Chapter 11 #2
Amanda makes a noise low in her throat, a pissed off mother bear sound that says she’d probably like nothing more than to kick me right in my ungrateful teeth, or right in the balls because that’s in kickable range while I’m standing here.
Fawnie swallows thickly. She doesn’t look at her mom.
She’s focused on me. As always, the intensity makes me want to squirm.
It does something else to me too. Something I can’t start unpacking here for more than one reason.
“Dad said you used to play piano. That you talked about becoming a musician when you graduated.”
“Yes, but sadly my playing was only for the glory of God. My mother never would have allowed it, and I was never going to get into any college without proper instruction, testing, and the whole application process. I would have had to move and never would have been able to cover the cost and then what? Chances of employment if I did make it would have been relatively low.”
“You worked at that music shop though, before the fire.”
I make the fatal mistake of staring into her eyes again and finding them both warm and full and glistening.
“Preacher and I are going to have words,” I grumble.
“I didn’t say ticket,” Fawnie clarifies.
Her eyes go from glistening to sparkling in an instant, like she was about to give up all hope, but decided there should be some after all.
“I said tickets. What you need isn’t necessarily the music.
It’s the family that goes along with it.
We bought seats for all of us. Dad, Rita, the boys, Mom, me, and you. ”
“A family night out with the Phantom of the Opera,” I mutter. She doesn’t deserve this level of bullshit. I rub my forehead, but only because I’d much rather punch myself in my own face.
“It’s not the opera, and you can dress however you want, just as long as you come,” she says ignoring my snark.
“If I wanted to blow off stress, I’d go shoot guns at Bullet’s range. Have you been there? It’s invigorating to shoot a bunch of shit up. Maybe you should have got me a pass for that instead.” Not that that any of the club pays to go to the range.
Fawnie cared enough to want to do something for me.
Something special. She asked her dad and he likely only betrayed my trust because she made him understand how important this was.
He could see how much she cared. Doubt he liked it.
He gave her the idea anyway. She cared enough to buy tickets for all of us and to come here, in person, to brave my wrath and one million percent fuckery, and give them to me herself.
“If you want to wreck things, Maverick and Loreena told me about this rage room they have in town for smashing dishes and old electronics and stuff.”
“So I’ve heard,” I choke, the urge to be a total dickhead fading fast in the face of Fawnie’s incredible kindness.
She refuses to leave me alone.
I should hate it. I need to hate it.
I don’t. I can’t.
“We’re not going to pressure you to go,” she says shyly, passing the envelope between us again. “But your ticket is in the envelope. We’d love it if you did.” Fawnie gives her mom’s hand a squeeze, then steps forward, folds the envelope, and slips it into my pocket.
My whole body goes haywire, electrified beyond anything I know what to do with, at her proximity.
I can’t breathe or think until she steps back beside Amanda.
“The music is what’s important. The rest is just background noise.”
Ahh, very good. How long did it take you to think that one up? I shut that shit down in my head. There’s no way that I’m saying that. I remain stubbornly silent, hopefully that they’ll leave.
Hoping they won’t.
“Just think about it. There’s no obligation. Let Preacher know if you do want to come. If you don’t, it’s okay.”
Fawnie glances at her mom, then at me, and then she’s surging forward, closing the distance too fast for me to get my balance or my bearings or stop it from happening.
Her hands glide up my arms until they reach my neck.
She has to stand on her tiptoes, and it’s still a sloppy, messy, awkward hug as she leans in and my body tenses, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight and concentrate on not ripping straight down the middle until Fawnie is done.
“We’ll see ourselves out, okay?”
At least the front door has a keypad. The door will automatically lock behind them. I’m too close to coming completely unraveled in the most disgusting, gross, embarrassing way, so I lock my jaw and nod.
I stand in the hallway until I hear the door shut.
They could be punking me again, but I doubt it.
I’m not going to go check the security feeds.
I step into the small, plain office and shut the door.
I mean to take even steps to the desk, sit down, shove thoughts of what just played out and anything that might yet, far out of my mind, pull up spreadsheets, and get down to my boring job.
My safe, boring job.
I study my desk through eyes gone blurry and wet.
There are zero personal touches in here.
No pictures, nothing cutesy on the walls, nothing meaningful.
My desktop has two baskets, one with incoming and outgoing papers.
I have two monitors on top and a tower down below, my laptop off to the side.
The regular other token paperwork and mouse and a mug from last night with a bit of water in it still.
I imagine myself sweeping my arm over the surface and clearing it all.
That would be incredibly stupid and inconvenient.
I fold my arms on the desktop and set my head down on them instead. Crying is entirely pointless, but a few tears sneak out to wet my shirt anyway.
I don’t want Fawnie to be right. I don’t want to dwell on this shit and let it haunt me.
She’s right. I know it. It’s not about the music.
It’s about having the kind of love that I never had or ever saw myself having after the fire.
Brotherhood is one thing, but what about the love of a mother and a father? A partner? Children?
My bungalow has an ancient upright piano that was there when I moved in.
Preacher told me it came with the house and they hadn’t had anyone move it out, but I’ve always had a feeling he was lying.
It was very convenient. I’ve ignored it all this time, but my hands ache for those worn keys.
It’s been years since I played. Could I still play good enough?
After my dreams of college and making a career as a musician were taken from me, the thought of making music broke my heart.
But it’s always been there calling to me.
Music at this point isn’t about the music. It’s about my heart and soul.
In the past half a decade, I haven’t wanted to pour out what little I have left of either.
I scowl to prevent wincing, but it doesn’t work. I have to blink rapidly against the stinging pain of more tears pricking the backs of my eyes. A tight ball burns as hotly in my throat. I’m tired of pretending. Of lying to myself. Of feeling nothing and then feeling it all far too much.
I pull the rectangular envelope out of my pocket and stare at it. It would be so easy to toss it into the garbage can beside my desk. So, so easy.
Simple.
But I don’t.