Page 5 of Silver Sweet

“Sitting aloneis something younever do.”

“I’m not alone.” I smile and motion a hand at him. “You’re here now. Take a seat. Relax. Help me with my dilemma.”

“No.” He throws his keys onto the marble kitchen counter.

I make a face. “What’s the point of having a certified genius as a brother if he’s not flexing his intellect for my benefit?”

Charlie appears annoyed. “Because I’m only smart so I can help you.”

“Right, yeah. Your brains were given to aid me in life. Aid me.Please.”

He arches his brows. “You want a solution to your band problem?”

“One that’s better than finding a musician off Craigslist,” I add.

Charlie lets out a sharp laugh of unsurprise, his darkened eyes narrowing on the laptop like it’s a bomb. Yeah, I definitely knew he wouldn’t approve of the Craigslist idea. The last time I considered it as a solution, Charlie straight up said I was an idiot.

Taking a risk does not equal being a dumbass, but I don’t care to defend my intelligence to anyone. I’m smart enough to know he’s a resource I could use.

I raise my hands in the air off the keyboard. “Give me your wisdom, and I’ll ditch Craigslist.”

“You’ll ditch it even if you hate my advice,” he adds, seeing I would’ve slithered out of that deal.

I exhale. “Fine.”

“Promise,” he doubles down.

“I promise.”

“In French.”

I glare.

He cocks his head. “If you weren’t so conniving, I wouldn’t have to ensure you’d be held to your word with some ridiculous childhood pact.”

“That we all made,” I remind him.

Promises in French are blood oaths engraved in the heart, we all agreed. None of us have ever broken a promise in French. We wouldn’t. Not even Charlie.

“Alors promets,” Charlie says.Then promise.

I run my tongue over my molars. “Je te le promets.”I promise you.“Heureux?”Happy?

“Rarely,” he answers in English.

Charlie is always honest. Never wears kid gloves and never tells me what I want to hear. I must really want his brutal advice.

“Lay your genius on me,” I say. “How do I fix this?”

He locks eyes with me. “Throw in the towel before it strangles you.”

My face falls.

It’s a gut kick. I blow backward, my hands lacing on top of my head. It hurts to hear Charlie tell me to quit, even if I knew it was the easy path. “I can’t do that.”

“Then go solo.”

“I can’t do that either.” I’ve never dreamed of being a solo artist. “We’ve just established I don’t like being alone, Charlie Keating.” My voice sounds softer than I like, and I might be dramatic to the hundredth degree, but it takes a lot for me to shed actual tears.