29. Avery
Avery
I rest my forehead against the cool glass of the car window as we drive down the poorly maintained road to George’s house, spotted with ice patches and potholes.
It’s been an exhausting week finishing up the final shows before the extended holiday break.
Even before people posted my confession in my grandparents’ kitchen, Wes and I were being faced with endless questions.
But that was nothing compared to this. We were relegated to the hotel and the concert venues while crowds of people lobbed questions at us.
Yet, I wouldn’t take it back, not for anything in the world.
Wes and I belong to each other. There’s freedom in publicly accepting it and refusing to hide.
“We’re nearly there,” Wes says. His gaze slips to me. By there, I know he means Dad’s house.
I used to think that being ready to return meant waiting for the pain to pass.
But grief doesn’t just dissolve into nothingness, it’s not a disease to get over.
It’s a symptom of love. And I’ve had so much to grieve.
Dad. The life we built here. The first place I ever called home.
The future I was so certain we’d all have together.
But for me, being ready means accepting that I can hold two emotions at once. That I’m not erasing old memories by creating new ones, in truth I’m honoring the past by building a future.
I hold my breath as the house comes into view.
Almost there.
I swear Wes slows down, but it must be a trick my mind is pulling on me.
We reach the driveway and Wes cranks the wheel. The car dips as we roll up the pavement.
“Wes. We can’t be here.” My fingers dig into the side of my seat, joints screaming with the pressure.
“The owner doesn’t mind.” His voice is easy. Like it’s normal for him to be here. Has he? Does he know the people who live here?
“They might not, but I do.” I remain in place even as Wes unfastens his seatbelt.
“I can’t be here. I can’t go in there and look at how they redid the place.
” My throat constricts, strangling the words as I force them out.
“It won’t smell like home anymore.” It’s the smallest thing in the world, but the ache of missing Dad inflates it to an unbearable size, a balloon that presses painfully against the inside of my ribs.
That’s what it’s like. A balloon sometimes that’s limp and barely takes up any space and other times so large it makes it hard to breathe.
“Shit. Avery.” Wes leans over the console as the first hot tear rolls down my cheek. “I should have realized it would be this way. It’s the same inside, I promise. There are even those old candles he used to light when he wrote, the ones that kinda smell like car air freshener. Remember?”
“They bought the furniture?” I ask through a sob.
“ I bought everything. I’m the owner.”
“But Ivy and Nolan said it sold immediately. You couldn’t have.”
“I got my check from the label around then. I didn’t even bother trying to negotiate. It didn’t matter that they were overcharging for it. No one belongs in this house except us. It’s been waiting here for you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand as love and frustration battle in my voice. He kept this from me, even as he kept the house for me.
“Because I didn’t want you to feel like you needed to come back before you were ready.
And maybe I had no right to determine that for you, but you seemed like you wanted nothing to do with Caper.
” His shoulders rise on a sharp breath. “You even avoided Mom. I told myself I’d wait.
After what happened between us, I didn’t want you to feel indebted to me when you couldn’t even look me in the face.
At the end of the tour, if you had wanted me to sign the papers I would have handed over the deed then too.
” He flushes and runs a hand through his hair causing it to stick up.
“I want to put it in your name. It’s never really been mine. ”
He doesn’t look away as he waits for my response, brows pulling in with worry.
There’s a part of me that feels cheated from not having a home.
But I couldn’t have come back immediately.
At first because my grandparents had custody over me, but also because I wasn’t ready.
I was running from everything I needed to process before I crossed the county line, let alone be here.
“It’s our home, Wes. Let’s put both of our names on it.”
A grin cracks across his face. “Really?”
I nod.
We unload our baggage and climb the steps to the entrance. Wes selects the right key and moves to slot it in the hole but then pauses and hands it over to me. It takes me two tries as my hands shake.
The door swings wide, and somehow, despite Wes’s reassurance, I expect a funhouse version of what it used to be. But it’s exactly the same. My toes bump up against the threshold, unable to take the final step as I take it in.
Pictures of Dad and me when I was younger hang over a table cluttered with a dish, still filled with spare change and a small umbrella. The runner that we had to vacuum nearly every day with how much dirt it collected. The nicks and dents in the floorboards.
