"Tell me more about you." Billy prodded as we settled into the red vinyl seats of a diner.

"What do you want to know?" The mix of hunger and Billy's proximity wiped my mind of all facts about myself, replacing them with a coarse tension.

"Everything."

His dimples didn't help my concentration. "I've got nothing."

"What's the first song you remember?"

"Get Back." I instinctively answered.

My automatic response threw him a bit, and his body swayed as a result before he settled back, leaning closer to me.

"Quick answer; continue."

"We were going camping in my parents' blue Grand Am. My sister hated the AC, so the windows were down, and my legs stuck to the blue vinyl seats." I closed my eyes and remembered the moment in every detail. "The belt buckles were metal then, heavy, and they collected the heat, so if they touched your bare skin, it'd burn like a son of a bitch." I laugh to myself at the memory. 

"I remember those," Billy smiled. 

"I loved those seatbelts." My eyes flicked up to him; he intently studied me with a pleased smile on his face. "Anyway, my dad always took shortcuts to get to camp, but it took longer because he'd get lost. I'm pretty sure he did it on purpose to listen to more music. He'd put together these amazing mixed tapes straight from vinyl, so they had all the voices of the turntable."

"Voices of the turntable?" His voice startled me from my memory.

"Sorry, my dad made me weird about vinyl, that warmth that you get with the pops and cracks. I called them the voices of the turntable when I was a kid. My dad loved it; it just stuck."

"I'd like to meet your dad."

I gave him a nod and then continued. "So, we're in the car, and that twang came on; then Paul's voice. I loved the song, so I mumbled to myself, Get Back. My dad nearly drove off the road. He stopped the tape and asked me what I said. I thought I was in trouble like it was a Stones song, and I had misjudged it."

Billy let out a laugh. "You feared you were in trouble for misidentifying a Beatles' song?"

"Yeah." It seemed apparent to me. "Anyway, my daddy was shocked that I spotted the song that quickly."

"How old were you?"

"Three or four," I shrugged. "It's one of my first memories. That and my neighbor hanging laundry on a clothesline run between the back of her house and her barn. My mom tells me I couldn't remember that because she died when I was two, but the memory is there."

"Nice memories," he sat back. "Aside from the dead neighbor, of course."

"They're just memories; neither better nor worse than anyone else's," I shrugged. Suddenly I felt the pressure of his focus. 

"Is Let it Be your favorite Beatles album?" His eyes were distant as he focused on my answers.

"No, Rubber Soul."

He nodded to himself before adding, "John?"

"No, George. You?"

"Paul," he noted. "And Revolver." 

I nodded. 

"First concert?" He continued.

"Dylan. I was seven, and he played a baseball field in Old Orchard; such a great set."

"Do you remember it?" He pressed.

"Yeah, some of it. First, someone set off a firework that almost set my sister on fire. I remember that," I gigged.

"Understandable." A smile tickled his lips.

"I was just a random seven-year-old in a crowd of people, but I felt like he was playing to me. He piled on my favorites." The memory engulfed me, stealing my words.

"Like what?" He prodded, pulling me back to him enough to continue.

"Mm, Simple Twist of Fate, Silvio, Masters of War, All Along the Watchtower. I was seven. I haven't been able to listen to Simple Twist of Fate lately."

My eyes lifted to see the smile drained from his face, and a flashing twist of pain and anger echoed through his eyes before becoming placid. "A seven-year-old with favorite Dylan songs. How many times have you seen him?"

"Oh, a dozen times. He seems to come to Maine a lot, not that I'm complaining. He played three nights at this great old theater when I was in high school, The State. Great sets again. He played Seven Days, My Back Pages, Visions." I got lost in the memories again. "I'm sorry; reliving concerts you didn't go to can't be fun."

"I beg to differ."

"He had a fantastic drummer for the State Theater concerts. His name was Winston something. He was like Animal from The Muppets when he played; all crazy and erratic, but the beats. I had quite the crush on him, but who doesn't love a good drummer."

"Drummers?" Jest permeated Billy's tone.

"Sorry,  but everyone loves a brilliant guitarist too."

"Always the bridesmaid."

"Your turn. Tell me about you?" I prodded.

A sigh deflated him as he sat back on the vinyl bench of the booth. "I guess my first memory of music was from church."

"Church?" I didn't expect it, but once it was out there, it clicked with his personality.

"Yeah, Catholic. Altar boy and all that jazz." He brushed away the specifics with his tone. "But my mom always had music going. She liked polka."

"Polka?" I hadn't expected that either.

"Yeah, and my dad was really into blues; McTell, Son House, you know. But my brothers played a lot of other stuff. I'm the youngest, so Zeppelin and The Stones seeped through the walls of my house." He inspected my face as he spoke. "I don't have as vivid a memory as you do; it's enviable. Nor have I seen Dylan as much; only twice for me."

"What do you listen to on the road?"

He let out a laugh as his eyes fell to his hand that was clutching his coffee cup. "I have a few albums with me; I can show you when we get back to the room."

When he mentioned the hotel, he tensed, pulling my mind to the hotel room as well. He wouldn't sleep in my bed in Portland; would he sleep on the floor now? I didn't have to linger long.

"I can stay in Tim's room tonight." His eyes stayed downcast.

I didn't protest; given our tentative situation, it was probably for the best. "How's the new album?"

"Good." His eyes twitched up and clung to my gaze. "People seem to get into it. Of course, Tim says it's his sales technique." A twisted smile crossed his face, revealing one dimple. "I'm excited for you to see us tonight. It's funny; in all this time, you've only been to one show."

I gave a slight laugh and a smile at the fact. I, of course, knew Billy was a musician; it permeated to his core. But he wasn't a guy on stage to me. He was Billy, painfully shy, unfailingly sweet, trying desperately to be a gentleman. My Billy warred with my perception of a rock star.

"What?" His question poked through my thoughts.

"Sorry, just excited to see you play tonight." I gave an unconvincing smile.

"This is nice." He reached across the table and lifted the lily pendant from my chest; his warm finger lightly skated across my skin, leaving a burning in its wake. He jostled the charm in his fingers.

"Thanks; I made it." My words came shy as my senses swirled around his recent touch.

"That's impressive." He let it drop from his fingers with a plunk to my chest as the server slid our plates before us.

The compliment twisted with the tension and hunger soaring through me. 

"You should drink tea," I murmured as we dug in. "It'll help your throat."

"My throat is fine." He poked his eggs with a fork before reaching for the ketchup.

"It's painful to listen to you talk, so pretending your throat is fine is ridiculous." His eyes twitched up to mine from my scolding. "And ketchup on eggs?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Anything else you'd like to complain about, mom?" No tease entered his tone; instead, it revolved around the low growl of tipping annoyance.

"You should smoke less," I added for good measure.

"I haven't smoked once since you got here." He tossed his fork down with a loud clang and sat deeper into the booth.

"And yet, I can still smell them. They've infused into your very existence."

An awed look filled his eyes. "I'm so glad you could come down for a visit, Lil."

"I'm trying to help."

His annoyance at my picking struck me behind my eyes. I bit my cheek and focused on the fruit before me to prevent tears from spilling over.

"I asked for your help once..." His voice was so low that I almost couldn't hear him, but I did. He made sure of it. He didn't finish; perhaps the gentleman in him thought better than to criticize my declining of his invitation. Either way, he downed the rest of his coffee and let the mug thud to the table with more than necessary force.