I shake my head, but I can’t help the upturn of my lips. Fuck, I don’t even know how it came to this. To bedding a girl I lusted over six years ago and asked to prom—only to be shot the hell down, mind you—to making her my fake girlfriend, to being pissed when she drops onto the sand next to my twin brother and leans in with a flirtatious smile.

And my brother?

He doesn’t even move. He just sits there, their shoulders pressed together, and laughs at something she says.

I beat down the misplaced sense of frustration and argue with the anger coiling in my stomach. Does it matter what Jessie does? Even if it’s with my brother? No. Not a single damn bit. She’s not my girl. I don’t own her.

In fact, maybe this is for the best, her flirting with Kye. We’ve spent way too much time together, unnecessary time. So, away from the cameras, we need to not be together. I don’t care if she spends that time with Sofie or Ella or, hell, even my dad.

It’s clear.

We don’t need to spend any more time together except for what the ruse dictates.

I don’t notice I’m walking until Mila runs in front of me. “Uncy Ads?”

“Hey, bestie,” I say, dropping down to crouch in front of her. “What’s up?”

She covers her little grinning mouth with her hands and bounces. “You build cussel?”

“Aww, Mila,” I pretend to groan. “Really? There’s, like, ten right over there!”

Her bottom lip juts out. “Peeeeeaz, Uncy Ads. My lub cussels!”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Kisses!” She steps forward, giggling, and places a hand on each side of my face before smacking a kiss onto my nose.

“Another,” I demand, pointing to my cheek.

Smack.

“Ah ah, and another.” I point to my other cheek.

“Oh, Uncy Ads!” She sighs, but she dutifully kisses my other cheek. “You diva!”

“Me?” I gasp, holding my arms out. “No, Mila. You’re the diva!”

“No!” She puts her hands on her hips and gives me her best angry face, looking every inch the mini diva.

“Uh-huh!” I grab her and, dropping to one knee, flip her back over my thigh and lift her shirt. I drop my mouth to her exposed belly and blow a giant raspberry, and another, and another, and another. Her high-pitched giggles almost deafen me, and she hits me in the head three times with a wayward hand as she wriggles to get away from me, but I keep blowing raspberries until I’m ready to pass out from a lack of oxygen.

“Pit me down!” she shrieks through laughter, and I set her down on her butt on the sand in front of me.

“What? You didn’t like that?”

She humphs in a way that is so Sofie I can’t stop myself from smiling, and then she walks to her bucket and spade and hands them to me. “Cussels,” she whispers, eyes wide and lip jutting out again. “Peeeeeaz.”

“One cussel,” I bargain.

“Otay! Yay!” She claps her hands and runs off. “Here! Cussel here!”

I sigh dramatically, but I get up and walk to her. “Okay. Right here?”

“Wight here.” Her smile is so wide and beaming that I lean forward and kiss her forehead.

“Okay, Princess Mila. Right here.” I dig until I get to the wetter sand, then fill the bucket with it. She demands one, two, three more spades of sand until the bucket is overflowing, and I’m secretly scraping it off the top whenever she looks over my shoulder. “Ready, one, two . . .”

“Fwee! Go!” She claps her hands excitedly as I tip the bucket over and hand her the spade. She whacks the top of it enthusiastically, then flings the spade away to grab the bucket and lift it. “Ta-daaaaaaa!”

“Is Uncle Ads the best at castles or what?” I ask, holding my hand up for her to high-five.

She smacks her tiny hand against mine enthusiastically. “Bess ever!”

Let’s hope Tate never hears her say that, or I’m gonna find myself in a war with the Cussel King.

“Can I go inside now? I’m hungry.”

“You always hungy,” she replies, pouting.

“I know. Don’t ever meet boys, Mila. We just eat and eat and eat.”

“And watch balls,” she replies.

I chew the inside of my cheek. “Watch balls?”

“Ah-huh. Mama say, ‘Damn balls! Always the balls!’ ”

“Does she mean football? Or baseball? Or basketball?”

“Uh, balls,” she replies, eyes wide. “You silly, Uncy Ads. You balls?”

My eyebrows shoot up as Jessie and Kye roar with laughter. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder at them, instead focusing on the tiny, innocent face in front of me. The person who just asked me a not-so-innocent question. “Sure. I think there’s a basketball in my room. You want me to get it for you?”

“You balls bounce?”

I run my tongue over my teeth. “Sure. It bounces.”

“My like bounce balls.” She takes my hand, encouraging me to stand, and tugs me toward the house. “You like bounce balls?”

“Hey! I’ve got an idea!” I bend down again so I’m eye level with her. “How about you stay here while I get you the basketball? You can build another castle with Uncle Kye and Jessie.”

Mila looks at them for a second before pausing. “Otay.” And just like that, she grabs her bucket and spade and stumbles over the sand to them.

I turn away before I see them talk to her and stride up to the house. As much as I don’t care, I don’t wanna know what they have to say to her. I don’t wanna see Jessie leaning against Kye and him whispering in her ear again.

“Oh, Aidan!” Mom calls as I run upstairs.

“Hold on.” I go into my room and take the basketball from the bottom of my closet, then run back downstairs. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. What are you doing with that?” She dries her hand on a towel, glancing at the ball.

“For Mila. She’s obsessed with balls. This kind of balls,” I clarify, holding it up. “Don’t ask how I discovered that.”

Mom laughs softly. “Is Jessie here for lunch?”

I shrug, glancing at her across the beach. She’s tied her hair up into a messy knot on top of her head now and is filling the bright pink bucket as Mila watches in awe. “You’ll have to ask her.”

“Aidan?”

“Ask her, Mom. I don’t know and I don’t care.” I give Mom the ball then open the door to the garage and close it behind me before she can ask anything else.

The garage looks exactly how we left it. Guitars leaning against the walls, a Platinum album award hanging on the wall, broken and chipped drumsticks littering the floor in the corner, stacked notebooks and folders overflowing with scribbled-on sheets of paper covering the floor wherever possible. This was our sanctuary for so long, and it doesn’t matter how many recording studios we enter or how many stages we have to stand on, this will be home.

For all of us.

This was the room where, when I was six, Mom confined my drums. I’d had them all of three weeks after my and Kye’s birthday before she removed them from my bedroom and stashed them in here. I think she hoped I’d forget about them, but I didn’t. I remember looking at the drumsticks and loving the way they felt in my hands, the music they created that was so different compared to my brothers’ guitars.

I remember creeping down here whenever she wasn’t looking and beating the shit out of the drums. I’ve been through several sets since then, but these have lasted the longest. I bought them six months before Marc’s recording company found us on YouTube and signed us.

They’re also my favorite, because they have our logo on them, the one the company decided to keep.

I sit on the stool behind them and run my thumb along the edge of the crash cymbal. Smooth and cold, the metal disc vibrates as I let it go with a small flick and grab my sticks. The chilled wood is soothing against my hands, and my feet rest on the familiar pedals.

My whole body tremors with the desire to hit the sticks against the drums, to hear the beat, to feel the low thump as I let the steady pound flow through me and take me over.

So I do it.