“Are you okay?” I ask. “I don’t want this to—”

“Fuck my head up?” he asks.

“Well, yeah. I know you weren’t exactly happy here.”

“I’m fine. And living here was just like every other part of my life. Some days were good, some days sucked. But it wasn’t all bad. Ellie made it seem all bad, didn’t she?”

I nod.

“When my mother was good, she was fun to be around, and then my father wasn’t such a dick. When she was having a rough time, it was hard to be around both of them. He drank and yelled and she cried and ranted. So I escaped into my own head, and into my music, and I talked to the birds. It became my normal.”

“Evan….”

“What? I’m not going to hide it anymore. You already know I’m nuts.”

I frown and cross my arms. “You’re not nuts. I don’t want you to hide anything, I just feel bad.”

“Don’t feel bad. C’mon, let’s go upstairs and look at my room.”

I follow him up the wide wood staircase, where there are four bedrooms and two bathrooms. The house must have been gorgeous in its time, before everyone left. Vaulted ceilings, crown molding, lots of windows, the wood trim and accents and angles known in the Tudor-style homes. I feel sorry for it, being abandoned for so long.

A bedroom door with a skull and crossbones painted on it is closed.

“Guess whose room this is?” he teases.

“I’m not surprised.”

He swings open the door and it looks exactly as I pictured a teenage Evan’s room would look. Rock posters cover almost every inch of the walls and ceiling. A small mattress is on the floor with an old black blanket thrown over it. There’s only one dresser, and its drawers aren’t closed all the way. Clothes stick out of them. An old radio and cassette player sits on top of the dresser, surrounded by candles dripping long-hardened wax. Empty cigarette cartons are thrown all over the place. Next to the bed is a stack of rock and guitar magazines and more notebooks.

Not surprising.

“No naked girl posters?” I tease, peering around.

He laughs and opens the closet door. “Nah. I was never into ogling women.”

After digging around in the closet, he comes out with a guitar case.

“Look what’s still here.” He lays the old dusty case on the bed.

“What’s that?”

“My first acoustic guitar.”

“Oh. I thought the one you always have with you was your first.”

“That was my second, actually.”

I’m shocked, and confused, when he opens the case and the guitar inside is in absolutely pristine condition.

“It’s pretty,” I say. “It looks brand new.”

Smiling ear to ear, he gently pulls it out of the case and turns it over in his hands.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, clearly excited. “This is a 1934 Gibson Jumbo.”

I blink at him. “Is that good?”

“Good? It’s fuckin’ amazing, Piper. They’re wicked rare and worth a shit ton of money, not that I’d ever sell it. I just can’t believe it’s still here.” He runs his fingers lightly over the strings before placing it back in the case. “I’m taking it back with us.”

“Why did you leave it?” I ask.

“I only played it a few times. My mother bought it at a garage sale, she had no idea what it was, or what it was worth. Neither did the guy selling it. I knew, though. I was afraid to play it. It’s just too…good. Ya know?” He snaps the case closed. “I bought my other one so I could save this one. Protect it from getting destroyed. I didn’t get a chance to take it with me. I moved in the shed with Acorn, and then we just left. I never came back inside.”

My heart still tugs at the mention of sweet Acorn.

“I’m glad it’s still here. You should put it with your others. It deserves to be out, not shut in an old closet.”

“You’re right. I’m going to put new strings on it. I can’t wait to show Lyric, I think she’ll love it.”

Lyric loves everything he shares with her.

We go back downstairs, and I’m relieved this visit isn’t upsetting him. He looks happy, and excited about the guitar. I wait as he rummages through a kitchen drawer, then turns around and hands me an old photograph.

I take it from him gingerly, and when I hold it up under the light from the window, my heart jumps with joy.

It’s a photo of Evan at about five years old, hair to his shoulders, and a tiny blue bird sitting on his shoulder. He’s smiling like he’s the happiest little boy in the whole world.

“Can I have this? Please?” I ask, meeting his gaze.

“Of course.”

“You look so adorable. And happy.”

He winks at me. “Told ya.”

I step forward and wrap my arms around his waist, leaning my head against his chest.