24. Luca
TWENTY-FOUR
Luca
Hi Luca,
Hope you’re doing well! I wanted to touch base because I noticed you rescheduled your past two sessions. I know things were going better the last time we spoke, but I want to make sure we check in soon. Even if we need to decrease it to once or twice a month, I think it’s a good idea we keep going for a while to keep you on the right path. When can we get you on the books next?
Lacey
It was the following Friday evening, and I was getting ready for my show at The Bluebird. I’d already showered and started to get dressed, pausing to check my email for any last-minute details from Cash or Grace to find a message from Lacey.
I hadn’t intended to miss those sessions, but life kept getting in the way. Between preparing the album for release, getting ready for the show, and spending as much time with McKenzie as I possibly could, making space for those appointments just wasn’t a priority. I’d get back to them as soon as I could, as soon as things slowed down. Besides, I was feeling better. For the first time since I could remember, I felt truly happy. Sure, healing was a journey, but it felt like I’d arrived at my destination.
My phone pinged from my back pocket with a text, and I reached for it, smiling when I saw McKenzie’s name.
Okay don’t freak out, but I got here to pick up my mom and she definitely made a T-shirt to wear to the show tonight. I can spill something on it and make her change if you want me to. Just say the word.
Attached was a photo of Laurel with a big smile on her face and the words “Luca Sterling’s #1 Fan” emblazoned across her shirt.
I laughed and shook my head before tapping out my response.
Don’t you dare. It’s perfect.
Bubbles popped up to let me know she was typing.
We’ll see you soon. ??
I pulled on the shirt Mama Laurel bought me at the thrift store and shrugged on my leather jacket, pushing my hands through my hair until it looked decent enough. With my guitar case in hand, I was out the door. I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel in a haphazard rhythm the whole way to The Bluebird, my nerves taking up so much space in my brain they were practically passengers in the car.
As I drove by the lot to get to the rear of the building, I was stunned to find a line of people outside the door in the cold just waiting to get in. Grace had told me it was a sold-out crowd, though most shows there were. But the venue said it had happened in less than ten seconds and that hundreds of people had called, trying to get on a wait list.
McKenzie had texted to let me know she and her mom were already waiting with Grace and the rest of my friends who were able to make it. I’d received good luck calls from Cash, Ella, and Antoni earlier in the day, and I knew Grace would be filming it for them. All that was left to do was head inside.
“Hi, Mr. Sterling, I’m Lena,” a petite blonde woman welcomed me through the back entrance, my guitar in tow. “I’m the stage manager here at The Bluebird, and I’ll be helping you out this evening.”
“Hi, Lena,” I said, shaking her hand. “It’s just Luca but thank you.”
“Well, Luca,” she continued, “you’ve got a few friends from your guest list here in the listening room already, so I can take you there to see them and do a quick sound check. Then I’ll show you to the dressing room where you’ll hang out till showtime. So, if you’ll follow me.”
“Of course.” I fell into step behind her as she led me into the main room where I spotted everyone.
“Let me take your case for you and put it on stage so you can meet your fan club,” Lena said with a wink, reaching for my guitar.
McKenzie, Mama Laurel, Grace, Dallas, Katie, Liv, Jax, Jo, and Derek were already seated alongside two other people I didn’t immediately recognize. One was a balding man who looked to be in his fifties, and the other was an elderly woman with dyed black hair who had to have been at least eighty. She wore a blue pantsuit and a jacket with beaded fringe dangling from the back.
“Hey,” Dallas boomed when he noticed me. “There he is!”
The entire group cheered as I approached, everyone taking their turn to greet me with hugs and fist bumps, but my eyes kept coming back to the oddly familiar faces sitting at McKenzie’s table with Mama Laurel, who beamed in her homemade shirt.
McKenzie had been first to jump up to kiss me hello, and she stayed by my side until the only folks I hadn’t talked to were the ones I didn’t know.
McKenzie gestured toward them. “There were a couple of special people who wanted to be here to help celebrate your big day.”
The man helped the lady to her feet, her fringe shaking as she moved toward me.
“Well, honeybun,” she said with a smoky rasp. “It’s sure been long enough, ain’t it?”
