Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
“Hey, lemme play something for you,” Dad says on our way to my violin lesson. I should be the one driving, for practice, but I need another few sessions with Will before I’m ready for Dad’s “ultimate driving machine.”
“Sure,” I say from the passenger seat, though I’m liking the playlist I queued up just fine. I pick up his phone and scroll to the download folder where he stores his demos. “Which one?”
“Nicholas Salazar.” He accelerates toward town.
I find the folder. Inside are three songs. “Candle,” “Full Circle,” and “Roll the Dice.”
“Play the first one,” Dad says, like he can read my mind.
I tap it, and the car fills with a man’s “One, two…” then a bright chord from an electric guitar, followed by some catchy finger-picking.
The bass and drums join in, then a rhythm guitar stitches it all together.
When the man’s voice returns, singing about a dark night and a quiet street, and a doomed love that burns like a forgotten candle, a cool flush rolls over my skin.
There’s something edgy in the lead guy’s voice, and powerful, though he knows when to temper it back and when to indulge .
Dad raises a sandy blond eyebrow and studies my face for a split second before returning his attention to the road. “You like it.”
The percussion has an off-rhythm that underlies a kind of urgency, like a clock ticking down. “Yeah, I do,” I say, unable to keep my thumb from tapping my thigh. “Nicholas is the lead?”
“Yep. He actually studied violin growing up, then turned to guitar and vocals.”
“Where’s he from?”
Dad turns left, down main street. “Mountain Home.”
“Seriously?” Mountain Home is mostly known for its small air force base and its shopping center. Definitely not music.
“His dad was in the air force.”
I don’t miss the past tense. The next song starts. This one’s a little more upbeat, and catchy, with rich vocals that test the edge of harmony. A tiny coil of heat starts to glow inside me.
“Should I book him?” Dad prompts.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod.
“I got a cancellation in November. Maybe he can fill it.” He flashes me a genuine, warm smile. “Any chance you and Morgan want to open for him?”
I rear back like he’s sprouted another head. “Um, what?”
“I’ve gotten dozens of calls about that duet you and Morgan did at Hazel Creek.”
I roll my eyes. “From whom?”
“Your fans,” he says in a teasing lilt, his eyes lighting up.
I scoff. “You’re ridiculous.”
“A little birdie told me you’ve got more material. Why not play some of it? Just a few songs.”
“Dad,” I groan. A duet of a Beatles tune around a campfire is one thing. Though he’s right, we do have more material. Nothing I’m ready to share with the world though.
He pulls into my violin teacher’s neighborhood. “It’d be good for Morgan.” Though he keeps his tone light, I catch the undertone of worry .
Would it be good for her? Morgan loves the spotlight, so she’d be tickled freaking pink. But from years of watching my dad wrangle musicians, the industry has a dark side that I’m not sure would be such a good influence.
But maybe it would help Morgan and Dad connect? Give Morgan something positive to cling to?
Since Dad grounded Mo for being MIA for almost twelve hours, life at home has been tense.
Dad is spending more time with us, but it’s stressing him out because The Limelight needs him too.
For one second I allow myself to miss Mom.
But even if Mom were here, there’s a very good chance she’d only make things worse.
“Singing in front of all those people sounds…intimidating.” I huff a nervous breath through my nose. Because of the liquor laws, we’d be allowed to play but not to mingle afterwards. And there’d be no friends in the audience.
“Everyone gets nervous, pumpkin,” Dad replies as he turns into Miss Tyler’s driveway. “You’d be fine once you got up there. With the lighting, it’s not like you’ll really see anyone.”
Yeah but they’ll see me.
My throat closes around a prickly lump. “Not helping,” I manage as I picture myself frozen up on the stage.
Dad shoots me a warm smile. “I’ll keep the slot open for you while you give it some thought.”
I keep the idea to myself for a few days, mulling it over because I already know Morgan’s answer.
At lunch, once my friends and I are settled on our corner of the floor in Red Pod, I spill the news.
Emmie’s gasp is muffled by her giant bite of her tuna fish sandwich. She covers her mouth, eyes wide. “Are you freaking serious?” she says into her fingers.
Wren’s face lights up. “This could be your big break!”
Laughing quietly, I shake my head. “Yeah, right. ”
“Your dad’s giving you guys a shot, though,” Emmie says, taking a thoughtful sip of her iced coffee. “I mean, it’s about time.”
