as we catch up to Mickey

down the boardwalk.

The first question is easy.

"Ask him why he hates me."

She rolls her eyes,

but does as I ask.

"I don't hate him," he says,

but too quick,

like a reflex,

like someone,

maybe a therapist,

has asked that question before.

"You think I'm a sellout," I tell him.

"You think I don't care about the music."

This he doesn't deny,

just shoves his hands deeper

into his pockets,

slows his pace,

glares harder at the wooden slats

in front of his feet.

"So if I'm a sellout,"

I continue, slowly enough

that Krista can translate,

"then why did we play

all those songs I wrote?

Why were they good enough,

when I wasn't?"

Mickey glares at her.

"I never said he wasn't good enough."

"Don't talk to me," Krista tells Mickey.

"Talk to Logan."

He stops short and turns to her.

"Okay, L-"

My name catches on his tongue.