Page 81 of Playing the Backbeat

“No. They all understood how unpredictable this can be.” He swallows, jaw clenching. “I was nervous for nothing.” His head falls back along the headrest, his eyes still fixed on the road. “All that anxiety, for my family to do what they’vealwaysdone…support me. Say kind shit. I don’t know why I’m always surprised. Why I’m always prepared for the worst.”

I tap his temple gently, once, then twice.

“Tell that brain of yours to give you a break, will you? They want the best for you. Shit doesn’t work out sometimes. That’s not a reflection on you.”

He gives me this look, and I tilt my head, knowing I’m not going to like what he says.

He taps my temple once before returning his focus to the road. “Sounds like the same shit you need to tell your own brain.”

“You have this knack for turning everything around on me, you know that?”

“I think that’s a skill we both possess.”

I smirk because he’s right. “Well, I guess you’re not exactly wrong. I’ll try to deliver the message to my brain if you do the same.”

He laughs. “Deal.”

Later that evening—after he fucks me over the side of the couch, too hurried to make it to the bedroom five feet away—we sit at opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled while we eat leftover pie in front of the Christmas tree.

“You first,” I say, nodding toward the gift at his side.

He sets his pie on the table before tearing through the wrapping paper with all the excitement of a kid. “What’s this?”he asks, his voice serious as he studies the first page of the scrapbook.

“I got the idea when you mentioned the drumming classes you already teach and how you want to start community lessons at the Bridge someday. Even if that doesn’t work out, I thought this would still be fun to have. If you never use it, I won’t be mad,” I add dismissively, suddenly nervous that he hates the idea. “I thought you could leave it open for your students to make their mark, so you can look back on all the musicians you support along the way.”

“I see one student started things off with a bang,” he says, before laughing at the page Emi claimed and bedazzled in hot pink, royal blue, and glitter…so much glitter.

“She called dibs when I told her my idea. There was no arguing with her.”

“There never is. Future president, I swear to God.” His eyes trace over every painstaking detail Emi crafted, and I swear I see him tearing up as he reads the surprisingly heartfelt note Emi included alongside the glitter drum set stickers. “I really love this idea, Dee.” He grips my ankle, rubbing soft circles along my skin mindlessly as he continues looking over the cover I designed myself. “I never thought to do something like this. Thank you.”

I smile, relieved he doesn’t hate it.

“Your turn.” He nods toward the bag on the floor next to me.

“It better be good if I’m putting down my pie,” I joke, and he nudges my hip with his foot.

“Open it,” he says. “Card first.”

I open the envelope and a gift card drops into my lap. I catch a glimpse of the name and bust out laughing. “Oh my god, you didnotgive me a gift card to a sex store for Christmas.”

“I would hate to see a repeat performance of your last…I think you called it yourbedroomassistant. It’s time to upgrade.”

“Why upgrade when I have you?” I challenge.

“This opens up more opportunities.”

Oh, I very much want to know what he has in mind.

“So much excitement, and that was just the card,” I say.

He rubs the back of his neck, and I can practically hear his thoughts. “Why are you so nervous about this, Dylan? My gift was practically free and you just spoiled the shit out of me?”

“Your gift was thoughtful,” he insists.

“Trust me, I consider your gift to beverythoughtful.” I reach into the bag, hoping that avoiding any more delay will ease Dylan’s fears of me not liking his gift. I laugh again as I spot the bylaws he put into a really nice frame. “I didn’t even realize these were missing from the fridge.”

He smiles. “I thought it was time we solidified the commitment we made to each other.”