Chapter 24 #2
My father’s hands move along his guitar as if he’s reading his favorite story, the one he knows by heart.
When he strikes the power chords for their opening song, “Honey Thunder,” the throngs of fans roar, and his groupie nearly faints.
My dad’s stoic face remains focused, his jaw rigid and eyes often closed except for when he looks right at their lead singer, Lyle.
They’re well into their third song before he scans the crowd, moving around the stage as he plays.
When his eyes land on me, I lift a hand and mouth, “Hi.” My father’s lip ticks up, and he winks, and the women around me scream, assuming that little bit was for them.
I know better, though. He may be in this town to extort money from my mom, but he’ll always see me in a special light.
I’ll always be his star, his one good thing.
I need to hold onto that as I work through this pending bump in our road.
Killer Mongoose owns the stage for ninety minutes, blessing their fans with two encore songs, one of them the lullaby my father used to sing to me when I was little.
I tear up when he joins the lead singer, their smooth voices blending for “Hush, Little Baby.” I’m basically a pile of emotional mush by the time the venue clears out, and Rowan and I hole up at a cocktail table at the back of the attached bar.
The lead singer comes out first; a small group of fans having been invited to chat with the band after their show.
It’s hard not to notice how many of the fans are beautiful women, and I grimace as the realization hits me that my dad has probably slept with a fair share of women in situations just like this.
It’s probably unfair to hold him to a certain standard simply because he’s my dad, but I guess it’s a good lesson to learn—the people we love are still just people.
They aren’t perfect. And he is single and allowed to be whatever kind of man he wants.
When my dad steps out of the dressing room, a few women giggle and gather.
They’ve been waiting for him, and as he passes by, they hold out their hands and flex their fingers just to get one hand squeeze.
It’s kind of weird to see. My dad pauses between two of his fans to take a selfie, and he holds up a finger to me and Rowan.
“Sorry about that,” my dad says when he finally peels himself away from his groupies to visit with us. “Ever since Honey Thunder took off, things have gotten a little crazy after shows.”
My dad runs his hand through his hair, the slicked-back look giving way to his natural waves as a few strands fall over his eyes. I get my hair’s texture from him. Same as my height.
“I’m proud of you,” I say, catching the gleam in his eyes. His skin has weathered more over the years, so the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles seem deeper than I remember them. And there’s more.
“I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around. I’m proud of you,” he says, lifting his arm up and inviting me in for a side hug. I soak in his warmth and make a mental snapshot of how this moment feels, just in case it’s fleeting.
“You all want to slip out the back? I know it’s late, but there’s a pub on the next block that serves dinner until one. My treat.”
My dad’s eager gaze makes my gut feel heavy with guilt. I glance at Rowan, hoping to silently signal my desire to stay put. I’d rather not get locked into a meal once our real conversation begins.
“Uh oh,” my dad says, likely noticing my hesitation.
He pulls a stool out at our pub table and slides on with his hands clasped together atop the table.
“I’m guessing Rowan finally filled in some gaps for you.” I expect a guilty slant to touch my father’s eyes, but instead his expression is soft and conciliatory.
“I think I’m up to speed now, yeah.” Rowan’s hand moves to my knee under the table, and I layer mine on top.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the ugly truth myself.” My dad’s gaze shifts to Rowan, but only for a moment. “I wanted to.”
“I understand. You were trying not to paint Mom as the enemy.” I lift a shoulder and bunch my lips into a tight, crooked smile. I hadn’t doubted my dad’s intentions until now.
His shoulders relax as he exhales and slides his hands toward me along the table. My gaze drops to his reach, but my own hands remain as they are, one on my left thigh and the other on Rowan’s hand on my leg. My father gradually straightens his spine and his palms retreat.
“I wanted to let you know before I talk to your mom tomorrow; I plan on reopening our divorce settlement. I’m not trying to be cruel or vindictive, it’s only that . . . well . . . when we split, I gave away everything to make it easy on you. But now—"
I shake my head and utter, “No.”
My interruption surprises my dad as his head tilts suddenly and his mouth hangs open, suddenly lost for words. His gaze narrows on me as his brow furrows.
