by Zoe Lee
Around five, though, his brother Aden came into the office. “Hey,” he grunted.
Sensing Aden was there to bug him, since he had to know who was in town, Seth tried to stand up and protest that he had somewhere else to be. But Aden propelled Seth back with a series of shoves until he tripped back into the desk chair. Satisfied, Aden’s hands went to his waist and he frowned down at Seth. “Where have you been since you got home?”
“I’ve been right here,” he said, feeling prickly because he wasn’t feeling completely like himself, and usually everyone knew he needed time to decompress after he got home.
“You’re avoiding us,” Aden stated in his plain no-bullshit way.
“No, I’m choosing to be solitary.”
“Don’t be a dick,” Aden shot back. “Are you going to tell me what the hell is up with you? Or am I going to have to kick your ass? Or—more fun—get Leda in here to yell at you?”
Seth drummed his fingers on his stomach. If it were anyone else sitting there waiting for him to answer, he would have happily outwaited them. But Aden, despite his gruff demeanor, cared about Seth even though he didn’t always understand what moved Seth or what haunted him. The others loved him and cared about him too, of course, which was fortunate, but they would have been pushy and intrusive.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Seth reassured him, looking at his brother and shrugging. “It was an… intense trip. The festival had the biggest crowd I’ve ever performed for, and it was daytime so it wasn’t like the lights were so bright that I couldn’t really see the audience.”
Aden nodded and replied, “It was like that with Friday night football games because I could hear the crowd, but the lights kept me focused on the field. I could block them out.”
“Exactly,” Seth murmured back. He’d never considered that football was a performance of sorts, partially because Seth had been a little too young to pay much attention to Aden’s high school games and had almost always been at his own things on those nights.
“Is that it, though? Just that it was a new size of crowd?”
Sighing, Seth admitted, “No.”
Aden groaned, “C’mon, Seth, you got to give me more than that.”
“So you can report back to everyone else?” Seth laughed at Aden’s pained expression, which turned mulish as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine, fine. There was a journalist working on a story about Downbeat, and it brought up lots of old memories.”
“Good memories?”
“Mostly,” he hedged. Aden’s lips twisted and Seth could tell that he was debating whether or not he should push further, but Seth was still feeling off and didn’t really want to get into it, so he forestalled his brother. “Look, it was just a lot of shit in a short span and I came home and I’m a little tired and a little out of sorts, that’s all. Tell Leda to do a dinner.”
But apparently that hadn’t been what Aden was debating saying, because he grunted and fidgeted before he finally grimaced and asked, “The British journalist who’s here?”
With an answering identical grimace, Seth’s heart raced even though he’d known, and he’d known Aden would have strict orders from Leda to make sure he knew. “Yeah. Astrid Sinclair,” he admitted, and just saying her name had him uncharacteristically off-kilter, digging his fingers into his jeans and tense thighs underneath. His mind whirled with the impossibility and utter unexpectedness of the hopeful lurch that he steadfastly ignored.
“Everyone knows how private you are, same as I am,” Aden forged on, shifting uncomfortably as if edging even this close to gossip was too close for him. “So no one’s said anything to her even though she was walking around today, fishing a little bit. We wouldn’t have noticed if we hadn’t already known that Downbeat was here, we assume to see you.”
“I knew they were coming, the band and the reporter.”
Aden asked, frowning deeply as he took off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his hair, slamming the cap back on when he was done, “Is it a problem for you?”
“She’s… not a problem,” Seth said, and it came out sounding more like an admission than a begrudging acknowledgment of a situation he needed to handle.
Aden’s eyes went wide and he shot to his feet. “Shit!” he exclaimed.
Seth stabbed his fingers through his hair, the messy curls too tangled for them to slide through, and clutched the roots, his head dropping back in resignation. “There was… nothing, okay?” he whispered, the word nothing cracking, a damned lie. “Just a few nights.”
“Well, she’s here now,” Aden grunted out, “and whether it’s for business or pleasure, I don’t know, and maybe you don’t either, so what the hell do you want us to do about her?”
