Free Falling Under by Jasinda Wilder

She gestures at the house above us. “This? It’s only four thousand square feet. Compared to most of my friends’ houses, it’s tiny.”
    I snort. “And my mom and I live in an eight-hundred-square-foot apartment. It’d fit in your kitchen.”
    She seems chagrined. “Oz, I—”
    I push at her arm, gently, teasingly. “Ky, it’s fine. It is what it is. We just come from different lives.”
    “Not that different,” Kylie says.
    “Yeah, that different. Totally different. Nothing at all alike.” I peruse the selection of guitars, admiring all of them. “Which makes me wonder. Why are you going to a community college? Why don’t you go to Vanderbilt or wherever, like Ben and your other friends?”
    Kylie blushes. “I’m still technically in high school,” she mumbles.
    “You’re what ?” I demand, turning in place, choking on my own surprise. “How old are you, Kylie?’
    “I’m seventeen, almost eighteen,” she says. “How old are you?”
    Shit. I thought she was at least eighteen. Fuck. Not good. Not good. “I’m twenty-one,” I say. “So if you’re still technically in high school, how is it you go to the community college?”
    She fiddles with the cover of the keyboard. “I tested out of most of my senior classes. I’m in a co-op that lets me attend the community college for college credit. I’ll graduate high school with more than twenty college credit-hours.”
    “Damn,” I say, impressed. “So you’re wicked smart, huh?”
    She shrugs. “I guess.”
    “When do you turn eighteen?”
    “Two months,” she mumbles. “Why does it matter?”
    It matters because eighteen is on the very edge of acceptable, seeing as I’m twenty-one, but seventeen? Not so much. I don’t look twenty-one, which is probably the only reason her parents are even letting me be around her. Because we’re not really dating, I suppose. Just hanging out. Friends. Just friends.
    I don’t know what to say to her, though. “It doesn’t, I suppose. I just thought you were older, is all.”
    She eyes me warily. “You’re not going to suddenly vanish on me now, are you? I’ll be eighteen soon. Stop worrying about it.”
    “I’m not worrying about.” Lies. I totally am worrying about it. I like her. I want to do dirty things to her. But she’s not even eighteen, not even out of high school. Fuck me, I’m an asshole.
    “So, let’s play,” Kylie says, dismissing the topic.
    “Okay,” I say, and grab a guitar from the rack. Not the nicest one, not the vintage Martin. That one’s probably worth more than my entire existence. I take an older one, a classical acoustic Taylor. It’s old, but beautiful. Kylie stops playing abruptly, hitting a wrong note.
    “No! Not that one. That’s Mom’s favorite. Pick another one.”
    There’s a Yamaha, mid-grade, basic black. “This one?”
    She nods absently, lost in the music-trance. “That’s fine.” She grins at me. “You should play the Martin.”
    I make a face of mock-horror. “Are you kidding? Do you even know how much that’s worth?”  
    Kylie frowns. “Obviously. But you’re not going to, like, break it, are you?”
    I sigh. “Ky. I’m not playing your dad’s Martin. Those are worth thousands of dollars used , for a standard. That’s a vintage, in mint condition. Gotta be worth more than a good used car.”
    “I thought you didn’t play acoustic? How do you know the value of Martins, then?”
    I growl. “I don’t play acoustic. I’ve looked into it, though. Thought about it. I just haven’t been able to afford a new guitar.” I find a stool and perch on it, settle the Yamaha across my knee. “This is fine. More my speed.”
    I try a basic C chord, get used to the spacing on the fret board with a few practice strums. I try a few more chords, just stringing them together without really thinking about the sound, just trying to get accustomed to the different feel of the strings, the different sound. I recall one of Nell and Colt’s older