A week and a half later, I go to Adam and Harvey's once I finish tutoring, ready to crash another band practice. I've attended so many now that I think I've achieved official super-fan status. The guys write some songs while I help to sort out boxes of merchandise for their band which has just been delivered. I persuade Charlie to let me steal a shirt, after convincing him it will serve as free advertising for them. Besides, official super-fans should be entitled to some perks, right?

During the evening, Charlie's busy being the driving force behind the song-writing so I spend a lot of time with Stan instead. I like Stan. He's hilarious. He tells me stories about all the stuff he and Charlie get up to, and about all of the trouble they have gotten into. I noticed quite early on the difference between Charlie and Stan and it's only become more evident as I've got to know them better. The pair of them are both troublemakers – there's no doubting that. With Charlie I don't think he can help it. He's dark and brooding and always caught up in his own head. Trouble seems to find him, like it's a shadow that's followed him around all his life and has no plans of disappearing. Stan is more of a mischievous kind of troublesome. He's goofy and light-hearted and I can see how the duo balances each other out.

At around 10.30pm, Charlie decides it's time to make a move.

"Are you sure your family don't mind me staying over?" I ask him as we begin the walk back to his.

He smirks. "It's all good, they like you," he reassures. "Besides, I need to run something by you."

"What's that?"

"You'll see."

When we reach the house, Charlie opens the door to eerie silence, the two elder Hemmingways either asleep or out. We take off our shoes and go straight upstairs.

More relaxed in Charlie's house now than I was that first night, I push the door to and sit down next to Charlie on the bed, stretching my legs out over his, just as an excuse to touch him. Charlie lights up a joint of weed, opening his bedroom window to exhale the smoke out of in a feeble attempt to reduce the smell. It's in vain.

Outside it is dark but I can see a trail of streetlights leading all the way down to the main road, which is congested as always. There is the ever present hum of traffic and the distant wail of sirens that reminds me a lot of Detroit. The street right outside is empty of people, most of them either gone to bed or already headed for the clubs and bars downtown. It is weirdly peaceful and I feel content, or perhaps I've just inhaled too much smoke from Charlie's blunt.

"What are you going to show me?" I ask again, growing impatient with the pungent odour that will no doubt cling to my clothes and hair and lead to a serious conversation with Miss McKinley tomorrow morning.

"It's this song I wrote," he begins, finally putting out the joint, "It's not great, so I need your help to tweak it a bit. I'm not even sure if I'll play it to the guys to be honest; it's kind of personal. I trust you."

I smile, a sort of nostalgia setting in. It reminds me of the days Austin would ask for my opinion on things, back when he still listened to it. Back when he was still alive for me to even give it to him.

"Okay, let me hear it." He takes a deep breath and hesitates for a second, his fingers dancing nervously over the chords of his guitar. Eventually, he starts to play a song that is a thousand worlds away from anything I've ever heard him play before. It's not an angry punk song or a catchy pop tune or a mysterious emo piece filled with cryptic imagery. It's stripped back and raw and honest and beautiful. He sings about his mom leaving and how lost it made him feel, and about his brother's drug addiction and how he hates seeing him like that. It's possibly my favourite thing he has ever written. Charlie has a way with words; his music is the best way I know to truly understand him. And I love anything that helps me understand him a little better. It's like finding another clue to solving the infamous mystery that is Charlie Hemmingway.

I think carefully about what to say but realise I'm lost for words, so instead of speaking, I shift closer to him and lean into his chest, wrapping my arms around his torso. He lets out a small laugh, placing his arm round my shoulder and pulling me closer so that I am cocooned by his warmth.

"Do you like it?" he asks, almost timidly.

"I love it Charlie, it's so real and genuine and emotional. I think it's really good."

"Thank you."

"I think you should play it to the guys."

"I don't know doll," he shrugs, "It's personal. I don't really talk about that kinda stuff with them."

"You don't talk about feelings in general Charlie," I tease.

"Look who's talking," he retorts, squeezing my waist because he knows I'm insanely ticklish there. I giggle and squirm in his arms but he refuses to let go of me.

"Seriously though," I laugh, trying to regain my breath, "You should play it to them. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Your music is your art; it's your chance to express yourself freely and without having to mute or paint anything out. I think that's why you've developed such a fan base already, because people can relate. What you write is so raw and real."

"Maybe you're right," he concedes. We sit silently for a second and then Charlie suddenly presses his lips to my cheek, setting my skin on fire.

"What's that for?" I ask.

He shrugs, smiling like I've never seen him smile before. "You're just...important to me."

"You're not so bad either," I grin, nuzzling my head into the crook of his neck.

