by B. B. Miller
I pull my phone out of my pocket and play Kennedy’s latest video again. I haven’t responded to him yet, partly because of the paparazzi photos, and partly because of Nadia’s accusations. I know I have nothing to hide, but it pisses me off that anyone would question my ethics. Standing up, I look out over the vineyard, the sound of Kennedy’s guitar blending with the rustling of the vines in the light breeze.
The last notes of his song fade away, and I look into his eyes on the tiny screen as he tells me to travel safe. I quickly switch over to record my own message before I chicken out.
“Hi, Kennedy. Thank you for that. Your song is beautiful. Sorry I haven’t responded sooner. I wanted you to know that I loved it. And I like that you aren’t giving up. Please know that I’m not giving up, either. I’d like to start with a call to Parker. He’d love it, and we can start the planning on the concert from there. I guess I’ll talk to you later.”
I hit end, feeling rather foolish to be recording myself, and quickly send it before I change my mind. Taking a deep breath, I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. I head back to the house and my own bed, feeling like a weight has lifted from my shoulders.
Kennedy
“I’M NOT SURE about that Jimmy Fallon.” My dad’s voice echoes through the phone as I sit in the back of another SUV, this time enroute to the airport. I love New York, but the West Coast is home for me, and its call seems stronger than ever.
The timing of this tour couldn’t be worse. So many things I want to do . . . need to do and to say. Many of them revolving around the one woman who seems to have taken up residence in my thoughts. The fact that we’re moving ahead with Parker’s dream has stirred something deep inside me that’s been dormant for a long time. Hope.
The blaring horn from some frustrated commuter beside us stirs me out of my wandering thoughts. “I thought you liked The Tonight Show.”
“There’s no one like Carson,” Dad notes almost wistfully.
“Truer words were never spoken.”
“You and the band sounded good. Playing is sharp.”
I smile at his assessment. “I was going for sharp, so that’s good.” I watch out the darkened windows, the rain starting to fall after a few solid days of soul-sucking humidity. We sit in deadlocked traffic, yellow cabs jammed together as far as the eye can see.
I miss the California coast and Bodega Bay. Of all the homes I’ve had over the years, the one just outside of Bodega is probably my favorite. There’s a rugged beauty about the coast—soaring rocky bluffs, miles of hidden coves and sandy beaches, churning surf crashing relentlessly, and sea-weathered surf shacks. “Did Mom see . . .” I don’t need to finish that particular thought. I already know the answer.
“I recorded it for her.” His voice is quiet. “She’s getting there, Kennedy,” he adds after a long beat. “You have to give her time.”
“I know. How is she?” My voice trails as I shake my head. “Forget it. I know how she is.”
“Yes. I suppose you do. One day at a time and all that.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Staying away from the bottle helps.” Dad’s voice is stoic as always. This is about as judgmental as he gets. Through everything—including my stint in rehab that obviously was of little to no value—he’s kept his opinions to himself. He’s let Mom do the talking, or in her case, the ranting. It was deserved, and fuck knows if I had listened to her, and to Robin, maybe things would be different.
“Easier said than done,” I manage, my leg bouncing with pent up energy and frustration.
“Saw a few pictures of you with a young lady on that Twitter.” I’m surprised he knows anything about Twitter or anything else online. Maybe it’s his way of checking up on Adam and me. The thought is a sobering one. I’ve never been son of the year, but he shouldn’t have to find out about what’s happening in my life that way. It slams home that the distance I’ve deliberately put between us has had ramifications that I’m only just starting to realize.
“Looked a little cozy,” he says, amusement in his voice.
“Hmm . . .”
“That’s all I’m getting?”
I smile out the window. “You told me to never kiss and tell.”
“Fair enough. I had a listen to the album. It was delivered the other night.” Always a pro on changing the subject.
“I was going to ask if it got there. You got one of the first copies. What did you think?” From beside me, Tucker huffs out a sigh of relief as the SUV finally starts to move.
