I fold the flyer and put it in my back pocket. “It feels weird not to see Mason on here.”
“I can’t believe that’s the only thing you noticed.” Cameron stands and paces near the edge of the patio, defensiveness laced through every word.
“It wasn’t the only thing I noticed. You all look amazing. I just…” The backpedaling isn’t working so I give up. “I’m sorry, Cam. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad.”
“I know you weren’t. It’s my own guilt I’m dealing with.” He sits back down and squeezes my knee, perhaps perceiving the harshness in his tone. “Our gig this weekend. It’s big. Huge. Potentially life changing. And Mason won’t be there.”
“You miss him.” I understand the feeling. I miss every part of our old life.
He sets his elbows on his knees and folds his hands together. “Yeah, I do. We had plans, you know? Dreams, and I feel like maybe I stole his.”
I set my hand on his, my voice as reassuring as I can possibly make it. “Mason’s tough. Knowing him, he’s already moved on to his next big adventure.” I think of my conversation with Bryson and his reason for firing their old friend. “Honestly, I don’t think Mason ever understood or loved music the way you do. He liked being in the band because it was fun, and he got to be with his buddies, but he never took it seriously.”
“I know. That’s the only thing that makes me feel any better.” Cam glances toward the sky. “I just feel this constant rumbling inside of me. Sometimes it fuels me and I’m good with the sacrifices I’m making. They feel worth it. Other times, all I can feel is the void of every person I’ve lost in the process. And worse, I don’t know if God’s preparing me for greatness or if I’m being punished. At this point, they feel exactly the same.”
“You’re not being punished for pursuing your dream,” I say with absolute certainty. “Change is inevitable. And there’s no way God gave you the talent He did just to see it fizzle away.”
Cameron’s entire body deflates, the tension leaking away. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”
“You’re welcome. Besides, if anyone deserves to be punished right now . . . it’s me.” He looks my way, confusion making his eyebrows vee. “I yelled at my mom and made her cry.”
The line creases deeper. “Whoa, back up. When did all this happen?”
“Sunday. Michael was at dinner again, and they were kissing and making plans.” I shiver. “It just all came out, everything I’ve been stuffing down.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cameron’s voice hitches like he can’t believe I didn’t lead with that fact.
“Because I’m embarrassed that I don’t feel bad about it. I feel justified.” The truth is, I resent my dad for leaving, but even more, I resent my mom for never giving me a chance to mourn. She made me her friend, her rock, her confidante when I needed to be her daughter. “She’s tried to call me, but I can’t talk to her right now. I’m too . . . numb, and I worry I’ll make it worse.”
“I’m sorry, Darcy.” He squeezes my shoulder affectionately. “What can I do?”
That’s just it. There’s nothing he can do. Nothing anyone can do. I take a deep breath and smile. “You can go back to being happy Cam. The one who bounced in here all high on music and potential fame.”
“You got it.” He winks at me, and I love that he knows when not to push. “Okay.” He slaps his hands together. “It’s time to start the negotiations.”
“What negotiations?”
“The ones you’re going to make me go through in order to get you to stay and watch part of Firesight’s performance.”
When I start to shake my head, his voice turns more urgent. “Darcy, this band we’re opening for is legit. They won’t be playing the bar scene for long, and if things go as I hope tomorrow night, this opening gig may very well extend into the future.” His lips morph into a kiddish pout. “Please? I really want your opinion.”
“You look like you’re five when you do that.”
He fights a smile. “So, is it working?” His pout gets more extreme, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“No,” I lie.
“Not even a little?”
I push his face away. “Fine, I’ll stay for two songs and two songs only . . . on one condition.”
“Our friendship is conditional now?”
“Apparently.”
“What is it?”
“Just a teeny tiny small favor.”
He scowls. “Last time I did you a favor, I ended up hauling furniture up and down stairs for three hours.”
