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“With music, every opportunity feels like the one you’re not allowed to turn down. Play this show. Take this opening slot. Drive ten hours for forty minutes onstage because somebody important might be there. We did that for years.”
“But you still want the next tour.”
“Absolutely.”
There’s no hesitation.
I like that he isn’t pretending our choices are the same just because he understands mine.
“I want bigger shows,” he continues. “I want the band to keep growing. I want to see how far we can take it. But that doesn’t mean everybody has to want the same version of a career.”
I look over at him. “That’s surprisingly reasonable.”
“You sound genuinely shocked.”
“I’m still getting used to this version of you.”
We keep walking, and after that the conversation loosens up. Zander points out a trail his dad used to bring them on when they were kids and tells me about the time Conlin swore he knew a shortcut that somehow added nearly two miles to the hike.
“That sounds like Conlin.”
Zander laughs. “You figured him out fast.”
I tell him about weekend walks in Golden Gate Park when I lived in San Francisco and how I used to sit somewhere with my sketchbook and draw strangers when I thought they weren’t paying attention.
“You ever get caught?”
“Once. The guy walked right up and asked if I was drawing him.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him no, but he could see himself on the page.”
That gets a real laugh out of him, and I start laughing too.
Eventually the trail levels out again. We pass another couple heading the opposite direction, then walk for several minutes without seeing anyone else.
Somewhere along the way, I stop checking the time and realize I’m enjoying myself. Not just because Zander keeps slipping in little comments meant to get a reaction out of me, or because my brain is still inconveniently aware of what he looks like naked. I’m enjoying talking to him, which is probably the part I’m least prepared for.
By the time we reach the trailhead again, the morning has gone faster than I expected. We stand beside our cars for a second, and the goodbye feels a little awkward after how easy everything else has been.
“I guess I’ll see you at home,” he says.
The word catches my attention. Home. Technically the same building, even if we still have separate doors and one increasingly useless wall between us.
“Probably hear you first.”
He smiles. “That too.”
I get into my car before I can spend too much time thinking about why I’m still smiling on the drive back to Redwood Point.
That evening, I’m cleaning up after dinner when Zander starts playing. Obviously, our peaceful walk through the forest didn’t inspire any lasting respect for quiet.
I cross the living room and knock twice against the wall. The music stops, but a few seconds later he starts again with Fleetwood Mac.
I stare at the wall as he plays for maybe thirty seconds before I knock twice again, and this time the song changes to Tom Petty. I bite the inside of my cheek. He cannot seriously be doing what I think he’s doing.
I wait another minute, then knock once. The music pauses briefly before he switches to Kaleo, and I laugh before I can stop myself. This idiot has turned our wall into a jukebox.