“It’s edgy. Lots of emotion in there. Did it help? Writing it, I mean?”
“Jury is still out on that.”
“I’m proud of you. I know I probably don’t say it enough, but I am. Your mother is, too.” I let out a half snort. Proud isn’t a word I’d associate with how my mother feels about me. “Whether you believe it or not, she is,” he continues. “A lot of other people would’ve packed it in after everything, but you’re still out there.”
I chuckle, my mouth dry and my patience waning from the chaos of the last few days. “Guess that stubborn streak you always complained about came in handy.”
“And who do you think you get that from? You’re your mother’s son through and through.”
If only.
“You all right there?” Tucker’s voice is laced with worry as I roll my neck, waking up from a less than restful sleep.
“Fuck. It’s supposed to be more comfortable to fly this way.” I rub my hand over my shoulder, feeling the muscles complain, and my head pounds.
“I don’t think it really matters when you’ve passed out like you did.”
“I was exhausted.” I unfold myself from the leather seat and glance out the window. Endless clear sky stretches out around the plane. “How much longer?”
“Maybe an hour.” I feel his scrutinizing gaze on me as I turn to the bar area.
“Ah, Sleeping Beauty has risen from the dead. Praise be! Join us, mate.” Sean lifts his glass in my direction with a grin. He’s half in the bag. Judging by the look of them, they all are.
A commotion at the back of the plane diverts my attention. A flash of blond Mohawk—Matt’s new haircut courtesy of an ill-timed bet with Cam yesterday—spills out of the bathroom, followed by giggling. Lots of giggling. His latest true love.
His arm snakes around the girl’s waist, holding her up as she fights to tug her white skirt down. She giggles the entire time, trying to smooth her tangled, messed-up hair. “Thanks, baby,” she gushes, running her fingers through what’s left of Matt’s hair. “This is super cute.”
I let out a laugh. “You look like an idiot.”
“You only wish you had this hair, Lane.” Matt coaxes his latest conquest to the bar. She’s been hanging off his arm for the last few days, but I’m not even sure he knows her name, not that it matters.
“I can’t believe I’m on a plane with you guys.” Her eyes widen at me again, and then she squeals—a sound I’m sure is meant only for wild animals. “My friends are going to, like, freak out.”
I glance at Tucker who just rolls his eyes. “Jesus,” he mumbles under his breath.
“Where are these friends anyway, sweetheart? It’s rather unfair to leave the rest of us out of the fun, don’t you think?” Brodie leers at the girl, taking his time in getting the full length of her in. “Not bad, Matty. Not bad at all.”
“Hands off, man. She’s mine.” Matt takes a seat on one of the stools, pulling the girl into his lap in the process.
“Oh, I don’t mind.” She looks way too excited than she should. “At all.”
“Of course you don’t,” Cam chimes in from his seat opposite the bar and strums away on his acoustic. “They never do.”
“Would you get your sorry ass over here? Fuck, it’s like herding feral cats with you. Sit. Have a drink,” Sean shouts at the top of his lungs, shaking the ice in an empty glass. “What’s your poison?”
I wet my bottom lip as I scan the b
ar. “Just some water, man. I’m not feeling great.”
“Water?” Sean snorts with a shake of his head. “Would you like me to bring ‘round tea with crumpets for you, too?” I laugh even though I shouldn’t. There’s nothing funny about this situation. “The tour’s sold out, and the presales of the album are flying. You can have one drink. It’s not going to kill you, and what’s more, you deserve it. We worked our bloody arses off to get here. Sit.”
I feel the weight of Tucker’s gaze on me—of all of them, actually, and I’m tired. Tired of fighting, tired of resisting, tired of feeling like I’m not in control. I should be able to do this. I should be able to have a drink without feeling guilty. “All right, all right. Jesus, you’re a pain in the ass.”
“And he’s back!” The Brit lets out one of his signature howls, pounding the top of the bar like the lunatic he is.