“It’s nothing that hard,” I assure him. “I need some help with Bentley tomorrow morning.” Somehow, I know without asking that Bryson will not be dropping in this time. “I just need you to carry my stuff so I can focus on keeping Bentley from running toward everything that moves. You won’t have to stay. I’m good once we get settled.”
“What time are we talking?”
I hesitate to answer. “Eight-ish?”
He groans and slouches down in the couch. “Why are all your favors early on a Saturday morning?”
“Because I’m awesome.”
“That answer doesn’t work in this context.”
I catch the dogs starting to fight over one of Jasper’s toys and stand to intervene. “That answer works in any context.”
He watches while I put space between the agitated animals and confiscate the offending piece of plastic. “Are you going to miss him?”
“Bentley?”
He nods.
“A little.” As big of a pain in the butt as he is, I do admire his gumption. If Bentley were human, no way would he have spent the last twenty-nine years trying to say and do everything right. I scratch his favorite spot behind his ear and consider Bryson’s comment about trying to bribe God with my good behavior. Obviously it’s not working, so what’s the point? If my life is going to feel like punishment anyway, I might as well have a good reason why.
seventeen
Turns out that Zoe is not just good at retail therapy and makeovers, but she’s also a NASCAR driver in three-inch heels. We’re twenty minutes late leaving the apartment, which, yeah, is mostly my fault because I didn’t get home from the dog fair until seven. But it was Zoe who insisted I shower and primp versus my usual throw-my-hair-in-a-ponytail routine.
Unlike my experience with Sam, this dog fair was a nail biter. Bentley got lots of attention, but he also made a lot of mistakes. Knocked down two little girls and made them cry, barked, tugged at the leash whenever another animal crossed our path, and got so excited once that he peed on a poor guy’s shoe. By six, I was ready to pack it up and call the day a wash, but then a miracle arrived in cowboy boots and Wrangler jeans. An old rancher—not too much younger than Charlie—took one look at Bentley, asked how fast he could run, then signed the paperwork. “I’m looking for a cow dog with lots of spunk,” he said. I warned him of Bentley’s bad habits, but the guy assured me this wasn’t his first unruly animal and, to my utter shock, had Bentley securely at his hip when he walked away.
I feel a little guilty that there were no tears during our goodbye. As much as I loved the stubborn ol’ boy, I can’t say I’m not relieved that he’s gone.
“You’ll never guess who called me last night,” Zoe says, zooming into the right lane only to zig back into the left one after passing a car easily going sixty-five—the current speed limit, I might add. “Nate. Can you believe that? He’s all apologetic, like I don’t know he just got dumped by the girl he dumped me for.”
I grip the dash to keep from being thrown into the door. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Too bad, sucker, I’ve moved on.’” She grins at me, and I nearly yell at her to watch the road. “Liam is so much better than Nate. He’s cuter, smarter, and I’ve had a crush on him for months.” She slows when both lanes are blocked. “Anyway, he’s supposed to be meeting me here tonight and”—she winks at me—“he has a friend.”
“No thanks.”
; “You don’t have to date the guy. Just keep him occupied so he doesn’t feel like a third wheel.” She gives me a sideways glance. “Who knows, you might just have a good time for once.”
“You say that like I’m incapable of having fun.”
“Aren’t you?”
I scowl and don’t bother to answer her question. There was a time before I made the decision to go overseas that it would have been easy to refute her implication. But now, I can’t say. It’s like a line has been drawn between the before and after, and everything before feels blurry. Resentment boils as I try to remember any time in the last year that hasn’t felt burdensome and come up short.
“You know what, Zoe, you’re right. Tonight, I’m not going to think. I’m just going to do whatever feels . . .” I stop there because I don’t know what I want to feel. Happy maybe? But that seems like a leap. Mostly, I just want to feel something else entirely. Something that isn’t sadness or anger or depression or even this new overwhelming numbness. I want to be free of it all, even if it’s just for a night. “Let’s just say it’ll be a new me.”
Zoe hoots like a sorority girl on spring break. “It’s about time!”
