by T. I. Lowe
Max answered in a hushed voice so the audience wouldn’t hear, “Father of Mine.”
Dillon’s dimples fled, but Mave didn’t give him a chance to decline by yanking the mic out of his massive grip.
“Anybody out there with daddy issues tonight?” The drummer growled into the mic, provoking the crowd to erupt. His free fist pumped in the air, joining in with those waving their hands while wailing out their own disappointments.
Dillon moved away while the ruckus escalated to let Trace and Logan in on the changeup tune of choice. He then positioned himself behind the drums with Will looking on with confused excitement from beside him.
The first chords of the song screeched from the electric guitar as Max played with more hostility than the opening merited. The other bandmates tried to bring their instruments to life to match his tone, each one losing themselves in the aggression.
“Father of ours, where have you been?” Mave nearly screamed the lyrics while Max abused the guitar until one of the strings broke under the weight of his vehemence.
Mave sang about their world disappearing along with their dad. How their dad’s wasted life didn’t include them, and all he did was give them a name and then walked away.
Mave moved over to his brother, yelling his own version of the song, “We were just nine-year-olds getting by the best we could. It wasn’t easy for us being skinny boys in a poor neighborhood.” He moved the mic to share, so Max could join in shouting out the painful disappointment of their childhood.
“Our dad gave us a name… Daddy gave us a name… then he ran away!”
Mave took a step back to give the spotlight to Max as he took off into the guitar solo. The place erupted as he fell to his knees, agilely provoking the instrument to relent each chord in a devastating performance. Many eyes in the crowd released their own hurt, tears flowing in abandon.
Once Max pushed back to his feet, Mave draped his arm around his brother’s shoulder and sang on, “Now that I’m a grown man with two kids of my own, I promise I’ll never let them know the pain I have known.”
They launched into the chorus, yelling the lyrics repeatedly with the band joining in. “Our dad gave us a name… then he ran away!”
Max allowed the sneering grin free as they concluded the song, giving a figurative finger to their estranged father. Mave pumped his fist in the air, but stuttered in his celebration. Max felt the pressure of his brother’s glare before looking to confirm, knowing Mave had finally spotted Martin in the audience. His twin had hurts just as deep as his own, but chose to not allow their dad any glimpse his vulnerability. Singing that song had been a deliberate display of his insecurities without his permission.
“Not cool,” Mave mouthed before heading back to his drums to trade spots with Dillon. They exchanged a few words before he sat down. His warm eyes had turned to ice as he kept slicing his brother steely glances.
Dillon swiftly marched over to Max while the arena broke out in a turbulent round of applause. He whispered sternly while holding the mic behind his broad back, “The man may have earned that, but didn’t deserve it. I ain’t putting up with us being disrespectful to anyone.” He didn’t wait for a reply before moving back to center stage, leaving Max feeling like the scolded brat he was.
After the fans finally settled down, Dillon addressed them, “Now these guys were just blowing off some steam.” He shot Max a grin while shaking his head, obviously putting on a show for the crowd, but the depths of his dark-blue eyes didn’t have Max fooled. “But can I be honest with y’all for a moment?” The fans clapped and whistled in agreement.
“Uh-oh. Here comes a lesson,” Max muttered to himself as a stagehand traded out his electric guitar for an acoustic. He gave the guy a chin-jerk of thanks but kept his focus on the big dude at the front of the stage. There was a reason why Dillon Bleu was the leader of their group, and Max knew he was about to give a clear reminder as to why.
Dillon strummed over the strings of his own acoustic absently after another stagehand provided it to him. It became clear he was adding another changeup to the show, as he spoke, “Daddy issues, Momma issues, family issues, friend issues, even enemy issues… We all have them, because none of us are perfect. We all screw up and let our loved ones down at some point. Not saying it’s cool, it’s not, but we all make mistakes along this life’s road.” He played a hushed melody, allowing the band enough time to catch it and join in. “But we all have one Father, who is perfect and good and will never abandon us. That’s what we need to focus on… Not what people have done wrong to us, but all the right God has done on our behalf.”
