Chapter 36 Wyatt
WYATT
MY DAD IS ONE OF the best people I know. I think that’s why the idea of disappointing him has always filled me with crippling anxiety. My whole life, I tried so hard to love hockey the way he loves hockey, but it’s just not it for me. Never has been. And that has created a disconnect between us.
The worst part? I’m good at hockey. Naturally athletic.
If I sucked, at least Dad would’ve been relieved I wasn’t out there embarrassing myself on the ice.
Unfortunately, I’m talented enough that if I’d put in the work, I probably could’ve gone pro.
I played in high school mostly just to make him happy.
But music is what called to me. By the end of tenth grade, I finally told him I was quitting the team.
And because he’s a good dad, he didn’t freak out.
Didn’t try to talk me out of it. He simply said I needed to follow my own path.
I should’ve taken that as proof he supported me, but there was always—and still is—that niggling doubt.
That fear I’ve let him down. It’s in the back of my mind nearly every time we’re together.
This morning, we’re working out in the basement gym, Dad spotting me as I lie on the weight bench, lifting heavier than I usually do.
“Damn,” he says with a whistle. “Didn’t realize you were going so hard this summer.”
“I mean, there’s not much else to do.”
My summer routine has been pretty consistent. Write music, swim, nap, work out, fuck Blake. Repeat.
“Thanks for watching out for Blake while you’ve been here,” he says as he sets the bar back on the rack.
I sit up and roll out my shoulders. “Wasn’t much of a chore. She’s great.”
“When are you heading back to Nashville? Still aiming for the end of the summer.?”
“I think so. But maybe not Nashville. That producer, Tobey Dodson, works out of a New York studio, and he’s back in town in September.”
“How are you for money?”
I rise from the bench and walk over to the shelf of towels that Houseman Henry comes every few days to launder and replenish. I swipe one and mop up the sweat on my neck.
“I still have a lot left in the trust,” I assure him. “Plus the money I make gigging and the cash I’ve saved from all those construction jobs. To be honest, I’ve barely touched my trust.”
“That’s good. Getting paid for gigs means you’re a real musician.” Dad winks at me, but I don’t miss the spark of pride in his gray eyes.
“Yeah. And I make a decent amount on streams and the videos I upload using my ad account.”
“Well, if you need any help from me and your mom, just let us know.”
I nod, but I don’t plan on asking for help any time soon. I’m turning twenty-five in two months. I shouldn’t be accepting handouts from my parents anymore. But I appreciate the offer. Not everybody has a safety net like I do, and I would never take that for granted.
We’re done in the gym, but before I can go to the stairs, Dad says, “Hold up. I want to show you something.”
We bypass the screening room and game area toward what used to be a huge storage room. Now it’s a gaping space, all the contents moved out.
“This is where I want to set up your mom’s studio.
I was hoping you could help me out with it.
Pick out equipment and whatever else she needs.
” He looks sheepish. “I could build you a hockey arena with my eyes closed and fill the locker room with everything you’ll ever need, but this isn’t my forte. ”
What I love about my dad is that he’s not some blustering macho man who pretends he can do everything.
He’s able to be humble. Probably because he grew up with a parent who didn’t know the meaning of the word.
I never liked my grandfather. The rare times we saw him, he came off as phony.
Manipulative. I’m reminded of what Blake said about Isaac being shiny.
That was Phil Graham too. Shiny on the surface, and then you look closer to find he’s all scratched up.
“Sure, I can help.” I wrinkle my forehead. “But wouldn’t it make more sense to just ask Mom what she wants?”
“I would if it wasn’t a birthday surprise,” he says with a grin. “She has no clue what I’m up to. I recruited Houseman Henry to empty out this space. He’s been moving boxes all summer into the boathouse storage room, a bit at a time.”
“All summer? How have we not seen him even once?”
“He’s like the wind,” Dad says solemnly.
“For real.”
We spend the next ten minutes walking through the room, going over the logistics of installing a music studio. Later, Dad goes off to drink beers with his friends, and I wander into the kitchen, where I find my mom at the stove.
“I’m making grilled cheese,” she says when she spots me. “You want one, honey?”
“Yes, please.” I plop down at the counter, smiling as I watch her flip the sandwich in the pan.
It reminds me of when Gigi and I were little.
Whenever Mom was cooking, Gigi would always hurry off to watch hockey with Dad in the den while I’d sit in the kitchen chatting with Mom.