There’s already a line to get in when we finally make it to the bar, and parking is nonexistent. Zoe circles the block once, then pulls into a hotel valet drive.
I eye the sign on their podium. “Parking is twenty-seven dollars a night.”
“So,” she says flippantly and checks her makeup one more time before the valet opens her door. “It’s not like I’m paying for it.”
She hands off her keys, and we walk the two blocks to the venue entrance.
“Where are all these people coming from?” I ask when we join the line. Black Carousel has never had this kind of following.
“It’s Firesight that’s drawing the crowd. Why do you think I’m here?”
“For your brother?”
“Hardly. Bryson hates me coming to these things. In his mind I’m forever sixteen.”
We make it to the front, show our IDs, and pay the cover fee to get in.
I hear Bryson introduce himself and the band, pocket the loose cash, then hurry inside. The treads of my Vans stick as I walk across the smooth floor, and I’m immediately grateful I won the shoe battle. If I’d worn the ones Zoe suggested, the only thing I’d get out of tonight would be a sprained ankle. It’s bad enough that I caved on the sundress she insisted I wear.
As soon as we enter the crowded room, the vibration of Harrison’s drums beat against my chest. They’ve started with their most popular song and by far the loudest and edgiest in the set. It’s not my favorite, but the crowd seems to love it. Several girls are already lining the foot of the stage, their arms in the air and their hips swaying. I stare at them a little too long before Zoe nudges me.
“Jealous?” she asks in my ear.
“No.” The idea is ludicrous. “The guys can do whatever they want.”
“Even Cameron?”
“Especially Cam.” I look for any space that isn’t packed with people and come up short. The room is smaller than expected, the stage barely ten feet from the massive bar at the center. Zoe pushes me that direction. The stools encircling the counter are all full, but there are pockets of space we can squeeze into. Zoe takes the lead and somehow manages not only to find us a corner but also to snag two stools.
“What do you want?” she asks, her credit card in hand.
“I don’t know. I don’t usually drink.”
She turns back to the waiting bartender. “Two lemon drops. One of them easy on the alcohol.” He takes her card, and she tells him to keep it open.
I lean my back on the bar in a spot no larger than twelve inches and watch my best friend hypnotize the room. He’s electric tonight, his violin firing out sounds as if he were in competition with the devil. Bryson is equally thrilling, his charisma and dark sensuality making the crowd scream for more. I watch him closely, study each line in his brow, examine the way his lips form each word, then focus on his eyes, barely visible through half-closed eyelids. For a moment, I think maybe he sees me, too, only to scold myself for being so ridiculous. There’s easily two hundred people here, and between the lights and the crowd, I’m lucky if I’m barely another face among many.
“Here.” Zoe nudges my arm and offers me a glass that looks like a funnel of lemonade. The edge is coated in sugar, and a thin slice of lemon is hooked on the side.
“It looks more like artwork than alcohol.”
“It also tastes like candy,” she says, sipping on her own drink—the one that did not go light on the alcohol. When I hesitate, she scoots her stool closer so we can hear each other over the booming music. “Come on, Darcy. You said you were going to have fun tonight. You’re at a bar. This is what you do.”
Despite being nearly thirty, I’ve never really explored the bar scene like most of my friends did in college. Truth be told, I spent more time hanging out with Cameron on the weekends than ever taking the time to fit in with the girls on my floor. Maybe that’s why I fast-tracked my general studies degree and came back home to pursue a certification in dog training. How crazy that years later, I’m here, having a drink with Bryson’s little sister, watching Cameron sing about darkness and fear and sticking it to the man, whoever that is. I feel fairly certain our younger selves would not approve.
But instead of letting the guilt win, I bring my lemon cocktail to my lips and tell my annoying conscience that my younger self never envisioned being purposeless and a failure before thirty. She was also naïve and sheltered and believed in people and commitment. She hadn’t experienced the disappointment this year has brought, and she has no right to judge me or Cameron for our chosen coping mechanisms.
