Flynn laughs out loud. “You are the least pushy lead singer I’ve ever known, you know that? You’re sure you’re not a bassist?”

“Yeah. Jezz has that taken care of.”

“You could be a two-bass band. No melodies. Just great hooks.”

“I’ll think about that.”

“Hey—maybe Ike could pay you in trade or something,” Flynn suggests. “For a guy who looks like he fronts a motorcycle gang, he’s a surprisingly good baker.”

“Yeah.” I grin. “We could be the world’s only death metal band that gets paid in cookies.”

Flynn throws his head back and laughs. “That could be your first album title. Paid in Cookies.”

“Appetite for Oatmeal Raisin.”

Flynn laughs so hard he has to wipe his eyes. “Perfect. Until Guns N’ Roses sues you.”

The tightness that’s been hanging out in my shoulders loosens a little more. Dad’s sighs, and Patrick’s words, and keeping up the act in front of Frankie all seem smaller and less important now. God, I’m so glad I have Flynn.

Flynn has known me since I was nine years old. Half of my life. He looks exactly the same as he did back then, lanky and tan and long-haired and ageless. Except I used to think he was really tall. Now I’m the taller one.

The first time I saw him play in concert was at a big outdoor music festival. My parents made the two-hour drive to northern Wisconsin to let me stand near the stage, not moving, just staring up at him like a human video camera. I stood at the front of that screaming crowd, watching and listening, and after two songs, I wanted to quit guitar forever. Not because I was sure I would never be able to play like Flynn, which was part of it. But because I couldn’t stand to imagine myself sitting in a tiny brick room picking at some crappy folk tune while this stage-lit guitar god sat on a folding chair two feet away. I felt like a worm wriggling up to a dragon and asking how to breathe fire.

But at my next lesson, Flynn was just Flynn again, with his battered Iron Maiden T-shirt and his long, messy hair. He cracked jokes. He made me feel comfortable. He taught me the opening of a Black Sabbath song. And I didn’t quit.

Eventually I stopped being intimidated. The awe faded to something warmer and more familiar, like the feeling you have for your favorite uncle or a really cool older brother. And then, last fall, there was a moment during a lesson when I noticed a flaw in his playing for the first time. It was just a slip, a split second of less-than-perfect technique. Don’t get me wrong—Flynn is still an amazing guitarist. But now I’m good enough to see the tiny imperfections. Good enough to know how to fix them. If someone threw me and Flynn into a musical battle today, note for note, phrase for phrase, I’m not sure who would win.