Sometimes, she sang when she cooked, and I’d sing along with her, practicing harmonies. Those are some of my best memories.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been nice to you,” I blurt out as a rush of guilt seizes control of my vocal cords.
Mom turns from the stove, eyes wide. “What are you talking about?”
“I know you’re only trying to help when it comes to my music. And I’m always biting your head off about it.” I gulp down the lump obstructing my throat. “I feel bad. And I’m sorry.”
She gives me a gentle smile. “It’s all right. I get it.”
“Do you really?”
Mom slides the spatula under the grilled cheese and flips it again, browning the other side. “Of course. It feels like a hit to your pride. Reminds me of your father. He’s way too proud sometimes. But even your dad knows when to accept help.”
“It’s not that I don’t want your help—”
“I promise you, I get it. And I appreciate the apology. But for what it’s worth, the reason I try to offer my assistance—within the parameters of the rule book, of course,” she adds with a grin, “isn’t because you’re my kid. I do it because you’re so talented, Wyatt.”
I bite my lip.
“I love you and your sister equally, and the two of you are my world. But you…you’re also my soul.
You feel music the same way that I do. I’ve been writing songs my entire life, just like you have.
” She pauses, her voice softening. “I’ve never told you this before, but I went through a difficult time when I was a teenager. A pretty bad trauma.”
Concern tickles my stomach. I want to ask her what happened, but a part of me isn’t sure I want to know the answer.
“It took years of therapy and being kind and gentle with myself to work through it. And whenever I felt like I couldn’t bear it, I’d distract myself with music. Lose myself in songs.” She laughs. “Sometimes I hear music in my head when I’m trying to sleep.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Of course you do. Because you got it from me. And I want you to know that if I ever push you, it’s only because I want other people to experience your gift.”
“So you’re saying if I couldn’t carry a tune, you wouldn’t be pushing me like some nepo baby onto all these industry folks?”
Mom snorts. “God, no. I would’ve found a nice way to encourage you to seek a different career path.”
I believe that. Mom might be teeming with compassion, but she doesn’t allow for delusions. She’s grounded in reality.
She slides the plate across the table, and I take a bite of grilled cheese, even knowing it’s fresh off the pan. As I try to blow on the food while it’s in my mouth, she laughs and gets me a glass of water. I gulp it down, and then, because I’m a masochist, take another bite right away.
“Just wait for it to cool,” Mom chides, sputtering with laughter
“No. It’s too good. Tastes best when the cheese is still sizzling.” I chew slowly. “Hey, so… I have a few tracks I’d love to get your opinion on. I want to send them to Tobey this week.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh, I would love that. I’m dying to hear what you’ve been working on this summer.”
“I think it’s some of my best work,” I confess.
“Wow. You never compliment your own music.”
“I know, but…yeah,” I say gruffly. “This is good material. Found my inspiration, I guess.”
Her name is Blake.
I keep that part to myself, though.
All the parents go into town that night, leaving the boathouse empty for the Golden Boys to party in.
My social battery is in desperate need of recharging, so I beg off and stay in the main house.
My sister decides to stay in too, which puts a damper on my plans to lure Blake upstairs and screw her until she can’t see straight.
Instead, the three of us end up puzzling together in the dining room.
“Whoa, you guys got so much done just the two of you,” Gigi remarks. She admires the puzzle, which is about three-quarters filled in. “How much time did you spend on this?”
“We did a little bit every night,” Blake says. “I did most of the sky because this asshole is apparently black-blind.”
Gigi grins. “What the hell is black-blind?”
“When you can’t tell the difference between shades of black.”
“Because there’s only one shade of black!” I say in protest. “It’s called black.” I snatch two pieces out of the box. “See this? This is black. And see this one? It’s also black.”
“That second one is clearly five shades lighter,” a haughty Blake replies. “It’s closer to charcoal. Dumbass.”
My jaw drops. “You know, I didn’t try to shame you when you couldn’t tell the difference between the center of the moon and the swan neck.”
“Because those are actually the same shade of white.” She jams her finger on the swan, then the moon. “White and white.”
“Yeah. White with feathers. White with moon dust.”
“What the hell is moon dust? You know what? I don’t care. Fuck you.”
“Fuck you.”
“I said it first.”
“I said it second.”
“Ahem.” Gigi clears her throat.
We both glance toward her.