by Ginger Scott
Paige steps up in front of me, prepared to take her boyfriend’s place in grilling me over the new girl, when Houston commands my attention.
“Case,” he says, phone now at his side.
His expression is dour.
I know without asking.
My sisters have called him.
The time to run has come to an end.
Murphy
“So this is it? You’re legit now?” my best friend says while honking at someone who apparently cut her off.
Sam is the size of a Polly Pocket doll—wafer thin and reaching to my nose if she stands on her tippy toes. Her personality, however, makes her simply feel bigger. Her voice is loud; she’s brimming with confidence; her blue eyes even turn me on, and her blond hair has always been on my wish list of wants.
Well, no, actually. Not always. When I started dyeing my hair colors other than the dirty dishwater one that naturally sprouts from my head, I fell in love with my trusses. My hair is the one thing that I have absolute faith in, and it comes out of a bottle I buy with a coupon at the drug store.
“This isn’t anything, Sam. This is a song deal. Which makes it even more stressful, because what if it isn’t good enough? What if…”
She cuts me off.
“You’re good enough,” she says. I slump down on my bed, letting gravity pull me completely down, my eyes blinking slowly as I watch my ceiling fan whirl in slow-moving circles above me as I wonder if that’s true.
“What does Casey think?” she asks.
I don’t like the tone in her question. There’s a hint of assumption that Casey is more than he is.
“He wasn’t really involved,” I say, pushing my feet free of the cowboy boots I wore for the seven straight hours of recording I did with Gomez—not Casey.
“I thought this was sort of his bag? Like…you were his discovery or whatever,” she says.
“I guess he’s not high up enough yet or something,” I say.
“Oh,” is her only response.
I listen to my friend recant her day at the office. She was hungover, which I knew she would be. Apparently, Cam was as well, and he opted to stay home with his girlfriend instead of coming into the office. Sam met his girlfriend at the end of the night when their party limo dropped him off first and a woman my friend describes as hot enough to cheer for the NFL stood in front of a set of steps leading up to a condo with her arms crossed, pissed that she’d been left at home waiting for him. I let her vent, and I fill in the gaps with the best agreeable comments I can muster with little effort.
I’m not really here for her tonight. I’m being a bad friend. But I’m too upset over my day to buck up and put things aside. Besides, she brought a party limo to my gig last night and heckled me with whistles; so, we’re kind of even. She’s lucky she’s getting my staged responses.
Eventually, Sam makes it to her destination and says goodbye. Without her distraction, my stomach sinks, recalling my day. They made me change my song. Not...entirely. And really, I understand their thought process behind it, but it doesn’t fill me with confidence necessarily either. My skin’s way too thin for criticism from these seasoned pros.
There was no easing in. The comments came about fifteen seconds in to my first cut. Music was paused, Gomez was in my ears, and feedback flew at me fast.
“Try playing one more bar before you come in.”
“You’re too breathy in that first line. Save it.”
And the one that stings most.
“Who the fuck is Casey Coffield? Let’s make it Johnnie Walker. Everyone knows Johnnie Walker. It will make it relatable; a better song.”
He’s right. And really—Casey was never the reason for the song. But he was the feeling. The sentiment—the symbol or trigger for the fire. And the fact that he brought me this far, and the magic that led him to me again in the first place is the first thing others want to change…I don’t like it. It makes me sick, when I should be happy.
He’s going to find out eventually. But I want to tell him first.
He was gone from the building by the time I exited the studio. They ordered in lunch, and the sun made it from one horizon to the other during the time I was inside.
I thought that he might text to check in, at least a simple how’d it go? But my phone’s been silent, minus Sam’s call minutes ago. I check again, and am just as disappointed to find it blank.