We remain silent for a few minutes, both of us deep in thought. After all, the song gave me a lot to think about. I can't help but admire Charlie. He may be problematic as hell but when I look at the family he came from, is it any wonder? I hate that he drinks so much and takes drugs and gets into endless trouble but I don't think he knows any better. He's just lost his way.

But despite all his flaws, I truly believe he's a good person, and an even better musician. He has the drive and the determination and if he gets his shit together, I have no doubt he can succeed. In five years he could be playing festivals and in ten years he could be selling out arenas. All I pray for is that he tackles the issues that threaten to destroy him.

I don't think I could face losing him too.

"I love you," I say to Charlie, because it's as simple as that. I could go on about how thoughtful and funny and interesting and talented he is. I could go on about all our memories and random conversations and how much they mean to me. I could go on about all the amazing things he has done for me and how grateful I am. I could go on about how relieving it is to have somebody that understands me better than I understand myself. I could go on for a while actually, but I know if I start, I'll never stop.

We talk for a while longer after that. Charlie says that he loves me too, and then we both gag and wonder when we started acting like characters in a cringe-worthy rom-com. Then I put on my newly acquired 'The Ransom' shirt and a pair of Charlie's joggers which fit perfectly once I've rolled them up a bit at the ankles. For once, I fall to sleep the moment my head hits the pillow, relaxed and at ease, trusting things are finally on the right track.

---

The next day, I feel so comfortable and happy where I am that I could quite easily stay there all day. Unfortunately though, I have classes to attend. Charlie drops me off but decides not to actually come into school himself, insisting he has much more pressing issues to attend to involving the band. I begin to object but Charlie smartly points out he has far more chance of winning a Grammy than passing the SATs, an argument which no one in the state of California could disagree with, so it's more worthwhile concentrating his energy where it could actually lead to success. Conceding, I walk into school alone, stopping by Stan and Mason to say hello before going to sit with Amber, Tristan, Harlee and Keegan.

"Do you guys want to hang out tonight?" I ask. I didn't really have anything specific in mind, but I'm so happy at the moment and I'm hoping with every piece of me that the floor won't fall through again. My theory is that if I keep busy, there won't be time for things to go wrong. Besides, I'm beginning to fall back in love with socialising.

"Hell yeah," Harlee replies, "What should we do?"

"There's a show down town for this indie rock band I know," Keegan suggests.

"Honey, what do you not understand about me saving for college?" Harlee demands.

"But the tickets are only cheap."

"No buts, I'm trying to save for college and you're not even being supportive," she cries, throwing her arms up as she storms out of the room. A look of panic crosses Keegan's face as he gets up and chases after her, leaving just the three of us smirking and rolling our eyes.

"He's whipped," Tristan chuckles.

"Don't be mean," says Amber.

"Come on, she's fucking crazy. Harlee's a lunatic and Keegan's a mug to run round after her like that."

"Oh, and you're so wise and experienced when it comes to relationships then?" Amber teases, "If you haven't even been in a proper relationship, you can't judge them."

"You haven't been in one either!" he cries.

"Hence why I keep my mouth shut on the topic."

"We can just hang out at mine tonight if that's easier," I suggest, changing the subject before another lover's tiff breaks out and I'm left all alone at the table.

"Oh I don't know, that might not be good enough for the drama queen over there," Tristan teases.

"Shut up," Amber complains, rolling her eyes, "Noelle that would be lovely if you don't mind."

"Yeah sure," I affirm, "I have tutoring until 5:30 but y'all can come round any time after that."

I figure it will probably be good to prove to my dad that I do have some friends who don't look like they've stepped straight out of Kerrang TV. Anyway, every time dad notices I've stayed out all night, 'stayed at Amber's' is my default excuse, so it will add credibility to my story if he sees Amber is in fact a real person and not just a code name for Charlie.

Eventually, Harlee and Keegan return from their melodrama, all lovey-dovey and happy again. They agree to a Guitar Hero marathon at my house and Harlee even decides a take-out is within her budget. Everyone comes round as soon as I finish tutoring and my dad arrives home from work around 8pm, remaining downstairs just long enough for some basic introductions and other pleasantries. I think he's relieved to see I've met some seemingly normal friends, not that he's particularly forthcoming about showing it, but I've spent enough time trying to figure him out that I'm all too familiar with his little nuances, like the way one side of his mouth turns up the slightest bit when he's pleasantly surprised. It's not long before my father excuses himself to go and tend to my mother, who is doing unexpectedly well by the way. She's had a positive week, going so far as to venture out to town with me one day and for a short run around the block another. I'm not expecting her to turn into doting mother of the year anytime soon but all progress is good progress, right?