“Water’s fine. Lyn, the final song explores how they’ll never be able to be together, but they’ll never truly be rid of each other either. We have it at the end for a reason.” I shrug and stride to the kitchen as he continues, raising his voice so I can hear. “Song three is about the chase. The element of wanting someone, but you still don’t know if they’re interested. I don’t see how that fits at the end.”
“Your last song represents an entanglement, and I think that happens soon after you meet someone, when you fall for them. These two people, they’re doomed from the start. I don’t think they ever thought they’d be together forever, or at least she doesn’t.” I pour water in two tall glasses and bring them back. “It’s just a suggestion, but I interpreted song three as the end, because like the last, it’s not a true ending, but unlike the current last song, there’s still hope—at least on his end—even if it’s futile.” I hand him his glass and he smiles up at me, blinking quickly.
“Damn.” He laughs. “And I thought the way we had it was sad.”
“Just a suggestion,” I huff and plunk down on the couch cushion farthest away from him on an angle so I can face him head-on.
He sips his water and sets it down on the coffee table. “I thought we’d run it straight through like we’d do for the show. Pascha had this thing” —he smiles a bit— “that if one of us freestyled, the other would follow, but I think we’ll stick to the way it’s written for the show.”
“Sure. And I was going through some of my own lyrics last night. I was wondering if I could share some with you and get your thoughts before I propose them to the group? I want to have my strongest ones for them to choose from.”
He cracks his knuckles and cocks his head to the side, considering it. “After we practice, how about you message them to me on Facebook?”
I nod, deflated he’d rather read them later. I’ll miss his reactions and I won’t know how he truly feels about them; if they’re up to par with something the band would want to play.
He picks up the guitar and I wait for him to play, but he just holds it in his lap, staring down at it. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.
I frown. “For what?”
“That I didn’t call when your dad… I didn’t know what to say, and then I was waiting to see about the funeral, but I never saw or heard anything—”
“There wasn’t one.” I shift my body away from him and stare out the windows at the last of the leaves falling off the Hilden’s maple tree.
“Oh.”
“Dad never liked the idea of them. A few of his close friends had a thing at Winburn for him. His co-workers from Rosalie’s—and Rosalie herself—went to celebrate his life with the Winburn employees, too. You know, drinks and stories, reminiscing, music. That’s what they told us anyway. Mom and I didn’t go.”
“You didn’t want to?”
“It didn’t feel right.”
It didn’t feel real, and when reality hit, it was all too much. If I’d gone and heard the stories, I’d have missed him too much, and I’d be jealous of the way everyone remembered him so fondly, so soon after his murder. Mom and I never talked about it, but I couldn’t get the images of that night in the kitchen out of my mind and dreams for months. Sometimes, I still feel his blood on my hands.
Byron hadn’t been sentenced yet, but he was being held, awaiting trial, and so much was unresolved. His only two family members, his father and brother, disowned him. Like us, they refused to answer any questions or give comments, but the media wouldn’t let a day go by without reporting on the upcoming trial in some form or another. I kept waiting for the moment I could let go and make peace with it; the way the leaves on the trees out front do, when the time is right to face the inevitable.
That time to let go of those bad memories has still never come, and now I’m sure it doesn’t work that way.
“Well, I’m sorry all the same. I should have called you. I should have been around, but it had been a while, and I wasn’t sure if you’d have wanted me to—”
Maybe it’s true—it probably is—but I can’t say it’s okay when it still hurts. I just want him to drop it. “Stokes? Can we just practice?”
He licks his lips and holds his guitar in place, staring down at it as he starts to pick at the chords, and then strum.
We sing all the songs together, beginning to end of the list, stopping only a few times for him to correct me with timing, or lyrics, and so we can get on the same page with harmonies. I follow his lead and after we sing the last song, he pauses, his face crestfallen.
“What?” Is my voice not good enough? Is he regretting asking me to join them, even for these three shows?
He turns to me with a straight face and rubs his fingers over his smooth chin. “Let’s do number three again—like it’s the end.”
“Yeah?” I can’t help but smile as I take a sip of water.
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes light up as he nods. “It’s a song Pascha, Royal, and I wrote together. If Royal says we can switch it up, I’m cool with it.”
Maybe he’s just placating me, putting on a show that he’s giving my suggestion a thought, or maybe he sees some merit in it.
After we finish the song, he licks his lips, sets his guitar beside the chair, and slaps the tops of his thighs. “Leave