I shake my head and draw in a slow breath for courage. Rowan’s hand squeezes my leg, his silent nudge to say, “You can do this.”
“You left without the legal battle to make things easy on you.”
“Saylor . . .”
“Just let me finish.” I move my hands up to the table finally, but I don’t reach toward my dad.
Instead, I keep them clasped, ready for business.
“I know you didn’t want me to get hurt any more than having my parents split up already would.
But you still left, without any plans for how often you’d see me or insisting on input or parenting rights, which, I get it.
You’re a musician, and maybe you felt Mom was the steady one.
She had a normal job. She was organized and methodical.
She was always thinking about my future.
But Dad? I could have used your voice in the room.
Sure, there are things Mom is good at, but listening isn’t one of them, and you know that.
And there were times I could have used the weight of having one parent on my side in an argument. ”
“Honey, I’m sorry, and I understand.” My dad has always been good at listening, or at least he pretends to be. I’m beginning to see that he doesn’t necessarily deserve absolute credit, and there are perhaps cracks in my perspective.
“I guess what I need you to know is that I’m glad you’re finally dealing with unresolved pain.
I hope that your meeting with Mom is civil, though I’m sure it won’t be because we both know she will never accept her role in this.
She likes playing the victim too much. But beyond all of that, I hope you get what you feel it is you need to finally have closure.
I hope you get what you feel you deserve. What you’re worth.”
The invisible grip around my throat sneaks up on me, and my body begins to tremble as my eyes well up. Despite my breath going scarce, I carry on. I’m almost done. I’ve come all this way.
“I just wish I was the thing you felt like you were missing. I wish you had found the motivation to fight a few years ago, when I needed you. I wish I was worth more than a lump of cash to help the band make a new album. Because I gotta tell you, Dad. I think you’ve been missing out. I’m fucking awesome.”
I get to my feet and take in the pained expression on my dad’s face. The warm hand on my back fills me with strength, though. I step toward my dad and kiss his cheek, knowing it’s likely going to be a while before I see or talk to him again. “I love you, and I’m enough.”
Rowan nods as he steps into my side, moving his hand to my hip as he guides me to the exit.
My dad doesn’t follow us out, which, deep down, I had hoped he would, but knew he wouldn’t.
He has fans now. People to impress. And I don’t fit into his puzzle in a place like this.
I never did, and that’s why it was easier to leave me behind.
“I’m proud of you,” Rowan says as I fight to stave off my tears.
It’s the same thing I said to my dad, and I know he chose those words thoughtfully, a reminder of how powerful they can be.
And my dad will feel them just as I do. He’ll feel all my words.
And then, hopefully, when he’s ready, he’ll want to see me to apologize. And he’ll mean it.
Everything falls apart the second Rowan closes the passenger door.
I cry hard, the inside of the car a pendulum of silent sobs and heavy wails as I let the poison out.
I’m not only crying for my dad but for my adolescence, for the missing gaps I will forever have without having a parent around to cheer for me while I race across the water simply because they’re proud, not just because they see dollar signs and future scholarships.
By the time Rowan pulls up to my house, I’ve run out of tears and have packed the wounds with a certain amount of false healing.
It’s after midnight, and my mom’s SUV isn’t in the driveway.
It wouldn’t be unusual for dinner meetings to roll into late drinks and rowdy locker room behavior.
My mom is used to playing the game, and she can hold her liquor better than David.
That’s if there was ever a dinner at all.
Either way, I’m walking into a home that will be empty for a long while.
“Stay,” I hum as Rowan’s chest becomes flush with my back, his hand covering mine as I press the last few numbers on the security panel. The door clicks open, and Rowan follows close as we push inside, spinning me the moment we cross the threshold and pressing my back against the door.
I let my small clutch containing my phone fall to the ground and instantly glide my palms to Rowan’s face. His rough skin is a welcome distraction to my recent past, and it becomes easier to forget when his mouth covers mine, his lips trapping my bottom one and sucking me in.
There’s both a sense of urgency and a pause in time as Rowan’s hands move tenderly over my body, and his fingers greedily begin gathering up my dress.