“It’s fine. You’re allowed to like my music.”

Reese’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t your music.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not! This is Alex and Oliver Mith’s music!” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Smith,” I corrected. Her “Mith” sounded like “myth,” and for some reason that made it seem as if I didn’t truly exist. Funny enough, I felt like that on the daily.

“That’s what I said,” she said, agreeing. “And that’s not you.”

“I’m pretty sure I know who I am, kid.”

“You have no clue who you are,” Reese argued back at me, and fuck, if that wasn’t an emotionally damaging statement, I didn’t know what was.

“It’s true, Reese. That’s Oliver Smith. This is his music,” Emery chimed in.

Reese’s mouth dropped open in shock, and her eyes bugged out farther than I thought eyes could ever bug. She then whispered. Who knew this little girl understood the art of whispering?

“You . . . ,” she started, her voice a bit shaky now. “You’re in Alex & Oliver?”

“Yes, I am.” I paused. “I was.”

I caught Emery’s saddened eyes in the rearview mirror before I looked back to Reese.

“Oh. My. Bananas,” she muttered, stunned, as her face turned pale and she slapped the palms of her hands to her cheeks.

“Oh my bananas?” That was a new one.

Emery snickered. “It’s clear we’re both fans of your music. Anything you want to say to Oliver, Reese?”

“Yes.” Reese wiggled around a bit in her booster seat before clasping her hands together and looking my way. “We only like your first two albums because the other ones are recycled mainstream garbage that was made to only sell records instead of art. We don’t listen to those ones, because even if it’s recycled garbage, it’s still kind of like trash.”

“Reese!” Emery gasped, shaking her head back and forth. “That’s not nice at all!”

“But, Mama, it’s true, and you said a person is always supposed to be honest. Plus, you’re the one who told me it was recycled garbage. Remember, Mama?”

I couldn’t help but smile at the kid. Shit . . . when was the last time I smiled? I should’ve started keeping a journal about the times I found a split moment of happiness. Maybe that would help me stop drowning every single day, if I knew there were moments of happiness too.

“Sorry about that,” Emery said. “You know what they say: ‘Kids say the darndest things.’”

“Hey, Mr. Mith?” Reese asked, tugging on my shirtsleeve.

“Smith.”

“That’s what I said. Hey, Mr. Mith, do you think you’ll ever make good music again?”

“Reese!” Emery gasped again, embarrassment written across her face.

I rolled with it and shrugged. “That seems to be the question of the year, kid.”

Reese crossed her arms. “Stop calling me ‘kid’—I’m five years old. I’m a big girl.”

“I’ll stop calling you ‘kid’ when you stop calling me ‘Mith.’”

“Okay, Mr. Mith!” she snapped back in the sassiest tone ever.

“Well, all right then, this morning chatter has been nothing but amazing, yet perhaps it’s best if we are quiet the rest of the way and listen to the music, okay?” Emery cut in.

About twenty minutes later, we pulled up to the camp, and Emery put the car in park. “I have to walk her inside. I’ll be right back.”

As Reese climbed out of the car, she made sure to give me one more jab as she put on her backpack. “Bye, Mr. Mith. I hope you find good music again.”

You and me both, kid.

“Oh, and Mr. Mith?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry about your brotha,” she said with a slight lisp. “He was my favorite.”

I didn’t know why, but hearing that from a little girl hit me harder than anything before. There I was, seconds away from tearing up in the back seat of a vomit-scented vehicle.

“He was my favorite, too, kid.”

She smiled so big, and for a split second it was as if that smile was enough to take away an ounce of my pain. “Don’t call me ‘kid,’ Mr. Mith.”

She hurried away with her mother, and without thought I went to check my phone, which was still, indeed, dead. I wondered if the world was thinking I was somewhere dead in a ditch. I wondered how much that would please some people. Stop being so negative. It was almost morbid how often those kinds of thoughts flew through my mind. I supposed losing someone who meant the world to you would do that to a person.

I don’t want to be here.

Fuck.

My parents.

Every time I thought about how I didn’t want to be living, my mind wandered to my parents.

They were probably worried sick about me. I was almost certain they’d seen the articles that the paparazzi had run about me, and it wouldn’t have shocked me if Mom was trying to book a first-class ticket to Los Angeles to make sure I was okay.

“Sorry about that,” Emery told me, slipping back into the driver’s seat. She turned to face me and gave the smallest grin. Somehow that smile healed an ounce of my pain too. “Where to?”