“Aunt Gladys?” I asked, her voice instantly transporting me back to my high school years, watching her play “Stairway to Heaven” every bit as well as Jimmy Page.
I looked from her to McKenzie, then to the man at Aunt Gladys’ side.
“Mr. Fink?” My eyes widened, and my breath caught in my throat.
“Hey, bud,” he said in that same warm tenor I remembered. “It’s good to see you.”
“Oh my God.” My hand covered my mouth for a second before I pulled them each into an embrace. “What? How? I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Your girl McKenzie hunted me down on the Facebook,” Aunt Gladys explained.
“Well, it wasn’t quite that simple,” McKenzie added with a small laugh. “I enlisted Jo’s investigative journalism skills to help track them down.”
“It was not an easy feat, darlin’,” Aunt Gladys said. “I’ve been through more than a couple name changes in my day. Mr. Hibbert died, probably about five years after I saw you last, God rest his soul.”
Mr. Fink rolled his lips inward and gave me a knowing glance like he’d heard her spiel a million times before.
“Then I met a man named Wallace a year later, married his dumb ass, and took his name,” she continued. “Let’s just say that was never gonna last. I have lived too long and worked too hard to put up with bullshit from any man. You know what I mean? Changed my name back to Fink for a while before I met my Larry three years ago. Anyway, listen to me rambling on like an old coot.” She placed her hands on my arms and looked me over, a smile spreading across her mouth. “Look at ya. Tall as a goddamn palm tree. Handsome. Talented. I always knew you were gonna go places, kid. I always said it, didn’t I, Kenneth?”
Mr. Fink nodded. “She did.”
“I’ve been following your career, and I can’t tell you how proud I am of everything you’ve accomplished, sweetheart,” Aunt Gladys said. “I hate that we lost touch, but now that McKenzie has brought us back together, I’m gonna be worse than a seven-year itch.”
“She’s not joking,” Mr. Fink deadpanned, and I laughed.
“I mean it,” Aunt Gladys went on, ignoring her nephew. “We’re gonna exchange numbers and talk all the time. We’ve got a lot of years to catch up on. Are you on the Instagram?”
“You know it’s just Instagram, right?” Mr. Fink asked.
“When you’re eighty-three years old, it’s whatever the fuck you want it to be,” she countered, folding her arms over her chest.
“I’ve missed you, Aunt Gladys,” I said, pulling her into another hug. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too, darlin’.” She took my face in her hands and kissed my cheek, wiping at the lipstick smudge she left behind with her thumb. “Me too.”
“Luca, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Lena said as she approached, “but we need to get your sound check done so we can open the doors.”
“You go on, doll.” Gladys shooed me away with her hands. “We’ll have plenty of time to chat later. We’re staying in town for a couple of days. You break a leg.”
McKenzie wrapped her arms around me, and I leaned down to kiss her softly.
“Thank you,” I whispered in her ear.
She nodded and touched the sides of my face. “You’re welcome.”
I climbed on stage to hoots and hollers from my loved ones and did a quick sound check before Lena ushered me to the back to await showtime.
Having McKenzie and all my friends—my family—there in my corner helped to ease my nerves. At the end of the day, seeing the pride on their faces because of something I’d accomplished made everything worth it.
My phone pinged from my jacket pocket, and I pulled it out to find a text from McKenzie.
Full house!!!
Next came a photo she’d taken of the bustling room filled to the brim with fans.
My heart leapt into my throat as I wrote out my response.
This wouldn’t have been possible without you.
What part? she asked almost immediately.
“All right,” Lena said, poking her head inside the cracked door. “You ready?”
“Just one second,” I answered, smiling as I typed out my reply.
Every part.
“This next one is the first song I wrote on my own,” I said into the mic, my guitar resting on my knee. My gaze returned to McKenzie who was seated directly in my line of sight. As the evening progressed, I continued to seek out her face, blurring out every other person in the room. Performing at The Bluebird wasn’t like anything I’d done before. There were no other band members to bounce off, no one else to relieve any of the pressure. It was just me, my guitar, my songs, and my stories.
I cleared my throat. “I’d been given an assignment from my therapist to begin putting some of my feelings down on paper, and like most assignments I’d been given before, I had no intention of actually doing it.”
