My brain starts to scramble. Let’s see, I wrote a believable fake report, I convinced my father I was still spying for him, I had the willpower not to look at Vera’s financial reports, I’ve been drinking enough water, I haven’t tried to jump off the roof, and I responded to every one of Gray’s texts this week so that she didn’t worry about me. And I can say exactly none of that out loud. Every single one makes me sound guilty or worse.

“Uh . . . I made dinner last night?” I say, but it comes out like a question. And then I rub my hands over my face because I just made myself sound even more pathetic in my attempt to make myself sound cool.

“A man who cooks, not bad,” Jayla says, but I notice the way she’s looking at Jubilee.

She’s probably thinking, Seriously? I broke a record and Jubilee did whatever big thing she doesn’t want to talk about and all you did was boil some pasta?

shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit

“What’d you make?” Jubilee asks, and I can barely hear her over the sound of my heart pounding. She looks sincere, but.

holdittogetherholdittogetherholdittogether

“Spaghetti, asparagus, and bread,” I choke out, and they both look at me. “I need some air.” I hop off the stool and go outside, the cold wind burning against my skin.

I hear the bells tinkle again a minute later as the door pushes open, and Jayla comes out with her backpack on. “You okay?” she asks.

“Just needed some air,” I say again, embarrassment painting my neck crimson. I tilt my head enough to see her out of the corner of my eye. She’s watching me, but she doesn’t look annoyed or mean like I expected, more like curious. Open, maybe. I don’t know.

“Yeah, well, I have to get to work.” She twists the strap of her backpack. “But if you ever want to come over when Jubi’s hanging out, it’d be fine.”

I look up at her, startled. “Seriously?”

She shrugs. “I gotta jet, though, and I’m sure Jubi is eager for you to get back inside.”

I nod, because this feels like an olive branch, a peace offering, a genuine smile. And I don’t know what to do with that.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Jubilee

“YOUR ENERGY IS much better,” Mrs. Garavuso says as I wipe down my cello and set it back into its case. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. Your interpretation in the sarabande was the best I’ve heard from you yet.” She smiles. “I think you’re nearly there for your audition.”