And there it was, loud and clear, the lesson Max kept avoiding and ultimately failing to grasp. His focus had blurred away from God over the last few years, and selfishly fixated on the bitterness of the past. He could see nothing past the hazy residue left by his resentment toward his father, and honestly, toward his mother for allowing their dad to do it to them. Yes, that was the confused child lashing out against his mom over something she had no control over, but Max felt that way nonetheless.
Dillon began to croon the sincere lyrics of Chris Tomlin’s “Good Good Father” as Max searched for Will, finding him standing toward the back of the stage. The song’s message was about how perfect God is and how everyone is searching for answers only He can provide. The pressure swelled in Max’s chest, but panic set in before he allowed his broken soul to come to terms with what God was whispering to him. He caught Will’s attention and signaled the young guy to take his spot before slinking off the stage and right out the back exit, not stopping until he was as lost in the night as he was in his life.
NINE
“You and Your Heart”
-Jack Johnson
“Lullaby”
-Jack Johnson
“There was no call for that, young man.” Judith King’s sternness left no room for argument. Her dark hair whipped across her face from the sea breeze, obscuring her disappointment for a brief second before she swiped it behind her ear.
“Yes, ma’am,” Max agreed, not wanting to disrespect his mother no more than he already had even though it was directed toward his estranged father. He angled his body in the lounge chair away from her, already burning from the scolding he’d been receiving for the last ten minutes straight.
A sniffle sounded from beside him, drawing Max’s wandering attention that was close to zoning out over the surf, but he didn’t acknowledge his mom’s lamentation.
“Max, your father is dying.” Her voice barely carried the news over the crashing waves.
He blinked the ocean away before giving her a sidelong glance. “What?” Max’s heart wasn’t of a cold variety. Sickness was something he would never wish on the puny man slumping in the deck chair across from him.
“Cirrhosis of the liver… Stage four.” Judith choked on the last part, proving that somehow she still cared quite deeply for her ex. “He needs us.” She reached out to touch Max’s fisted hand, but he flinched away.
“Yeah?” His heart wasn’t cold, but now on fire with rage. He focused his scrutiny to his father, but the man refused to look up. “Well, my brother already died once. Where was Martin when we needed him?”
That declaration caused a weathered set of hazel eyes to finally snap up. “He died? You mean Mave?”
Max jabbed a finger toward the beach where his tatted-up brother was building a sandcastle with his own set of twins. Mave totally contradicted the bad-boy image he liked to play up for the fans. He may have owned that image earlier in his career, but he couldn’t have been any farther away from it now.
“Yeah. That Mave. The almost-perfect match to me. That devoted dad on the beach sharing happy memories with his kids, not caring how goofy he looks in the process.” Max took a shaky breath to calm the storm raging inside him. When he tried to speak again, his strong voice presented gravelly. “The guy over there didn’t have any happy memories with his own dad, and went seeking that fulfillment in some dark p
laces. Overdosed while trying to find it.”
“Max,” his mom whispered to soothe as well as hush him, but it went ignored.
“I was there when the medics couldn’t find a pulse. It was me who watched on as they were close to pronouncing him dead.” Max shook his head in disbelief as the nightmare of that night overwhelmed him—a medic pushing against Mave’s silent heart to force it back to motion, another trying to breathe life back into his vacant body while another one glanced at his watch to call the time of death. “Me and Dillon… We did the only thing we could, crashing to our knees and begging God to give him a second chance while they worked on him. By nothing less than a miracle, God did.”
“I’m sorry,” Martin said, regret gripping both words.
The flames licking Max’s battered heart escalated up to his eyes, but he refused to allow the tears to douse it. Sniffing them back vehemently, he rose from the lounge chair, feeling unsteady. Clutching his chest, he muttered, “I’m sorry, too, because both of our hearts were damaged by you. My brother’s heart has healed, but mine is broke in a spot and I ain’t able to figure out how to get it back together.”