“To no rules,” I whisper to myself and take my first sip. Cold tartness fills my mouth, along with the sweet sugar. My eyes widen in surprise. It’s not just good, it’s really good.
“Like it?” It’s a rhetorical question since I’m already taking another drink, this one much larger.
“Yeah. It’s surprisingly yummy.”
“Can’t go wrong with a lemon drop.” Zoe lifts the edge of her glass to her mouth and takes a drink, smooth and quick, as if she’s done it a thousand times.
We both refocus on the band. They’ve moved on to a second song, one Bryson wrote his senior year of high school. Back then he’d perform it acoustically, just him, a microphone, and a guitar. Now there’s two electric solos, a bridge that showcases Bryson and Cameron’s harmony skills, and a tempo twice as fast as the original.
I’ve heard Black Carousel perform this song at least three times, yet the words hit me differently tonight. They aren’t just a run of angry lyrics but a weaving of scar tissue that has yet to heal. Bryson leans into the microphone, belts out the climactic note that soars an octave higher than a man should be able to reach. The crowd explodes in cheers while my heart aches with indescribable compassion. Bryson’s voice is roughened by agony and pain, and he’s stuck in it. Just like I am.
The song ends, and Bryson flips his sweat-soaked hair back. He grins at the girls by his feet. Leans down and touches a line of fingers. Cameron sets down his violin and picks up his Fender. I can tell by the color in his cheeks and the joy in his eyes that he’s loving every minute onstage. Music is his first and only love, and he’s reveling in it.
“Cameron looks hot tonight. I don’t remember him being so sexy.” Zoe’s voice turns smoky, and I nearly fall off my stool. “I bet he’s a good kisser.” She turns to me and bites her bottom lip. “He is, isn’t he?”
“I have no idea,” I say with horrified laughter. “Cam and I don’t . . . We’re just friends. Only friends.”
She eyes me skeptically. “You mean you’ve never . . . in all this time . . . explored more?”
“No. Never.” Well, unless you count one teeny tiny experiment when we were twelve, which I don’t. And based on Zoe’s tone, I’m sure she’s not referring to an innocent peck on the lips by two
kids. “Really. Totally platonic.”
“Hmm. Interesting.”
I don’t like her tone or the way she’s studying my face. “What’s interesting?”
“Nothing.” But there is unquestionably something. Zoe may use her stunning looks and silky blond hair to appear needy and brainless, but the girl is far more calculating than anyone gives her credit for. She raises her drink, finishing it off while I still have half of mine. She lifts her finger until she catches the bartender’s eye, then twists back around. “It’s funny, you know, how people surprise you.”
I take another sip, unsure where this is going. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you surprised me.” She takes her second drink, and I don’t miss how the bartender’s fingers linger on the glass just a little longer than necessary. Zoe certainly can charm anyone. She smiles coyly and settles back into her stool. “I always thought you were this holier-than-thou, judgmental, stuck-up . . . well, you know. But now I actually think you’re pretty cool.”
I’m too shocked to do anything but chuckle. “Gosh. Tell me how you really feel.”
“Sorry. Lemon drops bring out the honesty in me. It’s the only drawback to this drink.” She gulps down more, apparently not too concerned about it.
“If you felt that way, why did you let me live with you?”
“Bryson made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” Her voice shifts, and just around the edges there’s hurt. Not the kind of hurt I saw after the breakup with Nate, but a deeper kind. The kind that shapes futures and decisions and self-esteem.
“What did he offer?”
She hesitates as if she knows, even two truth-serum drinks later, that some secrets should not be revealed. Instead, she focuses on her brother. “I was just a little girl when he left. I came down from my room when I heard all the shouting and saw Bryson standing outside, his guitar and clothes at his feet. It’s the only time in my life I’ve ever seen him look . . . afraid.” She closes her eyes and breathes in the music. “It’s hard to love two men who hate each other, but I do.”
Love and the Silver Lining Page 14