That dragged a scraped-up laugh out of Seth. He dropped his hands and stared at Aden. “That makes us all sound like mobsters. I don’t want y’all to do anything about her.”
“We’ll leave the doing to you,” Aden said in his rough way, teasing and resigned, obviously seeing through Seth’s lie. “For your peace of mind, I’m keeping this to myself.”
“I appreciate it,” Seth gritted out.
With another grunt and a shake of his head, Aden left, muttering under his breath.
Seth stared at the wall until the hostess on shift knocked on the open office door and called timidly, “Seth? Your dinner group is here. I put them at a table by the fireplace.”
It wasn’t often that Seth worried at all about his appearance. He liked his hair and he kept his body in shape, and jeans and tee shirts looked just fine on him. But he thanked the hostess and then ducked into the tiny staff bathroom, cursing under his breath as he saw the faint bruising under his eyes and the state his hair was in. He pulled it back into a little knot and scrubbed some water on his face, then resolutely went out to the table.
Wild Harts was the locals’ haunt in Maybelle, and it hadn’t been invaded by strangers this noticeably since Aden’s girlfriend had come in while she was on vacation years ago.
The table of seven with its eighth chair empty, waiting for Seth, was quite a sight.
Gin’s freshly dyed orange soda pop hair was the most obvious thing, but Trentham’s undercut was all but unheard of here too. They weren’t inked from head to toe like plenty of musicians, not that tattoos were outrageous here these days. But the men had lots of wrist cuffs and chains around their necks, and Xavier’s ears were pierced twice each.
And then, so different from them but also the opposite of Maybelle, was Astrid sitting with perfect posture in a dress that was probably summer casual for her, but was a cocktail hour ensemble here. It was a soft dark green dress that melted like butter around her knees and had lace across her shoulders and upper chest, her hair pinned up in a loose, but not carefree, knot. His breath lodged tight behind his sternum, like an air bubble waiting to pop.
But he glided confidently towards them, feeling everyone’s eyes on him as he got there; it might be a locals’ haunt so no one would intrude on them, yet, but it was still good gossip.
“Hey, y’all,” he greeted them calmly. “Welcome to Wild Harts.”
“This place is great,” Xavier boomed. “We already ordered drinks and apps.”
“Your hostess about fainted while she was taking the order,” Gin said proudly. “Come on, quit hovering and sit down. You got any song ideas for us all yet?”
Shaking his head and smiling softly, he sat between her and Trentham. “For y’all? I’ve got a half dozen half-written. But right now, I’m hungry, so how about we just eat?”
“So!” Kayla chirped, a maniacal glint in her eyes. “Tomorrow you five can lock yourselves up in Seth’s studio, but tonight, we’re going to eat and let Astrid interview you.”
Trentham flopped back in his chair, making the poor piece of furniture groan in protest at his dense body weight. “What else do you need to know here, Astrid?” he asked her bluntly. “Do you want to know what movie makes us cry or who our first loves were? If our parents are proud of us or i
f we have tons of music memorabilia or secret drug habits?”
“That’s, like, first date topics,” Xavier complained. “Except for the drug question.”
Astrid cupped her hands around a glass of water, her thumbs slicking through the condensation and sending Seth’s thoughts into perilous territory. He wasn’t even sure if he was mad at her for being here, glad to see her, or some stupid combination of both. She looked at each of them with that cool expression, but then raised her chin and seemed to forcibly peel it off like one of those green face masks that Gin loved to use.
“If you want, I’ll listen to those kinds of stories. I’m honestly not…” For a moment, her brave honesty faltered, before she regrouped, her eyes flicking over at Seth as if he bolstered her, or drove her to continue. “I’m honestly not sure what my approach is with you. I had thought to feature Seth and his relationship with the band, as a way to discuss, maybe, how some artists envision their future or goals. But you all are…” Her mouth pursed and then a puckish smile plumped up her lips and she finished, “Well, you’re all quite normal.”