“Just cuz we’re his kids doesn’t mean we should get special treatment.” I pop a potato chip into my mouth.
“It’s kind of messed up that it took you two going ‘baby’ viral for him to notice, though,” Wren says, narrowing her eyes.
“Are you gonna say yes?” Emmie asks, her sandwich paused on the way to her mouth.
A flush of nerves cascades over my skin. “I don’t know if we’re ready. Plus, we need at least one guitar and I’m not good enough yet.”
“Play that song you wrote with your violin,” Wren says, wagging her finger at me. “I’ve always said you’re gonna be the next Sara Watkins.”
My cheeks feel hot as I shake my head. “No way. She’s a freaking genius.”
“So are you!” Emmie insists.
I try to laugh this off but it just makes me feel more off-kilter. “I wish you guys could be there. It would help.”
“We could stand outside,” Emmie says. “Listen through the windows.”
“I’ll bring my duck call so you’ll know we’re there,” Wren says.
A duck call to signify my first night singing on stage feels oddly perfect. “How would you get down there at that hour?”
“I bet my mom would come with us,” Emmie says with a shrug. “Or we could ride our bikes.”
“You guys are awesome,” I say.
The floor beneath us vibrates with approaching footsteps. “Hey, thought you guys might be up here.”
“S’up, Crosby,” Wren says, giving him a nod.
He settles across from me and sets his backpack behind him.
“My dad made cookies,” he says, sliding a Tupperware tub from his backpack and popping the lid.
The scent of cinnamon and chocolate and butter makes my mouth water.
That Crosby’s dad is the homemaker and not his mom kind of bonded us at first. Though his mom is a high-powered lawyer and not a drunk, they’re both absent.
Emmie gives a quiet cheer. “Your dad is the best.” She and Wren both take a cookie, then Crosby offers the tub to me. I sneak two because I’m already done with my lunch and like always, still hungry. Theo accused me of having a tapeworm last week when I mowed down two more tacos than him.
“You got a name for your band yet?” Crosby asks. Since he saw Neve’s clip of Morgan and me singing “Blackbird,” he’s been bugging me about it.
I scowl at the cookie already half gone in my hand. Before I can change the subject, Emmie blurts, “You play mandolin, right?”
“Since third grade,” Crosby replies easily. “Why?”
I shoot Emmie a warning glance but her eyes are already lighting up. “Interesting.”
“How about guitar?” Wren asks.
“Of course.” He refocuses on me. “You need accompaniment for something?”
“Charlie and Morgan are gonna play at The Limelight,” Wren says, bouncing with excitement. “Opening for some nobody from Mountain Home.”
“He’s not gonna be a nobody for long,” Emmie says. “I binged his YouTube channel. He’s good. And hot.” She fans her face.
But Crosby’s not listening to them. “When’s the show?” he asks me.
I draw in a steadying breath. “November fourth.”
“Well dang, we’d better get busy,” he replies with a goofy grin.
Emmie claps her hands. “Perfect!”
“You sure? You don’t even know our songs,” I say.
Though neither do we. My thoughts veer from refusing his assistance to melting into the wall in relief.
Crosby has more musical talent in his little finger than my whole family combined.
He might be a terrible kisser and awkward in social situations, but I reason that none of those things matter when we’re on stage .
“Can’t be that difficult,” he replies with a shrug.
Crosby’s arrogance always gets under my skin, but it’s the price we’ll pay for what Emmie calls his big viola energy .
“I’ll talk to Morgan and let you know,” I say as we pack up our things and head out of the pod.
“That’s the worst name ever,” Morgan says with a groan. “Mine’s better.”
“The Martha Hayburn Experience?” Crosby shoots her a flat look. “We sound like a Lilith Fair knockoff.”
Morgan gives a dramatic sigh. “Well I’m not doing Couloir Biscuits. That’s worse.”
“I gotta get to tutoring.” I set my violin in its case and snap it closed. “I’ll go with whatever you guys decide.”
Crosby gives me a look of longing before I turn away.
Even though we went to HoCo as friends, there’ve been signs that he thinks “friends” was merely a placeholder.
But I don’t feel that way about him. Probably because I can’t get past my stupid crush on William.
I keep replaying our driving lesson. When his hand was wrapped over mine.
When we laughed. My stomach dips when I remember his crystalline blue eyes on me.
So steady and focused. Like listening to me was the most important thing to him.
But how can that be? He’s a fucking god and I’m a nobody.