I don’t know how much time passes before I walk inside. Wes doesn’t hurry me, just silently follows when I take that first step.
I check every room. Lying on my old mattress, sitting in Dad’s old desk chair. The only notable sign that time has passed at all is that the pages of the books have yellowed. By the time I’m done, it’s dark outside.
Something sizzles from downstairs, and the mouthwatering scent of garlic and onion wafts up to me through the house. I follow it to find Wes in the kitchen.
“I thought we were going to have dinner with George,” I say.
“She brought groceries over yesterday for us and we thought you might want a night here. It’s been a long day. Though during our discussion she did say, and I quote, ‘you’re not allowed to hog my daughter-in-law.’ And that’s all she’s been referring to you as.”
“I like it.”
George has been the only maternal figure I’ve known and though, legally, she’s been my mother-in-law for years, a new rush of warmth runs through me.
I pad across the tiles to Wes and wrap my arms around his waist, planting my chin on his shoulder. “I also like the smell of whatever you’re making.”
“Nothing special. It’s sauce from a jar, but adding a little something extra, and there’s garlic bread. I wish I was a better cook; I feel like the first meal in our house should be better than this.”
“It’s perfect.” I shake my head, and he shifts to catch my mouth. Slow and soft. Unhurried. I wish the rest of our lives could be like this. Here. Without worrying about flight schedules and mic checks.
We only stop kissing when the pasta water boils over and hisses against the hot stove. But then we kiss some more. That night we eat overcooked pasta and burnt garlic bread.
Still, it’s everything I could have wanted. Messy and entirely ours.
We spend the next day at George’s, watching old home videos from the camcorder Evelyn used to record band practice with. I told Kendal I would hunt down the old footage for her to use, and it’s nice watching it back, seated between Wes and George on the living room couch.
“Oh my gosh, we look so young,” I say as a clip of Wes and me hunching over a notebook comes into frame. Our faces are softer, eyes wider. It was before I knew much about makeup, so my face is nearly bare except for a touch of mascara.
“And we thought we were so grown up too,” Wes adds.
It’s true. We thought we knew everything. That after a few years in the same old dive bar, we had a grasp on everything the world had to offer.
Maybe, if we’re lucky, that’s still true. Even though I feel like I’ve lived so many lives, there’s still more out there to experience.
“I remember how you were the last one to grow any facial hair but shaved every day. I’d come to Nashville for our breakfasts, and you’d have all these nick marks on your face,” George says.
“Mom,” Wes whines. George reaches for his face, and he has to hop off the couch to get out of range. “You guys keep watching. There’s still more dishes left from dinner.”
“Don’t touch the seasoning on my cast iron!” George calls out.
“I messed it up one time.”
“Once was enough. It’s never been the same.”
I watch him over my shoulder as he disappears into the kitchen. “He always has to find a way to be useful, doesn’t he?
George rises and busies herself with fixing the fire.
“I think it helps him feel in control. I always know something is on his mind when he comes back. He stayed for a week when you started dating that director. Acted like everything was right with the world, but I found him mucking stalls until his hands blistered,” she explains.
The fire starts to catch, casting a warm glow on her age softened features.
“He’s always been great at helping with our problems while pretending he has none of his own. Like his are less important.”
“I know what you mean. Over the last few months, he’s really helped me find myself again.
I don’t think it would have worked if anyone else tried to be there for me.
He just knew what to do.” My throat tightens as I’m hit with a wave of guilt, thinking of how even though he’s always been there for me I’ve failed to do the same for him.
“You know he goes to therapy now? He didn’t start for himself.
He wanted to do it so he could be a better person for us. But I think it’s really good for him.”
“That’s a relief to hear.” She nods. “You two were always at your best when you were together.” The fire snaps and sputters out. “Shoot!” George rocks back on her heels. “Avery, can you grab one of those old newspapers on the bookshelf? They’re right on top.”
George rearranges the wood, and I do as I’m told, grabbing a few of the papers for good measure. When I look down, I’m face-to-face with his name over and over again.
Hudson Sloane.