“Oh! Take it back!” Gin exclaimed in outrage, pointing at Astrid.
“I actually find it quite lovely and refreshing,” Astrid replied with such dignity that the band fell silent, closing their mouths that were open to hotly repudiate normalcy.
“Unless they turn out to have secret drug habits,” Seth found himself murmuring with a little touch of dry humor, cocking an eyebrow at her.
“Yes, of course,” she agreed with a little low chuckle.
Their eyes locked and for a moment, they were in perfect sync again.
Wanting to acknowledge it, or maybe reward it, he tried to offer her something helpful by saying, “Which they don’t. Like I told you, they’re good people who work really hard.”
They all groaned in protest at not being described as charismatic geniuses or whatever mythical musician stereotype they maybe wanted to fit into. Gin flung a small onion ring at his face, which he caught neatly in his mouth, making her give up and laugh.
“I think that means that people can just focus on how much they love your music and how exciting your performances are,” Seth told them all with a little shrug. “They can’t get distracted by some crazy things happening in your personal lives that overshadow it.”
Astrid’s mouth twitched with amusement. “As opposed to Barnyard,” she murmured with a touch of delicious sharp acidity, “whose… personas are as famous as their music.”
“If I wanted to spend my public life maintaining a persona,” Xavier said with unconcealed distaste for the idea, “I would have studied drama at Juilliard.”
“You might not feel like there’s power in protecting your softest, truest self from the public right now,” Astrid countered quietly, “but don’t dismiss the personas as fallacies.”
Trentham knotted his fingers together and clunked them down onto the table, making the flatware and glasses jump, leveling a serious look at Astrid. “I spent the first twenty years of my life pretending to be something I’m not. I pretended to be the man I look like I should be. And when I came out to my family and they told me I wasn’t their son, and I moved into Jorge’s basement, there were some times when I wished I had kept lying because I missed them. Or missed the people I thought they were. But I’ve never lied about who I am a day since then, Ms. Sinclair, and I’ll never do it again. Nothing would be worse than that.”
There was a quiet, reverent silence, and Xavier lifted his hand from where it had been casually draped across the back of Trentham’s chair to grip the back of his thick neck.
“You need more compelling evidence that we’re ready for what comes next?” Gin said, her chin thrust out like a defiant bulldog. “We’re best friends. We’ve seen each other overwhelmed and out of our minds with grief. When we got our first big paychecks, these three teddy bears used them to pay off as much of my mom’s medical bills as they could. We know all of each other’s secrets, so no one outside can surprise us or hurt us. You’re right, it means that we can focus on making art and our awesome fans can focus on our music.”
“Yeah, we’ve totally all seen each other naked and having sex and puking,” Xavier put in, laughing his ass off at an inappropriate time the way he always did, except that he was so genuine in his happiness that no one was ever upset by his inappropriate timing.
“I forgot to lock the door one time!” Kayla muttered, glaring at Xavier.
“Xavier was there when my third kid was born,” Jorge put in, winking at Xavier.
Not bothering to hide her smile, Astrid looked at Xavier. “There-there?”
Seth swallowed, his conflicted feelings about her presence here dissipating beneath her careful treatment of their stories. She was letting the hard ones go by without offering them platitudes, choosing instead to step back into the conversation once it got lighter again.
“Listen, Jorge had gone to sing lullabies to his older two kids in the waiting room because he’s Super-Dad,” Xavier said, grinning like a madman at the memory. “He left me in charge. Proud Papa by Proxy, if you will.” He thumped his chest and raised his hands towards the sky, then settled again and said more quietly, “I still don’t know exactly what happened, but suddenly, they had to do an emergency c-section on Anita and they couldn’t wait for me to go get Jorge. So I went in with Anita and I didn’t see, but I did see Javi first.”
“I was so scared, but I was so glad she wasn’t alone,” Jorge added.
