Kylie shakes her head. “That’s kind of sad, Oz.”
I shrug, going for a nonchalance I don’t entirely feel. “Maybe it is. I don’t know. It is what it is.”
Kylie frowns. “I hate that phrase. It’s an excuse to accept something that isn’t always acceptable.”
“What am I supposed to do about it, Ky? I can’t change Mom. I can’t change the past. Sometimes you really do just have to accept the unacceptable.” The bitterness in my own voice, the jaded apathy…it disgusts even me.
She tugs on my hair, which is still loose around my shoulders. “I wasn’t—I was just talking about that phrase. Not about you or your life, Oz.”
I sigh. “I know. Talking about Mom makes me a little crazy sometimes.” I lean in through the window, and she tilts her chin up to meet my lips. “Go. Be safe.”
“I’ll text you when I’m home.”
I nod and step back, watch her twist in her seat to look behind her as she backs out, then go back inside to my room, marveling at my life, what it’s become. For the first time, I’m starting to see something like potential. Like life isn’t something to just get through, but something that could be…enjoyable.
The hope germinating in my chest scares me, because it’s such a fragile little shoot, tender and green and new, and the slightest breeze could kill it. And the many bones in my darkened closet ache from the impending storm.
TEN: Tension in Your Gut
Colt
Sometimes, your gut is tense. For months, or weeks, it’ll be just this ache, this emptiness, this sense of something coming. I hate that feeling. It’s like knowing you’ve forgotten something, but not knowing what. Like that moment, that split second when you look in your rearview mirror and you see the car behind you coming way too fast, and you’re stopped at a light and you know there ain’t dick you can do to stop the crash.
It’s not Nell. Nell is fine. She’s herself, doing what she does. It’s not us. We’re great. We’re in love. We f**k each other senseless several times every week, and we never get tired of it. It’s not me, I’m just…me. I tinker with my Triumph, which is almost done. I work with The Harris Mountain Boys, getting their album cut so we can really get this tour going.
So then…what is it?
Kylie, Oz, and Ben. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. I know Kylie and Ben had that shitty argument in my garage, and I haven’t spoken to Ben since. He goes to classes, football conditioning, works out. But he’s just drifting, I think. I see him on the front porch, and I get the sense that he’s fuming, stewing. Brewing and brooding. And I know better than anyone that brooding doesn’t do shit.
Kylie is giddy. She comes back from seeing Oz and she’s glowing. She really likes that guy, and he seems to be doing good things for her. So…good for him. Good for them. I like seeing my daughter happy.
She’s in the basement every spare moment, practicing like mad for their gig, bringing Oz over for jam sessions that last into the night. Then she goes home with him and doesn’t return till late. I’m not an idiot, of course, but what’s a guy to do? She’s graduating in a few months. She’ll be off to college somewhere soon, and that’ll the be the end of me having any kind of day-to-day influence on her. At least right now I know when she comes and goes and who she’s with, and I can sniff her clothes when she passes me, smell her breath and watch her eyes and listen for the slur in her speech. And, so far, no warning signs.
Just her, happy with Oz.
And Ben, brooding.
And the feeling like something is coming. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know when it will happen.
But, worst of all…I don’t think there’ll be anything I can do about it.
ELEVEN: Falling Under
Oz
It’s Thursday, seven fifty-eight. The bar is buzzing, humming. Busy. Not insane, but a lot of people in varying stages of intoxication. All of them, it seems, are eyeing Kylie and me with idle curiosity. Nell and Colt are sitting at a little round table a dozen paces from the low stage, sipping on draft beer and chatting quietly as they wait for Kylie and me to start.
We’ve plugged in, tuned up, arranged sheets of music, gone over our set list, checked that our mics work and all that necessary pre-show bullshit. Now it’s time to start performing. This isn’t an open mic night. They’re just strangers with no vested interest in Kylie or me or our music. We’re about to play for money like real professional musicians.
Shit, I’m gonna puke.
Except I can’t. I take a deep breath, flip my pick between my fingers, and lean in to my mic. “Hey, everybody. How are ya’ll doing?” I look out at the crowd and a few people glance our way, there’s a couple random claps, and a whole hell of a lot people just ignoring me. “Okay, cool. So I’m Oz, and this is Kylie. But you don’t really give a shit, do you? Not yet, at least. So let’s just jam, huh?”
I tap my index and middle fingers against the guitar just beneath the bridge in a quick three count, glancing at Kylie sitting at the piano adjacent to me, turned partially toward me and partially toward the crowd. She grins at me, and on three we’re into a cover of “Down” by Jason Walker. The crowd digs it, digs the groove we give it. By the time we finish the song, the audience is starting to pay attention, realizing we don’t suck horribly. We do a few current country songs, stripped down and rearranged a bit for our style. They’re really into us then, shouting out suggestions, whistling, heads bobbing. Kylie and I are both pumped, grinning crazily at each other. This is fun, exciting, exhilarating. I feel alive, as if electricity is running through my veins, as if my entire being is humming, as if I’m sucking the life and the energy and the excitement rising from the crowd into my soul. There are no nerves, no fear, no inhibitions, only confidence. We dive without pausing into one of our original songs, the first piece we played at the talent show. The crowd isn’t quite sure what to make of it at first, but by the end they’re howling wildly.
We let the notes fade, and I shift on the stool, clear my throat, and lean into the mic. “Yeah, so that last song we just did was one we wrote ourselves. We hope you liked it. We’ve got a couple other originals we’re gonna do for you. First, though, this next one is a really cool song by a band called Snow Patrol. This is ‘Set Fire to the Third Bar.’”
There are a bunch of whistles and scattered applause as I name the band and the song. I let Kylie splurge on a set of effects pedals for me, and I’ve been spending the last week playing with those, finally discovering how to get the perfect distortion effect for this song.