Well, most of the time they were. It was awkward at first, but I guess all relationships are. I’d never really lived with anyone outside Mama and Uncle Cal, and it was altogether different with someone else’s things in my space. It was hard not to say anything when he set glasses and cans on the furniture with no coaster underneath, but I learned to keep my mouth shut after the second hole in the wall. After a month or so, I don’t think he ever took a dish to the sink, threw a paper in the trash, or picked up his clothes or towels off the bathroom floor, but the other bedroom, which he turned into his studio, looked like a music store showroom. And dear Jesus, the beautiful sounds that came out of that room—I could never be tired of hearing those wonderful sounds. Maybe it was because we were never there at the same time too much: I worked every night and three mornings a week. Danny practiced weeknights and was gone every weekend.