“You named him Javi—Javier? A variation of Xavier?” Astrid asked with a sudden huge smile, leaning in and reaching out to clasp Jorge’s arm. When Jorge nodded, the smile grew even further. “That’s a lovely story. I’m glad your wife and Javi were okay. I would have been terrified. In her circumstance or yours… or Xavier’s,” she admitted with a laugh.
Seth felt all of his idiotic attempts to hold his feelings for her at bay crumble.
Lying to himself didn’t make him stronger or keep his defenses strong.
He couldn’t be angry when this was Astrid, the purest part of her: part of a group, listening, connected, leaning in and smiling. Her fame had been modest as a sci-fi TV star, he gauged, but dating Barley Finn had made her exponentially more so. Add a pregnancy in less than a year, and the only saving graces must have been Barley and the rest of the Barnyard family, who were already incredibly famous before Astrid, and then having her daughter. It was perfectly logical, perfectly reasonable, that she had pulled armor on once that fairy tale began to unravel, protecting not only herself but, more importantly, her daughter.
So to see it begin to soften, to turn from steel to leather to velvet, was beautiful.
From there, the conversation stayed personal and sweet, Astrid sharing some stories of life on the road with Barley and their daughter, coaxing Jorge, normally the quietest of the members of the band, to tell some more of his own stories. Kayla told the story of the time Downbeat had played at her twin nieces’ sixteenth birthday party, when a girl fainted.
A couple of hours rolled by, and then one of the local bands that Seth played with pretty regularly started their Friday night set. He could tell that they were nervous, not joking around with the crowd like they usually did. They had been terrible when he first heard them audition to play here, right after he’d moved back. But now they were older, smoother, and way less in-your-face. He loved playing anything except their original stuff, which had definitely not improved with time. But once Xavier whistled, they settled in.
Halfway through the set, the lead singer said enthusiastically, “Give it up for our special guests tonight. Y’all killed it at Pitchfork. Seth, you want to come on up?”
“Do it,” Xavier whooped.
“Yeah, we haven’t gotten to watch you before,” Gin said, poking Seth.
The rest of the room hollered encouragement, so with a graceful toss of his hands, he rose, catching Astrid looking up at him in warm anticipation. It was a sweet moment now, as he stepped onto the
low stage and took an extra guitar from the bassist.
“Evenin’,” he murmured, sliding a hand over his lucky necklace, centering himself.
The lead singer bent in to suggest a song and Seth clapped him on the back, then launched into ‘Love Struck Baby’ by Stevie Ray Vaughan, shaking his hair back.
As he sang and played, his eyes crinkled happily when he heard Leda’s big laugh, which still sounded a little bitchy despite her efforts to be nicer, and Dunk’s piercing whistle and Xavier’s cheers. The pieces of his life—his biological family, his childhood friends who were grown, all the other locals, the members of Downbeat and Kayla and Hank, and Astrid—had never been in one place before. It hadn’t been a conscious decision to keep them apart, and there had been some overlap, like Tristan hanging out with Xavier and Hedda in New York.
But they blended together here, Downbeat because they were normal like Astrid had said, and the Maybelle folk because when people came here, they were treated like family.
Once they finished the song, he took off the guitar to go back to the table.
But Xavier shouted, “Play ‘Fireside’!”
Seth jerked, hand rising up like a blade to shade his eyes as if he couldn’t see. ‘Fireside’ was a song he’d written with Hedda when he couldn’t have been twenty-two, somewhere on a beach in Thailand. “How about we let these boys get back to their set, Xavier?” he drawled slower than he’d ever spoken to Xavier in all the years they’d known each other.
“But it’s my favorite!” Xavier shouted again, as if he didn’t care or didn’t notice.
“Hey, shut the fuck up!” Leda shouted back from somewhere near the windows.
“No swearing, Leda Riveau!” the mayor yelled from somewhere else. “This is a family restaurant, damn it!”
Cold sweat bloomed across Seth’s whole body while he wondered if Xavier thought that this would actually make him realize that, yes, he did want to rejoin Downbeat.