Aiden asks as he idly plucks scales, shaking out his hand every now and then. He hasn’t played seriously in nearly two weeks, and though his fingertips ache as new calluses blossom on top of the old ones, the feel of the black cocobolo and white spruce of his father’s Baranik Meridian is undiluted magic. It has him itching to grab his journal and scribble down the new lyrics beginning to meander through his mind. Seated on the overstuffed crimson couch that stretches along the opposite wall of the music room in the Calloways’ basement, Jake glances up from the crate of vinyl records he’s flicking through. They’ve been down here since shortly after a surprisingly pleasant dinner with George and Fiona. Surprisingly pleasant seems to be the theme of the visit, and often throughout the day Aiden has caught himself wondering when the penny is going to drop. “Why? It’s fabulous, very Adam Lambert-esque,” Jake says. “Much better than your original idea of going as a tube of lube and a condom.