My parents are both at the high school for Lane, waiting to drive him home after a summer league basketball game. My brother manages the team, bringing towels to the players, making sure water cups are ready and chairs are lined up in front of the bleachers for every home game. The school thought it would be a nice way for him to make more friends, to be involved beyond his special education classes. It’s turned into something he loves. He does it for any team and season he can, and my parents usually go to watch him work, because seeing that is something they love.
I glance at my clock and consider going too, but leap to a sitting position the moment my phone buzzes with a note from him.
I heard you put down great stuff today.
I smile. Fucking heart so fast to betray me.
It was alright.
My fingers move to the edge of the case of my guitar that lies next to me, and I pick at the worn spots where the vinyl is peeling. It should have been amazing. It should have been ours. He writes back quickly.
You’re being modest. I bet you were fucking phenomenal.
I laugh out loud all alone as he complements me with my own words, and suddenly I miss him. I hold a hand over my mouth and shield my grin. This is the first time I’ve smiled all day. I spent the afternoon trying to please people that I kinda think I maybe don’t like very much. None of this is how I thought it would be. But then one small word from Casey makes me think I’m better than them all, and they’re the lucky ones. I type before thinking.
I was. We should celebrate.
I send quickly and watch my phone screen with wide eyes as seconds turn to minutes with no response. Minutes turn to five minutes, and then ten, and soon I become the fool again.
Instead of moping, I decide to join my family at the high school gym, making it there in the middle of the third quarter. I eat a stale hotdog and share some questionable nachos with my father while my mother sneaks out her small plastic bag of salted snow peas for a snack. She’s a health nut, and after having to endure years of this woman feeding me at home and packing my school lunch for high school, I vow never to eat a snow pea again.
I overplay my enthusiasm when my parents ask how my day went. “It was amazing! I felt like a star!” I say. My mom hugs me to her side, gushing with pride, but my father looks on over his glasses, noting every single tick I make while lying. Our eyes meet just long enough for me to show him how un-amazing my day really was. He keeps the secret and plays the part for my mom, and as we walk out to the parking lot to wait for Lane to finish stacking chairs and putting away the scoring table, my father whispers that he’s sorry and pats my back.
“It wasn’t that bad,” I say, my mom far enough ahead that she can’t hear. My dad and I like to keep her in her bubble—the one where nothing sad happens and where her kids are happy. She has enough to worry about with Lane.
“Just…not what I was really expecting,” I explain.
“Well, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” my father reminds, and I smile with closed lips to keep my mouth shut. I know what I signed. And my father won’t like that I didn’t show it to him first. I’m locked into doing a few things, whether I want to do them or not.
I wait with my parents until Lane joins us in the parking lot, his Knights jersey on over his yellow T-shirt that hangs longer over his sweatpants on the bottom. The team made him a special jersey with his name on the back, and Lane makes sure to dress out for every game.
“Murphy, you made it!” he beams.
I pull him in for a hug, and we rock while embracing as if my brother hasn’t s
een me in weeks. It’s impossible not to feel healed after moments like this with him. I grin at my parents as my chin rests on my brother’s shoulder, and I worry less about the fact that I gave away some of my creative freedom in trade for fame.
“You’re a rock star now,” Lane says, backing away and looking at me with pride. And for his sake and my mother’s, I keep the smile from before in place and simply agree.
“I won’t have the song for a while. But I promise, Lane—you’ll be the first one I let hear it,” I say, cringing inside because Lane will notice every little change from the original, and he’ll be disappointed. My brother hums the melody, though a little off, and my mom joins him as they link arms and amble around their car and climb inside.
“We can go home first and drop your car off if you want to join us for sundaes,” my dad offers. It’s become a tradition after the Knights win a game, and unfortunate for my ass, my brother’s school team is on a bit of a streak.
“I think I’m just going to head home and call it a night. I have school tomorrow, and…it’s kinda been a day,” I say, raising the corner of my lip along with my shoulder.
He squeezes my arm and leans in to kiss my cheek. “All right then,” he says, those few words more than just an acknowledgement.
