Chapter 7 #2
He turns to me, all grins—that crooked, dimpled smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners—and I play it cool even though inside I'm dancing the Air Walk like a teenager at her first concert.
"Yeah, you got some chops there." I turn away and sip my wine, the tart Pinot washing over my tongue as I try not to show my hand too much.
Then I shake my head, my silver hoop earrings jingling against my neck.
"Aw, who am I kidding? You were fucking amazing out there.
The lyrics, the melody..." My voice trails off as a lump forms in my throat, because his haunting baritone over those minor chords brought tears to my eyes, reminding me of Mom.
Yes, right now, she's Mom, even though I'm not technically worried about her.
I told Cam that I only called my mother "Mom" when I'm worried about her, but that's not necessarily true.
I actually call her Mom when I'm feeling nostalgic, too, and there's something about this entire evening—the amber glow of the stage lights, the smell of beer and perfume mingling in the air—that's making me nostalgic for her.
And that's when it hits me. Before the pills, before her skin went from porcelain to pockmarked, Mom was someone else entirely.
Dad's death changed everything—suddenly those graceful hands that once flew across piano keys started shaking, reaching for Oxy bottles instead.
Her face hollowed out until her cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut glass.
Before Dad died, Mom was a concert pianist, a professional who used to fill concert halls.
As I was only 4 when he died, I didn’t really know that version of her.
But Daniel—probably the only halfway decent boyfriend she ever had before she spiraled and chased him off—uploaded her performances to YouTube.
Millions of views and thousands of comments from strangers who have no idea that the woman with the "transcendent talent" and "extraordinary sensitivity" has problems staying sober, to put it mildly.
I watch those videos religiously, like prayers to a god I'm not sure exists anymore.
Even during my childhood, between the highs and the disappearances, she'd have these moments of clarity.
She'd sit at our secondhand upright, and suddenly our shitty apartment would transform into Carnegie Hall.
Those rare performances—her fingers dancing across ivory, her face serene—they're the memories I cling to when everything else about her tries to fade away.
God, I used to listen to her play and get goosebumps racing up my arms like little electric currents.
She wrote her own compositions, too, even if she couldn't sing a note without sounding like a strangled cat.
And I guess Cam playing like that kinda brought me back to where I was 7 years old, sitting on the worn velvet of the piano bench next to my mother playing a Mahler piece on her baby grand, the notes rising and falling like waves in a storm that still haunts me to this day.
The day that baby grand disappeared also still haunts me.
Mom got that death benefit check—nearly half a million for war widows back then—but two years later?
Gone. Turns out street level Oxy costs a hell of a lot more than the dealers advertise, especially when you factor in bail money and lawyers' fees every time she got busted.
Plus paying for endless rehabs that never stuck.
Not to mention all those foster homes I bounced through - had to hire lawyers for that, too.
So when the money dried up, she started selling everything that wasn't nailed down.
That piano though... when it left our house, it felt like someone cut out a piece of my soul.
And now here's Cam, playing just like she used to—all instinct and heart, letting the music breathe instead of strangling it with precision.
Mom could take something everyone knows— “Claire de Lune,” “Moonlight Sonata,” “Rhapsody in Blue” —and transform it with these little improvisations that made you hear it fresh.
She'd bend those classics until they became something new but familiar, like she was revealing what the composer meant all along but couldn't quite say.
He smiles and reaches for me, but pulls back when I flinch. "Glad you loved it."
"I did." I take a swig of whiskey and grab my purse. "Ladies room."
Bullshit. I'm calling my mother. We haven't spoken in weeks except for that one call after the accident—which she blew off—but after those memories hit me, I need to hear her voice. So, I go outside the club and into the alley way and call her.
"Tally!" Mom answers immediately. "How are you?"
"Fine, fine," I say, swallowing the urge to ask why she couldn't be bothered to play nurse after my accident.
But honestly? I'm glad she didn't show. If she had swooped in with her Florence Nightingale act—or more likely her Nurse Ratched routine—Cam wouldn't have stepped up.
And Cam's version of TLC beats Mom's any day.
Not that Mom's all bad. Our Phase 10 marathons are legendary, and she destroys me at chess every damn time.
But "playing games" with Cam? Whole different ballgame. Trust me on that.
"How's the recovery going?"
"Pretty solid," I say, wincing as I rub my lower back. The spot where Cam worked his magic is throbbing again. Maybe I could lure him into the bathroom for another round of his hands-on therapy?
"So what's up? I can hear piano music—you're at a bar. You never call from bars unless something's on your mind."
She's right. I don't do social calls from noisy venues. But how do I explain that this gorgeous guy at the piano is reminding me of her playing the baby grand while I grew up? That those are the few good memories of my childhood, because when she was playing, she was sober, and when she was sober, I always prayed she’d stay that way so I wouldn’t be taken away again?
That watching Cam play makes my chest ache with memories of her?
That some nights I fall asleep counting imaginary dollars, wondering how many tattoos it would take to buy her a Steinway—something she might love more than the pills or the men who leave bruises on her arms and empty spaces in her cabinets.
The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Want to crash at my place for a few days?"
There's dead air on the line while I mentally kick myself.
Cameron's back at work soon, but he's off by mid-afternoon, so he’ll probably stop in after his shifts to check on me. I'm in no rush to get back to Manic Muse—Blade's handling the shop just fine and my left hand isn’t healed, so I can barely hold a needle let alone create - so I’ll let Cam take care of me if he wants to. Am I seriously asking my mother to come and stay when I could have more of Cam’s brand of pain relief? Too late now.
Her silence screams the answer. Mom's got better things to do—probably some new deadbeat keeping her bed warm. Or maybe it's the fact she can't pop pills under my roof. I made that boundary crystal clear years ago.
"Tal," she finally says, "I'd love to, but?—"
"Forget it," I cut her off, hating the sting behind my eyes. "Gotta run. My friends probably think I've fallen in."
God, I can still hear her voice from my childhood: "Tally? You fall in or what?" And the way she'd warn I'd "float away" when I chugged too much water. Why do those stupid sayings still gut me?
"Tally, call me tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah." Part of me actually believed she'd say, "Of course I'll come, you need me." Stupid. She's my mother, not a Hallmark channel character.
I slide back to the table and lock eyes with Cam.
"My back's killing me again," I say with a meaningful look. "Unisex bathroom. Sixty seconds."
I shoulder through the packed dance floor toward the bathroom, only to find a line snaking down the hallway.
Figures. Saturday night, club's rammed, everyone's bladder is full of overpriced drinks.
I chew my lip. We'd be assholes to monopolize the bathroom while people are crossing their legs outside.
When Cam appears behind me, I grab his wrist. "Change of plans. Your car."
His mouth curls into that slow smile and we weave toward the exit. Careful not to touch more than necessary, obviously.