Wyatt sighs. He still looks timid, which is so unlike him, but I do notice this slouch in his shoulders as he starts to pluck at the strings again, playing the soft melody. The song starts off with this steady beat, and it’s pretty fascinating to watch him play. I’ve always wanted to learn an instrument. Mom even made me take piano lessons when I was ten, but then I started skipping them, and she said she wasn’t going to keep paying if I wasn’t going to go. I almost wish she’d forced me to.

Wyatt’s fingers move so effortlessly, almost as if the guitar is a natural extension of his body, something that he doesn’t even have to think about. His foot taps along to another beat, the notes flowing softly. I close my eyes.

Then he starts singing.

“I wanna play this for you all the time. I wanna play this for you when you’re feeling used and tired—”

His voice live is just as soft and warm as it was on the recordings I found online. There’s also this edge to it. It cuts into me deep, in a way that I both love and regret.

I don’t want to open my eyes, but …

I can’t help myself.

I want to watch him.

Just a peek, that’s it.

But when I open my left eye, I can see him sitting there, his own eyes closed as he plays without even having to look at the strings.

He doesn’t play the whole song for me, though I wish he would. Still, after he runs out of words, he keeps playing his guitar. He finally opens his eyes, and he sees me standing there. The notes turn sour as he grips his guitar, this look of shock and horror on his face.

“You said you wouldn’t stare!”

“Sorry, sorry!” I cover my eyes quickly. “I was just curious! But Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘All That’—could you be more of a stereotype?”

Wyatt bends over, mostly so he won’t have to look at me, I think. “Was it … was it good? Do you think that your brother will like it?”

What do I tell Wyatt? That I think his voice is beautiful? That I want him to sing more songs? That I want him to serenade me again? No, that’s all too much. Even if it is the truth. His voice is beautiful; it’s one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard. And I do want him to sing another song. And if he sang just to me again … well, I wouldn’t be upset.

“My brother has made some stupid decisions in his life,” I tell Wyatt. “But he’d be a complete idiot not to love your singing.”

This wild grin spreads on his face, and he looks up at me quickly. “Seriously?”