My father winks and offers to bring two scoops with hot fudge home, an offer impossible to refuse. I wait for them to pull away before checking my phone. And when it’s blank, I think of how wonderful it would be if ice cream really did, in fact, solve all of life’s problems.
I don’t even bother to turn the radio on as I drive the few blocks back to our house—and when I think about it, I realize I haven’t listened to music the entire day. The silence is somehow more comforting. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll hear something that sounds like the music we were making today. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to feel like I’m not good enough, but really…really I just don’t want to know how I could be so much better—if I hadn’t compromised.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t notice the rusted Volkswagen parked at the edge of the driveway until I pull around it, into the driveway. When I look in and see the front seat is empty, I snap my attention to the front door—to the small stoop outside, and the rough-looking man sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands and what I quickly identify as a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam next to him, his thumb poked in the hole at the top.
“Casey?” I ask, stepping up to him cautiously. “You…you go and get your thumb stuck?”
I tease a little, but only because I’m not sure what to expect from him. He looks up at me from under the brim of a dark blue hat, and his eyes are confused. I move downward until I’m close enough to touch him, then I kneel and nod at the bottle he’s circling haphazardly on the concrete beneath him.
He reeks. But he doesn’t seem incoherent. I’m hopeful that he didn’t drive here this way. And I wonder if he was lit when he sent me his texts. His eyes fall to the bottle and he chuckles lightly.
“Want some?” he asks, gripping the dark brown glass with a full hand, but leaving his thumb stuck inside as he quirks an eyebrow at me.
“I try not to drink on my parents’ porch on a Monday night, but…thanks,” I smile wryly.
He smiles back, but it fades quickly. He brings the bottle into both hands and cradles it between his knees, leaning his chin forward and straining toward it for a sip. Not wanting him to make whatever this is any worse, I take it from his hand and slide down so I’m sitting in front of him with my legs folded.
“On second thought, I’d love some,” I say, taking a small taste—enough to singe the tip of my tongue and stain my lips with the flavor. I cough, because I’m a lightweight, and even this small amount is enough to choke me. It makes Casey grin, though, so I guess it was worth it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t write back,” he says, and my heartbeat picks up, because he’s talking about us.
“It’s okay,” I say, moving the bottle to my side, far enough that it’s out of his reach. I look down at the label and smirk. “At least this isn’t Johnnie Walker.”
He laughs, but he doesn’t understand what’s funny about what I said. He’s just drunk.
“Was this…full when you started?” I ask, tipping it to my side and noting the liquid splashing behind the middle of the label.
“Just bought it about an hour ago,” he says, pressing his palms into his eyes. “I was supposed to go to my parents…”
His head falls to the side in his hands, his hat on the ground between his knees and his eyes land on me, the focus struggling a little, but the light still on behind. “I was going there…to be the good son.”
My expression falls at his words. I can’t help it.
“Casey,” I breathe.
He leans into me until I feel his head against my shoulder. My arm muscles tense automatically, but he doesn’t seem to notice, his hand coming up to curl around my bicep while he leans against me with more of his weight, cupping my arm and holding on to me as if I were a pillow.
“I wanted to hear about your day instead,” he says, his voice weaker, eyelids heavier. This is not the confident boy who can make people feel anything they want. This is the shell left behind circumstances. “But my sisters kept calling…”
His sleepy eyes grow pained as he lets gravity take over and pull his body to the ground, his head rolling to my lap. I tuck my hands under my legs at first, not sure what to do. Unable to look down into his deep brown sorrow, my eyes instead dart from left to right, waiting for my parents’ car to pull up with Lane and ice cream and questions.
“Casey, you can’t drive like this…let me take you home,” I decide, making mental excuses to tell my family as quickly as my brain will allow for reasons his car is here and I’m gone, driving him half an hour away to his apartment.
“I’m sorry I stole your spot,” Casey says. I glance down at him with my brow bunched. The whiskey is hitting him hard and fast—he’s not making sense any more. I parked where I always park. He didn’t steal anything.
