Page 87 of Ice Me Out

“And what about Rat?”

“He just stood there, watching him drive off. He shook his head and went inside. For a while, we bonded over our ain’t-shit dad until we learned to love each other as brothers. I’d be lost without them.”

“That’s beautiful,” I whispered. “I have another question.”

“Shoot.”

“Who gave you your parents’ backstory and all the gory details?”

Hart snorted.

“That bastard told me himself. He was drunk as hell, and the guilt was eating him alive. All it did was further the gap between us.”

I lay there not knowing what else to say to make him feel better when a thought occurred to me.

“What kind of music did your mom like?”

“She was a big blues and jazz fan,” he answered mechanically.

“Perfect.” I tried to extract myself from him, but he was holding onto me like a life preserver. “I’ll be right back.”

His arms slackened, and I rolled off him. I returned to the living room a minute later with my laptop and new guitar. Hart propped up on his elbows.

“It’s nice,” he complimented.

“It’s more than nice. It’s a work of art,” I replied, plugging the guitar into my laptop and pulling up my amp simulator program. I’d tuned it earlier, and it was ready to go. My fingers moved across the strings like butter, smooth and sure, like I’d done a thousand times. The first chords were low and smoky—the kind of tune that hit you in the chest and burrowed into your soul. Each bend of the strings carried a little ache, a little hope, and a little reminder that even blues in all its melancholy could be beautiful.

I finished, and Hart’s eyes shone with unshed tears.

“My mom… she liked that song. I can’t remember the name or the artist, but she played it a lot.”

“Then you won’t mind if I play it again?”

“Not at all, Sugar.”

I played my grandfather’s song until Hart passed out, and my fingers burned.

Making Room

Vera

“Holy… shit,” I whispered, dropping my backpack onto the floor. I blinked repeatedly, taking everything in. “Holy shit.”

Eventually, my body caught up to my brain, and I plucked up the envelope addressed to me in Hart’s handwriting off the bed. My hands trembled as I read the card.

Now I don’t have to listen to any nonsense about you needing to go to your place and pack a bag. Check the closet. Dinner will be delivered at 6:00.

-Hart

“You messed up, Hart,” I whispered, sending Monica a FaceTime request.

“Sooooo, I bombed my test—just want to throw that out there,” Monica answered. I rolled my eyes. I was smart, but Monica? She was the definition of a genius, double-majoring in Biochemistry and Computer Science.

“You did not.”

“I did not,” she confirmed with a smile. “I just wanted to be a humble queen.”

“You and humble could never be put in the same sentence.”