The summers of your childhood always smelled like freshly cut grass and sounded like Nick Andopolis's laugh. The two of you had been inseparable since you were kids, bonding over bike rides through the neighborhood, late-night backyard campouts, and countless hours of Nick attempting to teach you how to play the drums on a makeshift kit of pots and pans.

Now, as teenagers, not much had changed—except that life felt a little more complicated.

It was late one Saturday afternoon, and you were sitting cross-legged on the grass in Nick's backyard, watching him fiddle with his actual drum kit, which was set up on the patio. His dad had grumbled about letting him leave it there, but Nick had argued that the sound carried better outside. Typical Nick—always finding the bright side.

"You know," he said, tapping a drumstick against his knee, "we should start a band."

You snorted. "Nick, I can barely play the tambourine."

"So?" he said, grinning. "You could be the lead singer. Or, like, I don’t know, the cool manager who makes us famous."

"Right," you said dryly. "Because that’s totally what we need—a manager with zero music experience."

"Hey, don’t sell yourself short," Nick said, pointing a drumstick at you. "You’ve got great taste in music. And you’ve always been the one who, you know, keeps me grounded."