Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
PACK IT UP
Soundcheck is a disaster. Kick’s in-ears aren’t working and neither of us are used to the monitors and honestly, the size of the venue. It’s one thing to belt out a song to a couple dozen people in a coffee shop or backyard party. It’s entirely another to hear your voice echoing across six thousand empty seats and a massive, sloping lawn knowing soon enough the entire space will be filled with people who may or may not like your performance. And we still haven’t worked out our set. With the alcove songs and “Don’t You Want Me,” we’re at just over eleven minutes with eight minutes left to fill.
“We could each do one of our own originals,” I say. “I’m sure you’ve got a five-minute jam band rocker up your sleeve, don’t you?”
Kick doesn’t respond so I look to Miguel and Mateo. They both shrug like they’ve never heard of original songs before.
“We could do another cover?” Kick says. “Maybe something to help transition from your alcove song to ‘Don’t You Want Me.’”
“Or we could do one of your songs?”
A look I don’t understand zips through Kick. “We can do another one of yours if you want. Or we could fill up the time with conversation.”
“What, between you and me?”
It goes on like that until the sound guy kicks us off the stage and tells us to work it out by show time.
“Come with me,” I say as we exit the stage.
We put our guitars in the guitar rack at side stage. Kick follows me as I stalk to the back row of seats, far enough away from the soundboard that no one will hear us. Thankfully, Miguel and Mateo don’t follow.
“Your whole cool guy act is very convincing,” I say, arms crossed, “but I know you know this is a complete disaster. You can’t be okay with this.”
“Spending more time with you? I’m very okay with that.”
“Stop flirting and be real with me for five seconds. We’re going to die up there!”
He worries his lips between his teeth, like he won’t allow himself to say what needs to be said.
His whispered words from last night snake through my brain.
I didn’t do this to hurt you.
That’s not what this is.
“Why are you on this tour?” I ask. “And don’t say something snarky or cute. Tell me the real reason. Why are you here?”
Kick rubs his clavicle tattoo and sighs. “It was this or work for H&E Moving Company. This seemed like the better option.”
“You’re a furniture mover?”
“That’s where I met the guys. First day on the job, we got hired to move a house in Antioch for this session guitar player. We got to talking and he invited us to a party that night at some dude’s house with a guitar-shaped pool. I didn’t have anything else going on so I thought, why not?”
“You were at Jackson’s party because the guy you moved happened to be a musician?”
He juts his chin out, scratches at the stubble. “Have you met anyone in Nashville who’s not a musician? Aren’t you the one who’s dated them all?” He stares down at the concrete stair we’re sharing and murmurs, “All but one.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“Why are you here?”
We watch each other like a dare, like an unsaid accusation, neither of us willing to say anything that might give us away. When he sees I’m not willing to go first, he continues on with his story.
“I worked with Miguel and Mateo at the movers for a couple weeks, wondering what happened to the girl from the alcove. Then one weekend we got called to this woman’s house to move some heavy furniture around.” He gives me a look. “Emily Wu.”
“You moved Emily’s furniture?”
“She wanted a piano moved from one room to another, wanted some couches rearranged. She asked me if I was a musician. I laughed because it reminded me of my first conversation with you.”
“Please tell me you did not make out with Emily Wu in an alcove.”
He chuckles at that. “She’s the one who told me about the audition.”
“Hang on. You’re telling me she asked you to audition for the tour without ever seeing you play? You’re seriously telling me you got the audition purely based on your face?”
“I did not say that.”
“Did she hear you sing a single note?”
He blushes and looks away, caught.
“Was she trying to sleep with you?” I ask, terrified of the answer.
He shakes his head. “If she was, she didn’t make it very clear. And just so we’re clear, I wasn’t and am not interested in Emily.”
“I don’t get it. You act like you don’t care about any of this. You aren’t pushing to play any of your songs, don’t seem bothered by being paired up with me. It doesn’t make sense. Tonight is supposed to be our big moment, our time to show the world who we are as artists. Despite your irritating nonchalance, I know deep down you want to be more than Mari Gold’s guitar player who sings BGVs.”
He lifts his eyes to mine, his expression somewhere between sad and terrified. “What if I don’t.”
“You do,” I half-yell. “I know you do.”
“Why does it matter to you. We can do the alcove songs, do the cover, do one of your songs, do all your songs for all I care. Can’t that be enough?”
He steps across the aisle and sinks down into one of the stadium seats until it hits the back of his neck. His legs are too long to fit so he swings them up and over the seat in front of him. I sit next to him, equally slouched.
“Like it or not,” I say, “we’re in this together. For the next fifty shows, we’re a duo. We have to be honest with each other if we’re going to make this work.”
Even though I’m not being honest with him. But my lie doesn’t affect our performance. My lie doesn’t matter. I don’t know that he’s lying, but he’s definitely withholding something. No one on earth would be this cavalier about performing in front of thousands of people for the first time.
Kick shifts in his seat. He runs his hands down his face. He clears his throat. “I don’t have any originals.”
I keep my focus on the stage. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t have any original songs. You keep pushing for us to do one of my songs but I don’t have any. I’ve never…I’m not supposed to be here. I shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I don’t understand. Your alcove song is so good.”
He waits for me to look at him. “That’s the only song I’ve ever written.”
I’m completely stunned. “But…what were you going to do? Before they put us together, what were you planning to perform every night? ”
He smiles a sad little smile. “I hadn’t quite worked that out yet.”
I turn in my seat to fully face him. “You’re telling me you got on the bus last night not knowing what you were going to perform tonight?”
He shrugs.
“And Miguel and Mateo?”
“We figured we’d work it out today, which, we almost did.” He pulls his legs down and sits up. “I’m assuming you handled it differently?”
“Are you kidding? I had a ten minute set rehearsed down to the second. I was locked in. I was ready . How the hell did you get on this tour and you’ve only ever written one song?”
“You’re a really good songwriter by the way,” he says. “How many have you written?”
“I am not exaggerating when I say hundreds.”
“See? We could do your songs every single night and never run out.”
I can’t process any of the things he’s saying. He’s written exactly one song, a song about me, and yet managed to get on one of the biggest tours of the summer. I’d be mad about the unfairness but he looks so small right now, scared, like I’ve uncovered his most embarrassing moment and he’s waiting for me to point and laugh.
“What about your brother? Your tattoo—you said you wrote that melody together. Do you not write songs with him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “Can we not talk about my brother?”
“Family drama?” I say, stopping short of telling him my family drama runs deeper than I even know.
“I don’t want to talk about my brother.”
“You don’t want to talk about the set, you don’t want to talk about your brother. You have to give me something. ”
“He died.” He says it quick. Quiet. Like I punched him in the stomach and that’s the sound that came out.
My eyes go wide. “Oh my God, Kick. What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”
Kick’s words are laced with pain. I’ve unintentionally forced a confession he didn’t want to make. I stupidly thought his reasons were surface-level, were ridiculous, that I’d be able to talk him out of whatever it was. But this is so much more. I need to say something, apologize for pushing, tell him I’m here if he wants to talk about it.
“We’ll do the alcove songs and the cover tonight,” Kick says. He’s not looking at me. “We can figure out the rest later.”
I want to argue but I’ve already pushed him enough.
Our set is in less than three hours. At this point, I don’t see how we’ll be ready.