Timbertone; justified-era; italian words

Joey could hear Justin's breathing, thick and heavy, on the other end of the phone. "I wish I could be there, Joe," he said, and there was enough regret in his voice to make Joey think that he really meant it.

"It's okay," Joey said. The stage manager poked her head in and made impatient gestures at him, and he waved back and mouthed "I know" at her. "You've been here enough times, it's not that much of a big deal."

"Yeah," Justin said. Joey closed his eyes and could imagine him, Justin in a pair of Joey's own raggedy old sweatpants, in some hotel room or another halfway across the country, hot and sweaty and still jumped up from the performance even after a shower and twenty minutes to run it off in the corridors of the arena. "But I miss you anyway."

"Give my love to Christina," Joey said. "And tell her I told her to eat already. She's so skinny. How she gonna get a husband, she so skinny?"

"Mangia, mangia," Justin said, imitating Joey when he got on a roll imitating his little old Italian grandma, and they laughed together. It felt almost like Justin was right in the room next door, and that made it hurt a little less.

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