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  For Mike, who stole my heart at seventeen and has yet to give it back.

  I must’ve done something right.

  And also for every girl who wishes they had a Phil. Here. You can borrow mine.

  I don’t believe in fate. I believe in music.

  I’ve heard there is one person out there for everyone. One missing half to complete your whole. The fates will magnetically pull the two halves together through some orchestrated coincidence, and that’s it. You’re all set.

  Bollocks, that. I met my other half three years ago, and as far as I know … she has no idea.

  I don’t have time to wait on fate to make its move. For the fender bender, or the missed lift to the roof, or the swapped locker combination. It’s the end of senior year, and I can’t afford to leave things to a happy accident any longer.

  I need music. Give me angsty lyrics, the heartfelt plucking of strings, passionate and world-weary pleas. Give me the banging of keys, the staccato of backbeats, the gift of swing and swoon.

  If I slice open my heart and put the rhythm to song, will she hear it?

  The fates can get fucked. I’ve got to try.

  1

  LUKE

  Spring rains, my arse. I shrug in my leather jacket, trying to simultaneously make my coat longer and myself smaller.

  Growing up in London, you’d think I’d be immune to rain. You’d be wrong. Michigan in March is shite. I shift my longboard to my other hand and bury my fist in my pocket, working to get the feeling back in my fingers.

  I should have called my brother for a ride, but I was downtown with Zack working on our English project at the library, and I’ve been itching to longboard since the weather started to thaw. It was barely a trickle when I left, swerving my way down the massive hill toward the club. But within minutes, I was huddled under a bus shelter, pouring rain beating down around me.

  My phone buzzes, and I tug it out, willing my digits to work. I balance my board between my hip and the corner of the shelter, using the damp toe of my Converse high-tops to hold it in place. Someone next to me squeaks when I bump them with my backpack. “Bugger,” I mutter. “So sorry.”

  I tap my screen.

  CULLEN

  Have you left yet?

  I roll my eyes at my brother, composing something snarky in my head before tapping out:

  LUKE

  Yeah, but I’m stuck in the rain.

  CULLEN

  Where?

  I wipe at my fogged-up glasses and squint, trying to read the sign. Useless. I turn to the college-aged girl I’d accidentally knocked into.

  “Excuse me, what’s the cross street here? Bloody can’t see a thing.”

  Her face does this comical annoyed-to-charmed thing that happens when most people hear my accent. I know it, and I use it. I’m not ashamed.

  “Oh em gee. You’re British, right? We’re at University and Huron. I love—”

  “I am. Thanks very much.” I cut her off. Which is rude, I know. But desperate times and all that.

  LUKE

  University and Huron.

  CULLEN

  Want me to come get you?

  I think about it. I have no idea when the next bus comes or where it’s headed. The rain has me disoriented.

  “Hold on, you look super familiar. Do I know you?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, the bus shelter feeling suddenly smaller. Two people sitting on the bench glance up from their phone screens.

  “I don’t know,” I hedge. “Probably not.”

  “Maybe something about your voice?”

  “Maybe,” I start before she gasps theatrically, her hand going to her chest, where the symbols of some sorority dangle off a gold chain nestled between the layers of her Ravenclaw scarf.

  “You’re Luke Greenly. The Grass Is Greenly! I thought I recognized your accent, but it’s the hair, too. I follow you on Insta!”

  “Ah.” I scramble for more words, but all I can come up with is, “Thanks.”

  “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Lindsay,” she says.

  “That’s…” Jesus. This. This is why I’d told Cullen I didn’t want to do Instagram. “Thanks,” I repeat dumbly.

  A car honks out of nowhere, startling us. My board clatters to the ground. Through the murky shelter, I see my best mate’s familiar red Jeep Wrangler and give a sigh of relief.

  Perfect timing.

  “Sorry, I have to go!” I shout, grabbing up my board and dashing out into the rain before she can say more. I tug open the door of Zack’s car and swiftly shut it behind me.