“Son, I know you’re hurt, but this is about your dad’s health crisis.”
Max’s eyes roamed back to his twin, wondering why he was getting a pass from that heavy conversation. Then something told him Mave already knew. “I’ll pay whatever it costs to fix your liver. That’s all I have to offer you.” He hurried off the deck, fleeing the pain, since the tide refused to take it away as it receded.
Judith called out before the door shut all the way. “But there’s no fixing it.”
Max couldn’t agree more. None of it was fixable. He kept on his path of escape, not slowing until he was hidden in the recesses of the first floor, where he found Will strumming the customized Gibson.
Will glanced up, looking like a kid being caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Normally, Max would have called the cocky kid out on it and yanked the red beauty out of his grasp, but nothing felt normal at the moment. The guitarist desperately needed an outlet, so he grabbed another acoustic from the closest rack and sat beside Will on the sectional. He matched the young man, chord for chord before taking over the jam session altogether.
Max let the moody riffs replace the more upbeat ones Will had been beckoning from the guitar, releasing all of his agitation through music. Will watched on cautiously from the corner of his eye, but chose wisely to offer no words. Even though the crowd liked to rag Will for being an eighteen-year-old idiot sometimes, he had the instinctual trait of being able to read other’s emotions spot on. He witnessed Max’s own dark set of emotions and held firmly to being an outlet and anchor for his friend without any commentary.
Will remained by Max’s side on that couch until the torrent of misery subsided to a dull, more manageable storm of grief. Max slowly lifted his lethargic body from the couch and shuffled into his bedroom, praying slumber would show up and give him a break from the disarray of his life.
•♫•♫•♫•
A sharp pain struck between the middle of Max’s shoulder blades, jolting him out of a restless sleep. His eyes shot open to find moonlight ghosting over the room. Before he could roll over, another jolt of pain was delivered, this time closer to his right kidney. His hip flinched away from the affliction.
“What the…” He looked over his shoulder, finding the outline of a little intruder wedged against him. He managed to ease onto his back before pushing his visitor over a bit. The kid was like lead. “What’s wrong, little man?”
Ludwig rubbed his eyes, lips pouted out. “I want you to sing.”
Chuckling gruffly, Max grabbed his phone from the nightstand and sent Mave a text. Bug in my bed.
Mave’s reply was immediate. Don’t call him that! On my way.
Max’s groggy fingers fumbled over the keys. No worries. He’s good here.
You sure?
Yep FYI, he will always be my bug.
Whatever.
Before Max could set the phone down, Ludwig was pulling on his arm. “Sing lullaby, Unca Max.”
Max considered himself the weakest vocalist of the band, and it baffled him to no end why his nephew preferred him to always sing over the others. But if that was what the toddler needed, Max wouldn’t question it that night.
He settled onto his pillow and opened his arm. “Okay, Bug. Come here.”
The little guy happily snuggled into the crook of his uncle’s arm. As Max began to croon the lyrics to Jack Johnson’s “Lullaby,” Ludwig’s chubby fingers reached over and began rubbing Max’s earlobe. It was something else the little guy only did with Max. Ludwig chose his uncle’s ear as his security blanket well before he took his first step. Max liked to tease the crowd, saying it was because he had superhero ears. He knew better, but his nephew setting him apart from the rest truly did make him feel like a superhero.
The melody came out sleepy and a bit rough, but somehow did the trick. The toddler began snoring like a grown man before Max repeated the chorus. His voice trailed off and a tight knot wove around his chest as he ran his hand through Ludwig’s fine brown hair. How could my dad walk away from this? He held the little boy tighter, not being able to fathom a life away from his niece and nephew. The love he held deeply for them was so visceral, and they were not even his own children.
Somewhere in the house, a clock struck on the midnight hour, reminding Max how precious time was and how his own father chose to squander his away from them. The resentment over his childhood threatened to overwhelm him. His voice trembled with the hurt as he began to pray.
