Take another or I’ll feel the shame.
Take it back, the words he said.
Take back the night I learned he was dead.
Take a drink, one more to ease the fight.
Take a breath and pretend it’s all right.
All roads
lead back to here.
All I’ve sacrificed
and then,
Let me mean more than the mistakes I’ve made.
Let me
begin again.
Make the bed look abandoned,
Make the sleep come at night.
Make the past make sense,
Make him present tense,
She’ll never see the light.
Give me a future I’ll believe in,
Because I don’t believe in you.
Make sharp pain dull,
Make a list I won’t cull,
Give me anything that’s true.
All roads lead back to here.
All I’ve sacrificed and then,
Make it mean more than the mistakes I’ve made.
Let me
Begin again.
I swallow away the lump in my throat and close the notebook. Clutching it with both hands, I lean back against the cushion to let air flow into my lungs.
I’m trying to start my life over again, but it doesn’t feel real. Nothing feels right. Everything is okay now, and I never thought it would be, but I want more than okay.
I want the chance to sing my own music.
Take it back, the words he said.
I close my eyes and hear my father’s raspy voice, a little less recognizable than before with the time that’s passed, but I remember how I felt in the moment in our garage that night. I’ll never forget the exact words he spoke with whiskey on his breath after I read one of my favourite poems I’d ever written to him. It was the summer after I started high school. I sang to the tune I’d imagined as my words flowed through me and my pen to the paper, proud that I’d created something like he always did. I was sure he’d understand better than anyone how much it meant to me. Once I was finished singing, he gave me a half-hearted smile—sadness in his eyes—and said,
Lynda Lou, my baby boo, you’re just not cut out for this…
My cell phone dings beside me and I jump, coming to as rain pours against the three front windowpanes. Wiping the tears from my hot cheeks with the back of my hand, I squint to focus on Stokes’s reply and sniffle as I read it.
Meet me out front of this address at six.
Is that his place or somewhere else? Will I be meeting the band? Is this actually happening?
I wipe the rest of my tears away as Stevie rests her head on the couch beside my leg, rubbing it against the side of my jeans until I release a shaky breath. My fingers glide against the smooth coat of her big, soft head while I check the time.
Four-thirty.
The place would be almost a half hour’s walking distance. The rain washes down the windows, obstructing my view of the quiet street, and I let the thought of walking slide away with it. I’ll call a ride. I can make it by then.
See you then, I type and send the message back as my chest tightens.
This is really happening. I’m going to be singing with Haddonboro, opening for Midnight Voices, and they might even let me sing one of my own songs…. My chest constricts and I scratch Stevie down her back for the comfort of her touch as the anxiety seeps its way into my lungs, making each shallow breath harder to take.
Why did I say yes? What am I doing, singing in a band? I haven’t sung for anyone on purpose in almost a decade.
But they have something I’ve always wanted. An audience to sing to with musicians whose sound I’ve always loved.
My gaze falls to my notebook and all the songs I left in it, waiting to be sung for people who might have felt the same way I did, who might appreciate the words. Who might understand my pain.
I grab the notebook and my cell phone, marching out of the living room and up the old creaky wooden stairs to my room to get ready. If I don’t keep moving, I’ll let the fear stop me again, and I can’t.
This is it. My last shot.
Chapter 3
I took your hand,
warm blood running cold,
I’m getting old,
but you can’t see.
As my ride pulls up along the curb of a beautiful colonial style home in a quiet, affluent neighbourhood of Auburn Hills, I rub my sweaty palms together. The tall shadow of a man on the sidewalk out front is backlit by the orange and yellow pastel sky behind him.
Stokes.
I can’t tell if he’s smiling, but he shoves his hands in his pockets. Is he as nervous as I am? The car stops and I wipe my hands on my jeans before grabbing my bag from the seat. He’ll be happy to see me, won’t he? My hands shake as I open the door.
This is just a favour. I’m just here because he needs me for something. This time, I’m going to get something out of it other than an imaginary reciprocated friendship.
“Thanks,” I tell my driver as I step out, avoiding a huge puddle by the curb.
Stokes runs his fingers through his short, messy blonde hair as he watches me.
I swing my bag over my shoulder and take a step closer, squinting through the last of the sunlight at him. He’s smiling at me and opens his arms wide for a hug. I reach out to him and he pulls me closer, squeezing me with his lean, long arms. The scent of his cheap, musky cologne brings me back to high school.
He laughs. “It’s been a long time.” His warm timbre is welcoming, and a hint of beer lingers from his breath.
I breathe a quick, easy sigh as I take a step back.
He hasn’t changed much.
Memories of afternoons spent on our vocal teacher’s front lawn come rushing back, waiting to be picked up by our parents. Sunday afternoons at Rosalie’s with my dad during his shifts, trying out instruments and playing some of my dad’s better-known music with him. Feeling
