If someone was out there, she’d bark. She’s not acting any different than usual. Sniffing around. Doing her business. Coming right back to the door.
Still, my hand hovers over the knob as she stares up at me.
What if someone’s out there, watching?
Let her in, lock it up, and be done with it.
I twist the knob, open the door, and relief washes over me as she walks in calmly. The metal lock twists with a flick of my wrist behind her. Stevie follows me down the hallway, her nails click-clacking as I turn off the lights of each room we leave, and then up the creaky stairs to my bedroom overlooking the side yard.
As I undress, I imagine myself in front of the normal crowd Haddonboro usually draws in, singing Pascha’s songs to them, capturing their interest like she does. Will they watch me like they watch her, transfixed, caught in her spell? Our voices are so different. Should I even try to capture the edge she has in hers?
Opening the chest drawer, I glide my hand around, searching for a soft texture. I find it, pulling out my brand-new red plaid pajama set. It reminds me of Ron’s favourite plaid button-down. Hadn’t thought of that when I bought it at the beginning of October. I just wanted a nice new set to keep me warm in the autumn weather.
I pull on the cozy pants, and drop the shirt over my head, slipping my arms into the short sleeve, collared shirt, admiring it in my mirror on the closet, running my fingers over the black buttons in the center.
I’m feeling cute—pretty even.
I don’t need to emulate Pascha, and I don’t need all eyes on me. They can keep their eyes closed for all I care. That might even be easier. I just need to sing my song and be heard.
I glance out my window as I tie my hair up in a bun. The Hilden’s house is dark like our street.
But even as I turn off the lights and climb into bed, a sense of urgency pushes me to rush under the covers, only allowing my body to relax once my head hits the cool pillow. Stevie jumps up to join me and lays at my feet, just her presence soothing me enough to close my eyes.
Pascha’s vocal parts run through my mind. She paints a picture of suffering within and without relationships. Of the things I can relate to or that I force to fit my own narrative as we all do when we listen to music. I sing the lyrics in my mind until I start to drift off and wonder if she’s finally happy in Nashville now.
Wonder what my life would be like if she never went, and I never got the opportunity to sing with the band… I’d keep heeding my father’s words…
Lynda Lou, my baby boo, you’re just not cut out for this…
Chapter 5
I met his dead eyes once again,
across the courtroom on the stand.
He told them lies,
he never took the blame.
The quick ding-dong of the doorbell sends Stevie bounding toward it, barking. I follow her, inviting the warm, mid-afternoon sun in as I open the door. A sweet and smokey smell of burning leaves wafts inside and Stokes stands before me, guitar in hand. Dry red and yellow leaves roll across the front lawn in the gentle breeze behind him.
“I’m so sorry, Lyn.” He steps in, shaking his head before I’ve had the chance to welcome him and stops before the bench. “They’re not usually like that—well—they are moody, but they’re not rude like that all the time. It’s this whole thing with Pascha.”
I shake my head and shrug, closing the door behind him. I won’t excuse their behavior, and it’s not my main concern. “I listened to the set list last night, again all through the morning, and I’ve learned a majority of it already.”
He cranes his neck back as Stevie sits at his feet staring up at him. “That was fast. That’s perfect.” He pets her head twice and I lead him into the living room, already missing the smell of burnt leaves, so I open all three windows while he takes a seat on the golden yellow armchair.
I turn over my shoulder and Stevie sits in front of him, sniffing his guitar that leans against the side of the armchair. That’s the guitar my dad sold to him, one of his own he didn’t use anymore.
“Was that your first guitar?” I nod to it.
“You remember.” He smiles but stifles it except for his eyes. “It was one of your dad’s and I didn’t have enough money to buy my own yet. I couldn’t wait until the electric one I was getting for Christmas, so Hugh sold me one of his. Your dad was so nice. I—I’m really sorry for your loss. For what happened.” He shakes his head, pressing his lips together before opening his mouth again, but I can’t take any more “I can’t imagine what you went through” or “But you’re doing so well”.
I turn back to the windows. “I have a suggestion about the song order.” The sunlight warms my face, the sweet fall aroma is back and will soon fill the living room. I turn to him, energized by it all at once. “I think song three should be the last one.”
He raises his brow and smirks. “You do?”
“I just think it’s a good note to end on. I found the whole thing was like a dark romance, and