“It’s okay,” I smile, my hand hovering over his hairline, my fingers twitching, nervous to touch him. I give in and let my hand slide into his silky soft hair, and the feel of it is just as I thought it would be. His eyes soften on my touch and the intensity makes me swallow and have to look away again.
I have to get him up.
“We just need to get to my car. Do you think you can walk?” I ask.
“It’s not okay,” he says. He’s not even hearing me.
“Casey—my car,” I say, slowing the words down and speaking more loudly. My hand rests against his face. I look into his eyes, trying to determine how much focus is left in them, when they lock to mine, and his hand comes up to hold my wrist, his touch soft and almost afraid as each finger closes around my skin one at a time and he holds me still.
“It’s not okay that I stole your spot, Murphy. I made you wait. It should have been you on that stage. You just needed someone to help you over that hurdle, and instead, I threw more in your way…” he trails off, his head rolling just enough to the side that my hand becomes pinned between his cheek and my leg. His eyes fall shut slowly as he lies in my hold, and he looks broken and overwrought with regret.
“Casey, I’m sorry, but I…I have no idea what…” I begin, the words falling away, but finishing in my head—you’re talking about. I don’t finish my sentence because clarity comes. And I can’t help but laugh. “Oh my god,” I whisper, my gaze coming up to look out at my quiet street, my eyes wide with irony.
Casey Coffield honestly believes that song is about him—that I’ve harbored some sort of resentment toward him since I was…what…fourteen?
“Casey, look,” I start, but he’s too lost in his own delusion. I need to let it play out.
“I saw it—your yearbook,” he says, his voice coming from my lap. “When I was here the other day. I saw what I wrote, and then it all just came back to me. And I just wanted y
ou to know—I was a prick.”
I laugh loud and hard at the way his drunken voice delivers that last word. Shaking my head, I let my eyes close for a moment, and I remember it all. Casey wasn’t the only one who laughed when I stuttered on stage. He wasn’t even the loudest. He was just the one who always stuck out in my mind—like the leader of everything just out of my reach. But I meant what I said when he first walked into Paul’s to ask me about the song and recording—that song isn’t about him. Or at least, it wasn’t before, but now that the studio made me change it…
“Casey,” I sigh, my chin falling to my chest and my hands both falling to either side of his face. He’s handsome when he’s sorry; I’ll give him that.
I chuckle and shake my head, staring into his deep round eyes that are slanted in their begging for forgiveness. I part my lips, ready to tell him the story of how it really went—how I knew I wasn’t ready, how my mom promised me fifty bucks for trying out for the talent show, and that was all that really mattered to me—she paid me for just getting on the stage. Then, the memory of Casey’s now infamous signature comes to mind. I handed my yearbook to Houston to sign on the last day of our senior year, and he passed it down the line of people instead of just handing it back, forcing me to chase it as it was passed along unsigned from popular girl to it boy and so on until it landed in Casey’s hands. I could read what he wrote upside down, and then he looked up with a smug smirk and told his friend he didn’t even know who the chick who owned the book was. It passed through several more hands before someone tossed it on a table and I rescued it. I started to scribble out unwanted messages, and almost took my pen to his, when I decided fuck him—and I left it.
Casey didn’t ruin me. He didn’t set me back. He pushed me out of my nest and is probably partly responsible for the tiny fire I found to dye my hair and climb up on the stage at Paul’s a year ago. Fuck him was my mantra—in your dreams, Casey Coffield just sounds better in a song.
But lying in my lap, drunker by the second, reformed with age and wiser with time, perhaps—or maybe just broken and never whole with a family so cold compared to mine—Casey wants to tell me he’s sorry. And since he never broke me in the first place, I let him have this release, because right now it’s what he needs, and it isn’t a dying father and a house full of women who are probably blaming him for everything that’s going wrong.