“What happened to your dad?”
“Stroke,” I said with a shrug. Please don’t say ‘I’m sorry’. “It was a long time ago.”
“Your brother’s a tool,” he added.
I laughed at that. He didn’t know the half of it.
“He thought you paid me to mow the lawn.” Dylan shook his head and opened his door.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” I said before he climbed out. “But thank you.”
Dylan stopped and stared back at me. “You’re welcome. And I meant what I said. It was fun, as weird as that sounds.” He settled back into his seat. “I ... I never had a chance to do it. Dad yelled at me one time a couple years ago when I was with the gardener helping him trim some bushes. He said, ‘You’re a musician, son, not a fucking nobody.’”
“Oh,” I whispered. “That’s harsh.”
“That’s my life. A privileged harshness. Nothing compared to what other people go through.” He nodded toward the theater. “Let’s go.”
We walked inside in silence. Dylan led me onto the stage and sat at the piano. He started playing a classical piece I didn’t know.
“That’s beautiful.” I ran my hand down the length of the piano. “What is it?”
“Just something I wrote.” He closed his eyes, losing himself in the song. His voice softened to above a whisper. “Sing, Cameron.”
“Sing what?” I asked matching his voice.
“Whatever you want,” he said, opening his eyes and meeting my gaze. “Whatever comes to you. Close your eyes. Just sing and don’t hold back.”
I followed his instructions, losing myself into the ebb and flow of the notes. Then I sang.
He’s been my rock, he’s been my heart
He’s been my everything
Nothing can change that
Nothing can sway that
He’s my hero.
The next verse was the same, a heartfelt thank you to my father. I let my feelings flow through the words. It was cheesy and silly, but I didn’t care. There was a reason Dylan asked me to do this. I didn’t know what it was, but I did it anyway. A slow clap interrupted the end of my terrible lyrics. I opened my eyes and met the gaze of Hank Walker.
“Nice feeling, but shitty lyrics.” He grinned and there was a sinister undertone to it. “You teaching her my tricks, boy.”
Dylan laughed harshly. “You didn’t make this up, Pops. Mom said she taught you this move.”
Hank’s gaze zeroed on Dylan. “Leave your mother out of this theater.”
“No problem.” Dylan stood and slammed the lid over the keys. “Just like you left her in New York. Then L.A. Then New Orleans. Oh, and don’t forget the time you left her in London.”
I wanted to step away from the family fight, but my feet stuck to the stage.
Hank only shook his head and refocused his attention on me. “He’s just trying to get in your pants. Fuck him so he’ll get over it and worry about the show.”
“Jesus, Dad,” Dylan said, clearly shocked by this retort. He sniffed the air. “Whiskey? Before rehearsal? What’s going on?”
Hank snorted and walked away, disappearing behind the stage. Dylan watched for two heartbeats, then he followed his dad. Their voices were pretty loud, but I couldn’t understand a word.
I sat at the piano and played the only song I knew to drown out their argument.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound indeed.
Rehearsal went by fast. Hank didn’t say a word to me. Neither did Dylan. And they definitely didn’t talk to each other. Crystal and I were harmonizing well together, and the rest of the band sounded great. The only tell-tale sign of a problem was Hank. He didn’t sing a note. Instead, he sat and listened, making corrections when necessary.
Dylan left the stage the minute Hank called it a night. He wasn’t in the dressing room either. I checked my phone. It was almost two in the morning. Too late to call Mom for a ride. I headed toward the parking lot and glanced around, hoping to catch a ride with someone.
Headlights flashed at me. When my vision cleared, I saw the Camry. He hadn’t left.
I ran across the lot and jumped in the passenger seat. Dylan put the car into drive, but he didn’t take his foot off the brake.
“You wanna go somewhere?” he asked, staring out the windshield.
“Sure, I guess.” There wasn’t any where to go. That was the problem. Branson wasn’t like Vegas or L.A. or New York. We shut down at night.
Dylan nodded and peeled out of the parking lot, turning toward the lake. He drove at breakneck speed. My heart tried to jump out of my chest. I didn’t tell him to slow down. It wouldn’t have mattered. I don’t know why I knew that, but I did. We drove out of town, past the dam and resorts. Heading south on 265 around the lake, Dylan kept going by RV parks and campgrounds. He turned onto a private road, snaking closer to the lake, by pricey residential homes. At the end of the peninsula, he pulled into the driveway of a small house. Dylan cut the engine and climbed out.
When I didn’t follow, he leaned back into the car. “Come on. I promise to be a complete gentleman.”
I harrumphed at that, but it didn’t stop me from getting out of the car and following him inside.
The front hallway was short with nothing but a small side table and a vase of fake flowers. Above the table hung an oval shaped mirror. A light flickered on to my right. I stepped toward it and into a small living room with a sectional couch around a large coffee table. A fireplace stood opposite of the couch with a flatscreen TV hanging above it. Dylan was nowhere to be seen.
Another light flicked on, illuminating a small modern dining room. I walked through it toward another light in the kitchen. Dylan stood at the open fridge, staring at something inside. He didn’t move when I stepped closer. He didn’t even flinch. I glanced