“My heart hurts. I don’t even think it belongs to me anymore.” The words stuttered as tears burned the back of his throat. “God, you gotta help me. I need to be freed from this. I’m hurting…”
Ludwig’s little leg shot out and nailed Max in the kneecap as his arm lashed out and popped him in the cheek. Both inflicted minor pain, but Max heard God loud and clear.
Yes, you’re hurting, but it’s not that bad.
A snort released from his nose at the same time as Ludwig let out a snarl from his tiny one. “Okay, I get ya.” He cradled the squirmy toddler in his arms and thanked God for the precious gift of having the kid in his life. “Little Pearl, too. And all the other Bleu rugrats.”
His prayer of thanks eventually trailed off when a long yawn released from his lips. Settling down, the night finally rested its head.
Morning tickled Max awake at dawn.
No, someone was tickling Max awake.
“Stop, Bug,” he mumbled, eyes remaining closed. His hand flicked out to shoo the tickling away, but proved to be fruitless when the tickling along his arm started right back up. “Knock it off, little dude.”
The growl of his voice did no good either. A giggle that was all female finally pulled his eyes open, finding a little brunette beauty with a thick blonde streak nestled amongst the waves of hair. It’s as though Pearl couldn’t decide between her mom’s light hair color or her dad’s dark, so she picked both. It gave her an ethereal appearance, or more closely, a wicked one at the moment in Max’s opinion.
Clearing his throat, he watched on as she worked a bright-blue marker against his arm. “Whatcha doing, baby girl?”
She kept her focus on his arm and replied, “Coloring.”
“Why would you color on me?” He pulled his arm away. “Stop.”
She looked up at him, one of her tiny eyebrows lining the top of her big brown eyes arched in a grownup fashion. “But Unca Dillon said I could.” Her little hand reached over and grabbed his arm, pulling it over his lap so she could finish the colorful scribbling.
A low chuckle sounded from the armchair by the door where Dillon sat sipping his coffee. He wore a simple pair of track pants and a splotchy pink tank top. Lifting the cup in greeting, he said, “Good morning, punk.”
With his glower firmly trained on his wicked buddy, Max yanked his arm away once again. “Enough coloring on me, Pearl. Go
find you some paper.”
Giggling, she jumped off the bed and skipped toward the door, but Dillon’s outstretched arm halted her. He turned his palm up and wiggled his fingers for the markers.
“But I want ‘em,” she whined.
“How’s about I promise you that Aunt Jewels will go buy you a big set of washable markers after breakfast?”
The washable tidbit caught Max’s attention. “The ones she’s already got ain’t washable?” His brows pinched together as Dillon’s danced up and down in satisfied silliness.
The menacing growl ripping from Max’s gritted teeth had the toddler dropping the fistful of contraband in Dillon’s palm before she hurried out of the room. At the same time, Ludwig sat up in the bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes to see what all the fuss was about.
“I wanna color, too,” he said, eyeing Pearl’s artwork along his uncle’s arm.
Dillon snagged the neon-green one from the others and slowly spelled out, “P-E-R-M-A-N-E-N-T.” He placed the markers in his pocket as he presented Max with a pointed look. “Nope. Not washable. Permanent like the pink on all my shirts.”
Max looked down at the vivid scribbles competing with the sheet music. They looked as deeply rooted into his skin as the ink of the tattoo. “Seriously? Man, we got a concert tonight.”
Dillon’s lips curved up wickedly, dimples showing up to taunt as well, as he brought the cup to his mouth. After he took a satisfying sip, he stood. “The trainer will be here shortly. Want me to take Bug back to his Pop so you can try getting that mess off of your arm?”
“Laugh it up now, punk. I’ll get you back.” Max scrubbed his hands along his bearded face. Before dropping his arm, the bright mess along his skin caught his eye, causing him to cringe.
Dillon easily swept Ludwig up and headed for the door. “Go ahead and you’ll get burned again, Pepper Man.”
It took until nearly the end of the summer to get Max back for the shirt prank, but Dillon had always been a patient man.