The crowd laughed softly as though we were all just friends, gathered around a campfire, having a private conversation. It wasn’t like the Midnight in Dallas shows I was used to. There was no screaming or shouting to cover up a sour note. The audience was so quiet, you could hear when someone so much as placed their pint glass on the table.
I looked at McKenzie. “But then, someone much smarter than I am told me I was looking at it all wrong. That I needed to think about it as though I was crafting a song. And that’s when it clicked for me. Once the words started coming, they didn’t stop. They still haven’t.”
“I always enjoyed performing when I was with Midnight in Dallas, and I was part of the writing process, but until I worked on this record, I didn’t feel like there were any songs that belonged to me. I never contributed much in the way of my own lived experiences when we wrote as a band. And that’s probably because, up until this past fall, I kept everyone in my life at arm's length.” I gave a subtle nod toward where Jax, Dallas, and Derek were seated. “I didn’t share much about what I dealt with because I was…ashamed. I didn’t tell people what I went through because I didn’t want them to know.”
“Writing the songs for this album felt like…a reclamation. Of music and the life I led that brought me here. It’s become the way I process my emotions. Each song on this album reflects my healing journey, but this next one is special to me because it was the one that made me realize maybe I had something to say,” I continued. “I think a lot of people do, but they’re afraid. Of being perceived, judged, or being told there’s something wrong with them because they’re not like everyone else. Then eventually, you become prisoner to this echo chamber of thoughts that say you’re broken—that you’re not good enough.”
“You stuff yourself into the boxes other people make for you, tripping over yourself to meet their expectations, just trying to make something fit,” I said, my focus returning to McKenzie. “But all you really want is someone who sees you. This one’s called ‘Death Row.’” I closed my eyes and played the haunting opening notes before beginning to sing.
“Locked inside the confines of my own mind
A cage built by my own hands is still a prison
How long must I cry alone in the dark
Until shame becomes my true religion
Knees down at the altar
Jump then falter
I wish I were someone else
The prison guards became my priests
They took my confessions through the iron bars
Writing them down word for word
They used them to fill their memoirs
Knees down in the dirt
Pray to end the hurt
Can I be someone else”
My lids squeezed shut, and I lost myself in the words, in the images that flashed through my mind like a grainy home movie. There were nights locked inside my empty apartment or in a hotel room in whatever state we were in. Even when there was some nameless person lying beside me, I was still alone.
I pictured gossip rag headlines and Google searches filled with stories about me. Some were true, but even when they weren’t, I never tried to fight it or say they were wrong. For so long, I’d allowed myself to believe their narratives. They’d picked apart my bones to build their campfires, and I’d been handing them marshmallows to roast.
“Fed my last meal and swallowed my last rites
The judge said there’d be no stay of execution
So I prayed for death to snuff me out
And bury me in the walls of this institution
Knees down on shards of glass
What if this too shall never pass
And I can’t be someone else
I hand off my belongings to the friends I never made
A death row inmate sentenced to a life of freedom
Where he’ll spend his days longing to mean something
To a world who refuses to see him
Knees bruised and broken
Crushed by the weight of words unspoken
Can this rusted vessel ever be golden
Will my heart ever be open
To someone else”
I strummed the last note, letting it fade. The room was silent for a moment before it erupted into applause and cheers. When I finally opened my eyes, I found many people, my friends included, dabbing at their eyes with napkins.
My chest constricted, my heart bursting with something that felt a lot like happiness. These people heard my story and didn’t reject me. Judging from the looks on some of their faces, they might’ve even recognized parts of themselves within my lyrics. It felt like acceptance after a lifetime of being rejected or merely tolerated. It felt like redemption.
McKenzie beamed up at me as tears streaked down her cheeks, radiating love and pride. I took a moment to soak it all in, to revel in the roads I’d traveled to get here. At nearly forty years old, I felt like I finally made it.
“Thank you,” I said as the clapping slowed. “I’ve got one more song to play for you all tonight. I wrote it for someone who means the world to me. She showed me what it is to love someone. For the first time in my life, I have somewhere I belong. It’s called ‘Coming Home.’ McKenzie, this one’s for you.”