Jack grinned back, partly because Gatsby's grin was infectious, and partly because he'd answered the question he hadn't asked. But the grin fell away slowly as he finished up the chicken strip he held, and he rubbed his fingers against his napkin, wiping the grease away. He should've anticipated that question. Slowly, he shook his head.
"Nope. I always loved music when I was a kid, and my mom has this cracked taste in just about everything under the sun, so I was singing show tunes and Nine Inch Nails when I was in preschool. Had a lot of music for different moods, and when I got sick in seventh grade, music was one of the things that helped me get through." He glanced over at Gatsby. "I was pretty much stuck in bed for a year, and one of the visiting nurses brought me a guitar to fool around with. And this ancient keyboard, which I've still got in my room here. I figured out how to play my favorite songs, then I started working on my own shit, and," he shrugged, "I figured if I really wanted to do it, then I needed to just do it, and here I am."