Tucker’s quiet, and I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t see that look of disappointment.
“Just one.”
Despite the celebratory mood on the plane, I did stick to just one drink. I’m not going to lie; it was hard as hell. The rest of the flight was torturous as I danced with the temptation around me. But once the plane landed in San Fran, the band dispersed quickly, some of them catching other flights. A few days away from each other is a good thing before we set out on this tour.
Today, I’m using the free time to do something I should have done a long time ago. Under an overcast and darkened sky, I glance over my shoulder at Tucker as he leans against the rental car. His arms are crossed, concern evident in his face. With my heart hammering, I knock on the door of the Minnesota home I grew up in. I haven’t been back since Robin’s funeral, the single worst day in my life.
Everything looks exactly the same. The walkway lined with perfectly groomed flowers, the front porch with the beat-up wooden chair in the corner that dad would read the paper in every day, the crack still in the front bay window from an ill-timed football throw by Adam. Despite the fact that they could live anywhere they want, they’ve never wanted to move. It’s like this place is frozen in time, and maybe that’s part of the reason why they can’t or won’t leave.
Memories come flashing back, making my head spin. Adam and I tormenting Robin as her and her friends tried to skip in the driveway. Robin sticking the garden hose through the open window of Adam’s beloved Trans Am and flooding the front seat. The virtual sea of friends and neighbors congregating in the backyard after Robin’s funeral.
My throat is dry as I reach for the door handle, unsure of whether I’m actually welcome to just walk in. The heavy door whips open, ending my concern, and my eyes fall on my father for the first time in over two years.
He stares at me in disbelief, his normally vibrant blue eyes troubled behind his black reading glasses and emphasized by deep, dark circles. A few more wisps of gray pepper his hair, and his expression is beyond grim, as if he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looks like he’s aged ten years instead of two.
“Dad,” I manage.
“You’re . . . you’re here,” he stammers, his voice strained as he drops the jacket in his hand and pulls me against his chest, his arms tightening around my shoulders.
“Yeah. I am.”
He pats my back and releases me, looking me over like he can’t quite believe I’m here. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Europe?”
Rubbing the back of my neck, I nod. “Yeah. We have a bit of a break before we head out. You should come out for a concert when we’re back. You haven’t seen one since before—” I catch myself before I finish that sentence. His face falls, darkness clouding his features once more.
“Maybe, son. We’ll see,” he mutters cryptically.
“I could send a plane for you. You can stay with me.” He lifts a brow at my suggestion. I think it’s the first time I’ve invited them to my place in Bodega Bay.
“You don’t want your old man cramping your style,” he hedges, eyeing me warily.
“Well, I’m trying a new style on. You know? Taking it down a notch.”
He pats his palm against my shoulder before picking up his jacket. “It’s about time.” He opens the door wider, easing me into the entryway, the door falling shut behind us.
An eerie quiet descends as my heart thunders in my chest. The house was always so vibrant and full of life, with music spilling from open windows out into the yard while we caused havoc in the neighborhood. But now? All the windows are shut and the blinds closed, encasing us in a tomb.
Faintly, I can hear the sounds of a blender die down in the kitchen, and I’m unable to stop myself from looking at the framed photos that line the darkened hallway as Dad leads the way. Adam winning his first NASCAR race, the band’s platinum records arranged artfully on the wall, and finally, Robin, glowing in her graduation cap and gown, and hugging me by one of the red sandstone buildings at the University of Minnesota.
“You’re back already?” Mom’s voice is quiet, but manages to seep into my soul and stop me in my tracks. The kitchen is a whirlwind of chaos, every available surface covered; pans, flour, open packages of various mixes. And then, I see her hunched over the sink, steam rising, water blasting, and scrubbing furiously at some glass bowl. She looks frail with her hair twisted back into a bun and clothes hanging off her. My heart shudders at the sight.
“Found a little something outside,” Dad begins, clearing his throat.
“Not another one of those damn leeches looking for a picture?” she hisses.
