"Don't you have experience with this kind of thing?" Adam asks. "Dick?" Brendon asks, blinking.

Brendon realizes he tends to think of Adam in the language of music: as a bright melody underlied with thumping bass, pretty but insistent and impossible to ignore. He never thought about him in terms of labels or categories or boxes. He thought of him as that guy who sang Sam Cooke like he meant it, like Brendon’s always wanted to sing it but never felt he knew how. He thinks maybe Adam is the kind of guy who confuses people. And he doesn’t know what he thinks about that.