  “Thank Christ,” I say. I take off my glasses and unzip my coat so I can wipe down the lenses on something dry. “Did Cull call you?”

  “Nah,” Zack says, flipping his blinker and pulling out into traffic. “After you left, I heard the rain beating against the roof and figured you were dumb enough to skate. And sure enough…”

  His phone vibrates, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “There’s Cullen, I bet.”

  “You’re a pair.”

  “And you are welcome,” he says in a singsongy voice.

  “Thank you,” I say, more sincerely. “You saved me from a sorority girl.”

  He tsks, turning down Liberty and coming to a stop at a light. Even in the monsoon, hordes of bicyclers in full-bodied neon rain suits swoosh by in front of us at top speed. Typical Ann Arbor.

  “She said she was sorry about Lindsay.”

  His dark brows join in the middle as he looks at me. “Huh. Did you know her?”

  I adjust my board between my legs. “Nope.”

  His lips twitch.

  “Laugh it up. Har har.”

  “I told you Lindsay was bad news.”

  “Barely. If I remember, you said, ‘You need a girlfriend, Luke.’”

  “But I also said, ‘Not that one; she’s thirsty.’”

  I grunt. “I thought that would work in her favor. At least in your eyes. You seem under the impression I’m a monk.”

  “You are.”

  “Just because I’m not in a sickeningly healthy, committed relationship at the moment doesn’t mean I’m celibate.”

  He snorts. “Aren’t you?”

  “Not totally,” I complain.

  “Yeah,” he says dryly, turning down a side street. “I saw.”

  I rub my face in my hands, knocking my glasses off course and readjusting them. A week ago, my ex-girlfriend secretly recorded us making out and posted the highlights in her Instagram story.

  Which I didn’t even know was a thing until there it was. I woke to a hundred comments and a pit in my stomach. We ended on far-too-amicable terms, which she tearfully posted about the following day.

  Cullen thought it was hilarious and good press for the podcast, of course.

  “In my defense, I assumed you would go after—”

  “Don’t,” I cut him off.

  His fingers tap on the steerin
g wheel.

  “You haven’t told my brother, have you?”

  He glances at me. “No. I swear. I told you I wouldn’t, and I won’t.”

  I sink back into my seat, grimacing at the cold drips still easing down the back of my neck.

  “But you’ve been doing this pining thing for-the-fuck-ever. Have you even introduced yourself yet?”

  “Like, formally?” I ask. “We’ve talked. Sort of. She knows who I am.”

  “Does she? You sure about that? Or does she know who Cullen is and therefore knows you’re the other twin?”

  “Wow,” I say. “Wow. Just because you fell madly in love with Cull the second you met him and forgot for a solid ten minutes his twin was your best mate doesn’t mean everyone else does.”

  Zack shrugs, flashing an easy grin. “You could have them falling at your feet just as easily, you know. If you could drop the sullen artist act for a night.”

  “What sullen artist act?”

  He doesn’t respond, turning in to the cramped parking lot of the Starbucks next to the Loud Lizard, where we record our show.

  He points to his phone. “Cull asked us to pick something up.”

  “Green tea latte?” I ask, amused. “I’m not ordering this time. He’s your boyfriend.”

  “He’s your brother. You share DNA.”

  “Yeah, but you share—”

  He holds up a hand and unclicks his seat belt. “Enough. I’ll do it. But he’s getting full fat, and I don’t want to hear it when he’s a whiny bitch about calories.”

  “I’ll take a cake pop,” I try.

  “Fuck off.”

  I watch as Zack runs through the rain. “Love is catching the flu to order an overpriced, high-calorie beverage for your boyfriend,” I say under my breath, digging out my phone.

  I scroll through my Instagram, immediately deleting and blocking Lindsay. I can’t undo the damage, but I can stop it from perpetuating. I’m not a monk, but Zack and Cullen are right. I barely date. And this mess is exactly why.