Dad grimaces, shaking his head to her turned back. “We haven’t seen them in a while.”
My jaw clenches, and I level Dad a look of concern. “What leeches?” The bowl slips from her hand at the sound of my voice, shattering into pieces on the floor. She grips the edge of the sink, her body tensing before she whirls around to face me.
“Mom . . .” She’s glaring at me, her eyes troubled and cloudy, brimming almost immediately with unshed tears. Her chin quivers as she lifts a shaking, soapy hand to brush away a few wayward strands of her dull, lifeless hair from her face.
“What are you doing here?” she seethes as Dad hurries to her side, taking her hand and steering her away from the broken glass on the floor.
“Thought it was time.”
Her brows descend. “How big of you, taking time out of your schedule to grace us with your presence,” she bites out.
“You said you didn’t want to see me . . .” I begin, knowing that no matter what I say, it will never be enough. Nothing I can ever do or say will ever bring back Robin, and an ocean of unspoken words and accusations seem to float between us as we stare at each other in a silent standoff.
“What makes you think I do now?” she finally fires back at me.
I take a tentative step toward her. “I just wanted to . . .” I watch as her grip tightens around Dad’s hand like a lifeline. He slides his arm around her thin waist, beginning to steer her to one of the stools at the counter.
“Let’s get you sitting down—” Dad suggests, his words fading as her voice raises above his.
“You wanted to what, exactly?”
“I don’t know . . . apologize, talk to you, and see how you’re doing.” Her features soften slightly at my words, and she reaches out to grip the back of the stool.
“How does it look like I’m doing?” she asks, her voice harsh.
“You’re surviving. Just like I am. Just like we all are.” I go for the cold, hard truth.
“I’m not . . . I lost everything that day, Kennedy. Everything.” Her voice breaks and tears spill over onto her cheeks as Dad begins rubbing her back in an attempt to calm her.
“No, Mom. You didn’t. We’re still here. Your friends, Dad and Adam . . . me.”
“You were supposed to protect her!” she screeches, the knife in my heart twisting just a little bit more. “You were supposed to . . .” She squeezes her eyes shut, trembling as Dad tightens his arm around her. “Where’s my Ativan?” she asks abrupt
ly, pushing against Dad’s chest. His stricken gaze meets mine for a moment before he addresses her like she’s a child.
“It’s in the medicine cabinet. You’re not due for another until—”
“I need it, Graham. Look at me!” He shakes his head at her. Clearly, this isn’t the first time they’ve had this type of conversation.
A sense of dread washes over me. “Mom. No.”
“Look at what he’s done to me.” Her voice trails to a whisper, my stomach threatening to unleash the stale airline coffee from this morning.
He lets out a defeated sigh, his shoulders hunching over. “Okay,” he manages, glancing between us nervously.
“Go. I’m fine,” she urges, giving his hand a squeeze, and with my heart in my throat, there’s no more hesitation. I cross the room and wrap my arms around her, meeting her resistance immediately. Her fists pound against my chest, but she’s so weak, it hardly registers.
“I’ve got you, Mom.” My arms tighten around her delicate shoulders, feeling the sharp angles of her bones as she melts against me, her sobs muffled against my jean jacket. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” My face falls against her shoulder as her hands fist the fabric of my jacket, her body rocking with grief. Her knees buckle, and my grip tightens around her as we sink to the kitchen floor.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask Dad as Mom sits beside me on the same living room couch that Adam and I used to chase each other around.
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” she chides, her voice calmer. A good hour-long cry and a dose of Ativan will do that to you.
“I’m sorry. It’s just . . .”
“Don’t you start. You’re not exactly an expert at handling stress, Kennedy,” she scolds. If she only knew what I’ve been doing to numb the pain. I realize that me having an opinion about how she or anyone else handles a situation like this is wildly hypocritical. Even now, the temptation of the bar looms in the corner of the room. Something to take the edge off, to numb the pain that rarely seems to fade.