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work.”
    Jagger looked like he was going to argue about the mechanic, but decided against it. “Take my car today. Keys are on the hook inside.”
    â€œThanks, Jag,” I said quickly, and slipped back into the warehouse to grab my purse and his keys before he could find something else to argue with me about—­like how I should stop looking for my own place.
    It felt like I didn’t take a full breath until I was in his car and pulling out of the alleyway. I’d made it through another parental-­type lecture from Jagger; now if only I could make it through this shift without Mama’s favorite person coming in to pin me with his cold stare.
    Deacon
    May 30, 2016
    M Y PHONE BEGAN ringing just as I pulled into work. A glance at the screen had me hissing out a curse when I caught sight of the name.
    I’d been expecting this call ever since I’d walked out of Mama’s the morning before, and was surprised it had taken him this long to ream me. Or maybe I was surprised that she hadn’t immediately run home to tell her brother about what I’d said.
    I shut off my car, and took a steadying breath as I answered the call. “Yeah, Jagger?”
    â€œYou working today?”
    My brow pinched when he didn’t immediately begin laying into me, and I glanced up at the building in front of me. “Uh, yeah . . . just pulled in. Why?” I asked, drawing out the word.
    â€œWhen you get a break today, can you do a favor for me?”
    My initial surprise deepened when I realized Charlie hadn’t mentioned anything about the day before as Jagger went on, but my frustration over her slowly filled my veins once the favor was laid out for me.
    I opened my mouth to say no, but shut it and sighed through my nose.
    Grey would kill me if I said no, and it would unnecessarily bring up a discussion with Jagger right then that I didn’t want to have.
    After a few seconds, I conceded. “Sure. Yeah, I’ll be there.”
    Charlie
    May 30, 2016
    Who listened to your stories sad songs
    The shoulder that you cried on
    Out on that cliff you walked on
    When
    I RAPIDLY TAPPED the edge of my pen against the pages of my notebook as all of the words in the world failed me.
    â€œWhen . . .” I said under my breath. “When you . . . no.”
    I let my eyes slide shut and imagined a simple melody, and tried to hear my words interwoven with the notes, but each time I stopped on that last word. Something felt off about what I had already written down, and I knew that when I fixed it, I would be able to go on.
    My mom had always taken credit for my ability to sing and write poetry, which had turned into writing songs, just as she had taken credit for Jagger’s amazing ability to draw—­as long as music was blasting nearby. Saying it was all because she’d named us after members from her favorite band, the Rolling Stones, and had had music playing nonstop while we were growing up.
    Except she hadn’t really been around while we were growing up, and—­as she chose to forget—­I spent most of my time reading novels, and would have preferred to have the ability to write them. But I’d never been able to figure out how to expand my dreams into something longer than the poems and songs that filled this notebook when inspiration hit.
    And this song . . . these words were begging to get free, but my thoughts were scrambled after having locked that night with Ben away for years.
    I ran through the words in my mind again and again. Just as I stopped my furious drumming on the paper to write down a few more words that had burst into my mind, the door to Mama’s opened, and my break ended as the beginnings of the lunch rush came filing in. I hurried to get out of the booth and smiled timidly at the two groups of ­people. Grabbing a handful of menus, I led the first to my section at the back of the restaurant as the words I