  Well, okay. It’s part of the reason. The rest is far more complicated.

  I skim through the row of pictures, barely taking them in. They aren’t who I’m looking for, until—there’s the one.

  It’s an anonymous shot. In the foreground, a plastic cup of cherries in some sort of mixed drink. In the background, a jukebox. Underneath, it reads, Cherry, cherry, chick-a-cherry Cola-*chef kiss*-BTM #sundayafternoon #damntheman #behindthemusicblog

  My fingers hover in reply for a full minute. I almost respond at least twice a day. But responding on Insta would require me to open a whole new anonymous account, and that would be akin to admitting I’m lurking.

  Which is why I don’t follow her private account, only her blog one. It’s a privilege I haven’t earned.

  Instead, I scroll Twitter and answer a few podcast questions until Zack returns, shaking out his sandy hair like a wet puppy. A six-foot-three point guard of a puppy.

  “What act?” I ask, not willing to drop the previous conversation.

  He sighs, long suffering, and plops the steaming cardboard cup in the center console. I see Cullen’s name scratched in black Sharpie, followed by nonfat / no whip marked under preferences, and a knowing smile crosses my lips. We’re barely three months apart, but when it comes to relationship stuff, Zack acts a decade older. Like his relationship with my brother ages him in golden retriever years.

  “Look,” he says, “you’re going to be late. It’s not a big deal. I happen to be very impressed by your artsy side. It’s gonna make you millions one day. But you do realize not everyone knows who Adam Duritz is? And that’s not a bad thing.”

  “I never said it was,” I protest.

  He glares.

  “You know who he is,” I hedge, petulant.

  “Because you’ve beat me over the head with his lyrics since the first day we sat together at lunch. At the time, I thought it was super weird. Still do. Endearing,” he clarifies, “but weird. My point is, maybe tone that down around girls.”

  I wouldn’t need to for her, I think but don’t say. He smirks.

  “Or,” he adds. “Stop playing around with girls who don’t know who Adam Duritz is and”—he turns his gaze meaningfully toward the club—“ask out the one who does.”

  “I don’t mention Adam Duritz that much,” I grumble. “I mean, yeah, he’s talented as fuck, but—”

  “Don’t care. Get out.” Zack shoos at the door. “Don’t forget the latte.”

  I grab the drink, and my free hand finds the door handle, pushing it open. I grapple for my board, dropping it to the ground. “Thanks for the ride.” I flip up my hood and hook my backpack over my shoulders while trying not to drop the drink.

  “You’re welcome, sweetums!” he shouts as I slam the door in his face and push off into the rain.

  2

  VADA

  Is it actually murder if it’s a coworker? Like, is there some kind of fine-print situation for that? Because I’m gonna kill Kazi. That hippie-dippy granola brain should be the one dealing with the drunk coeds pretending they know how to skank to the latest Interrupters song, but no. He had to pick up an extra shift at Whole Foods, and I’m stuck here on a Sunday night, cleaning something sticky off the perpetually sticky concrete floor.

  “Oops! Shit! Vada, sorry!”

  I stand, rolling my shoulder and glaring at one of the regulars. But taking in his bloodshot eyes and loose grin, I decide it’s pointless to gripe.

  “No problem. I’m in the way.” Technically.

  He starts waving his arms in circles over his head like one of those garden pinwheels and kicks out his feet in a disjointed beat. “Come on, Vada! Dance with me, darlin’!”

  “Not now, buddy!” I try to smile. Fucking Kazi. I sidestep the group of terrible skankers and dodge a few guys failing at making a mosh pit before ducking under a drink tray and sliding behind the bar. I slap the dingy gray rag full of germs and sour beer into a bucket of lukewarm bleach water and scrub my hands in the small employee sink.

