriend.” Her laugh fades and we fall into awkward silence.

I have no idea what to say. Because the only words my dumbass brain can string together are,Is that the only reason? And what a stupid question to ask. Of course, there are other reasons.

“Eh. We both know you’re too good for me.”

Silence meets me, and I wonder if Dee has fallen asleep and I’m the only one overthinking everything.

“You don’t really think that, do you?” she asks so quietly I almost don’t hear her.

“You’re one of my best friends, Dee.” I let out a sigh. “That means you know the good, the bad, and the ugly.” Try as I might, the words don’t have the lightness I was hoping they would. They sound like I mean them. Maybe I do.

“I’ve only seen the good,” she whispers.

A long silence takes hold. But she breaks it…and my heart along with it.

“I always wanted a friend to sleep over. I begged my parents for bunk beds in middle school, when everything with those girls was at its peak. Turns out I wasn’t going to need bunk beds for a long time.” Her voice sounds bitter, and acid burns along my throat, anger for her and what she went through making itself known.

I swallow the knot in my throat, my voice as rough as gravel when I ask, “Did you get your wish?”

“No. I was eventually invited to a few sleepovers in high school after we moved, but I never hosted a sleepover here. No,” she repeats softly. “My first sleepover with a friend in these bunk beds is tonight…with you.” Her voice shakes a little at the end, thick with emotion.

My heart pounds in my chest so forcefully, I swear Dee might hear it. A cadence so rapid, so electrified, it’ll give me away. “I consider myself lucky to be invited.”

It’s a while before I fall asleep. Hundreds of responses all floating through my mind, but I don’t say anything more. Neither does she.

The last thing I remember before falling asleep is wondering if she meant it. Does Dee only see the good in me? Because that’s how I feel when I’m with her. There’s only the good, and nothing else even breaks the surface.She’sthe only thing that I’ve allowed beneath the surface in years.

I lie awake for a long time. The thought terrifying me.

Chapter twenty-four

Dee

Iwake with a start, slamming my head into the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, holding my forehead, hunched over in pain.

That’s one way to be reminded that you’re not in your apartment. Nope, I’m in my parents’ house. In my childhood bedroom. With my friend…roommate…boss beneath me.

Yikes. It sounds as messy as it feels.

I don’t hear Dylan making fun of me for my rude awakening, so I’m not surprised to find the bottom bunk empty when I lean over the railing.

I rub my head for another moment, trying to soothe the ache before climbing down the tiny ladder. His bed is neatly made, the covers tucked in perfectly at the corners.

“He’s downstairs with Dad. They’re making breakfast,” my mom says from the doorway.

“I might have a concussion, but did you say Dad is cooking breakfast?” I ask. Dad is as good a cook as I am a bartender.Maybe I can get my head checked out when Dylan and I inevitably have to stop at urgent care on the way home.

“I know,” Mom says with a groan. “But he’s retired and bored, and you should have seen him. He needed a project. He found the cooking channel, and here we are.”