Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“Come on. Let’s check out the garage for old times’ sake.”
8
Declan
The Monroes’ garage looked the same but different. Just like everything about my visit so far. Nothing had intrinsically changed—however, the years of living and growing had woven an unfamiliar pattern. Taller trees, new furniture, more photos…many featuring small kids I assumed belonged to T’s oldest sister, Rachel. It was a warm and happy place like it always had been.
But the garage was the room where time stood still.
Bass, acoustic, and electric guitars were propped on stands near the same damn kit that had been here on my last visit. I recognized the sticker from a local gym on the front of the bass drum. It was faded and smaller than ones he must have added later. I noted the remnants of a Gypsy Coma sticker. I wisely held my tongue as I continued snooping while T settled on his stool and tapped a slow, jazzy beat.
I smiled at the old dart board, then poked through the neatly arranged tools on the opposite end of the space before checking out the array of bicycles in the back that obviously hadn’t been ridden in a while. The seats were dusty, and the wheels were covered in cobwebs. I couldn’t help but compare it to my mom and Sam’s ten-car garage filled with European luxury vehicles they rarely drove. It was almost clinically clean. No spider would dare spin a web there. Funny enough, I preferred this familial hodgepodge collection. It was…real. There was nothing to hide. Everything pretty and ugly was out in the open.
I turned when Tegan picked up the pace. His thick biceps bunched and flexed, straining the seams of his blue plaid button-down. I licked my lips, unconsciously admiring his dexterity. T was a great drummer. He had a gift for enhancing a beat with kickass fillers that added a measure of drama or emotion to a song. It was a crucial ingredient in creating a signature sound. Zero was lucky to have him, I mused as I picked up the electric guitar.
“Mind if I join in?” I asked, plugging into the amp.
He grunted, slowing down again. Boom, boom, tap. Boom, boom, tap, tap… “What are we playing?”
“You lead. I’ll follow.”
This time, he smiled. A real smile. His eyes and lips were fully involved in the gesture, and damn, I think I blushed. I adjusted the strap and glanced at the strings just in case my cheeks were red.
“All right, hotshot. Here we go,” he said.
Tegan jumped straight into a quick jazz-style drum lick at a medium tempo. I studied jazz and musical theory in college. I knew where and how to add melody. However, this was freestyle play. We were making shit up on the fly. And the musician in me loved everything about it. This was the kind of exercise that tested your stamina, your instincts, and your reflexes. It was completely different than crafting a song. My personal process was painstaking. I wrote lyrics on a notepad while I tested notes on my guitar. I erased and started over so often that I couldn’t always read my own writing.
But this was a musical freefall…exhilarating and life-affirming. I chased the beat he set, adding swelling riffs and nuance. It didn’t take long to get lost in the music. I forgot where we were and why we were there as the notes wove a pattern, then fell apart. Tegan leaned into his kit, raising his arms theatrically, sprinting ahead of me. I took my fingers off the strings, content to watch him let loose. He finished with a flourish, tossing his sticks in the air before giving me another show-stopping ear-to-ear grin.
“That was awesome,” I exclaimed, putting my hand up for a high five.
Tegan smacked his palm against mine and stood to gather his sticks. “You’ve gotten really good.”
I gaped with my mouth in a perfect O until he huffed good-naturedly. “Whoa. Was that another compliment?”
“Nope. I rescind it.”
“It’s too late. Tegan Monroe likes me,” I gushed, altering my voice to sound like a starstruck fanboy, chuckling when he rolled his eyes. I returned the guitar to the stand, then turned on my heels with my arms wide. “Everything looks the same.”
Tegan cocked his head curiously. “You keep saying that. What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. Just being in the neighborhood is a blast from the past. Is my old house really yellow now?”
“Yeah. An unfortunate shade, too. There have been a few owners since you lived there, but these people are the first ones to paint the exterior. My parents weren’t happy. Could have been worse, though.”
“Could have been purple.”
“What’s wrong with a purple house?”
“Well…nothing, I guess. It would definitely be a conversation starter,” I said. “I see you as more of a neutral on the outside, purple on the inside kind of guy.”