  “Vada, I thought you’d left!” Bearded Ben is my favorite bartender. He’s a student at the University of Michigan and has wholly embraced the lumbersexual look. Like, he’s shown me his facial wax collection, and it’s ridiculous. Tonight, he’s curled the edges of his mustache Captain Hook–style, and I’m having a hard time looking anywhere else.

  I sidle up to him and start to fill a plastic cup with my usual snack of maraschino cherries. “I thought so, too,” I say, tugging out the beverage gun and filling my cherry cup with lemonade. I prod it with a skinny straw and spear one of the cherries before popping it in my mouth.

  “Kazi?”

  I nod.

  “Don’t you have a dance or something tonight?”

  I make a face around the fruit. “Dinner with Marcus.”

  “Ah,” he says, deftly flicking the caps off two bottles and sliding them down the dinged-up bar toward a couple.

  “No biggie. Just my future.” Except my dad did show up today. Three hours ago. But not to discuss FAFSA forms. To drink and cause a ruckus. You know, typical Sunday-afternoon shenanigans. Poor Ben had the privilege of cutting him off. It went splendidly, thanks for asking.

  Ben twists his mustache and takes a moment to reroll his flannel sleeves up his hairy forearms.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I made it awkward.” He shakes his head, but I cut him off. “I did. It’s okay. I was being dramatic. Marcus cares about two things,” I explain, ticking my fingers. “Free booze and making Phil look bad.” I drop my hands, shrugging. “My dream of college in California and I aren’t even on his radar.”

  I know he wants to say something, but Ben’s a trust fund kid. He works here purely for the aesthetic and because sometimes our boss, Phil, lets his bluegrass band play a set when we have last-minute cancels.

  “That’s bullshit, Vada, I’m sorry,” he finally says before going to take another drink order. I feel my lips roll up, warmed by his cussing. It�
��s like when my best friend, Meg, lets one slip. They both try so hard not to swear because of their personal beliefs, so when one of them does let a fuck out, it feels earned.

  Still, I want to pout about my asshole dad for a little longer, so I do. I grab a fresh rag, wiping down some tables and scrubbing a little more vigorously than the lazy Sunday-afternoon crowd warrants.

  The Loud Lizard is an institution. In the early ’90s, Nirvana and Smashing Pumpkins played here. The bar sits at the midpoint of the dance floor, and there’s a small raised stage at the front for bands. Along the sides and over the entrance sits a balcony that fits in a half circle facing the stage. It’s VIP seating, but I like to call it the “old folks’ lounge.” It’s where you go if you want to listen to live music but don’t want to stand. I can’t fathom it. I can’t not move when music is playing.

  Anyway, this is my happy place. Sticky, sour-smelling, loud, and crass. These weirdos are my people. We speak a common language of lyrics and chest-thumping beats.

  And outdated, ska-music dancing.

  I slouch against the ice chest, another rag discarded, eating a maraschino as Phil rounds the bar and closes the flapping door behind him. He runs a thick hand through his receding hair and slumps next to me, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

  “I should have called the police on him last time.”

  I grunt, rolling my eyes, and take another stab with my straw. Phil’s lips twitch under his whiskers at my sullen display. We’ve been through this before. I would’ve called the cops the first time Marcus showed up, reeking of Jim Beam and self-righteousness, and I certainly would have called them any number of times since. Phil’s the holdout. For all his grousing, he’s too pure when it comes to my mom and her skeevy ex, a.k.a. Marcus, a.k.a. my dad. I suspect it’s out of affection for my mom. They’ve been dating for over a year, but he claims he’s been in love with her since high school. It’s why I can’t give him shit about being her boyfriend. That level of Captain Wentworth pining deserves a break. Besides, my mom’s a catch.

  “No one ever dates the drummer,” he always says. Instead, my mom fell for the redheaded lead singer, got pregnant out of grad school, and is forever tied to a narcissistic insurance salesman with a fondness for free whiskey and making everyone around him as miserable as he is.