Total pages in book: 198
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
That got me a peek of a gray eye.
“If you want. I’ve sat through some voice lessons before too,” I offered. Sat through more than “some” to be honest. I didn’t have a naturally great voice, but I wasn’t totally tone deaf, and if I sang, cats wouldn’t howl and children wouldn’t run screaming.
His throat bobbed, and I waited. “You’ve written songs that other people sang?” he asked in sheer disbelief.
It wouldn’t be the first time. “Yes.”
Both toes went up, and it took him another second to finally get out, “I had a voice teacher a long time ago”—I tried not to smile at what he might consider to be a long time ago—“but that was the last time I had lessons. I’m in choir at school.”
“I can tell.”
He slid me a look of total bullshit. “I’m not that good.”
“I think you are, but I’m sure Reiner Kulti used to think he had room to improve.”
“Who’s that?”
It was my turn to slide him a look. “A famous soccer player. My point is . . . I think you are talented, but someone once told my . . . friend . . . that even natural athletes need coaches and training. Your voice—and songwriting—are like instruments, and you have to practice them. If you want. I’m usually bored upstairs, so I really wouldn’t mind. But you should ask your dad and mom for permission first.”
“Mom would let me do whatever with you. She says she owes you her life.”
I smiled, but he didn’t see it because he was back to focusing on his shoes. Did that mean that he’d think about it? “Okay, just let me know. You know where I am.”
Another gray-eyed gaze met mine, and I swear there was a small, small smile on his face.
There was a smile on mine too.
Chapter Thirteen
“What’s wrong with that?”
Sitting with one leg crossed over the other in the camping chair in Mr. Rhodes’s garage, I eyed his son. He was sitting on the floor with a cushion he’d pulled out of somewhere with his writing notebook propped on a knee. We’d been going at writing advice for the last hour, and I wasn’t going to say we were arguing, because Amos was way too conservative around me, but it was about as close as he was capable of. He had yet to roll his eyes too.
This was our fourth session together, and honestly, I was still stunned he’d knocked on the door weeks ago and asked if I was busy—I hadn’t been—and if I could check something he’d worked on.
I couldn’t remember ever feeling so honored.
Not even when Yuki had lain on her guest room bed beside me and whispered, “I can’t do this, Ora-Bora. Will you help me?” I hadn’t been sure I could, but my heart and brain had proved me wrong and we’d written twelve songs together.
Plus . . . he was a shy kid, and that alone touched me.
Satan couldn’t have dragged me away from helping Amos.
So that was what I’d done. For two hours that day.
Three hours two days later.
Two hours almost every day after that.
He had been so shy that first time, listening to me rambling mostly, then shoving his notebook in my direction, and we’d gone back and forth like that. I took it seriously. I knew exactly what it was like to show someone something you’d worked on and hope they didn’t hate it.
Honestly, it humbled me that he had taken such a huge step.
Slowly but surely though, he’d started to open up. We discussed things. He was asking questions! Mostly, he was talking to me.
And I loved talking.
Which was exactly what he was doing then: asking why I thought that his writing a real deep love song was out of his league. It wasn’t the first time I’d tried hinting at it, but it was the first time I straight out said maybe not to.
“There’s nothing wrong with you wanting to write this song about love, but you’re fifteen and you don’t want to be the next Bieber, am I right?”
Amos pressed his lips together and shook his head a little too rapidly considering the former teen pop star was a bazillionaire.
“I think you should write about something close to you. Why can’t it be about love but not romantic love?” I asked.
He scrunched up his face and thought about it. He’d shown me two songs, both of which weren’t ready; he’d made that clear about a dozen times. They had been . . . not dark but not what I’d been expecting at all. “Like about my mom?”
His mom. I lifted a shoulder. “Why not? There’s no love more unconditional than that if you’re lucky.”
Amos’s scrunched-up face went nowhere.
“I’m just saying, it’s more heartfelt if you feel it, if you experience it. It’s kind of like writing a book; show don’t tell. Like there’s this . . . producer I used to know who has written a lot of hit love songs . . . He’s been married eight times. He falls in and out of love in the blink of an eye. Is he a scumbag? Yeah. But he’s really, really good at what he does.”