Chapter 16
sixteen
The soup of mid-day air coats me as I step out of my ride in front of The Rusty Spike.
According to what I could find online during the drive, the bar has been a local mainstay since the sixties and derived its name from the fact that it’s an old, out of commission train depot.
The tracks remain out back, grown over with weeds.
The spikes beneath, truly rusty, in this oppressive humidity.
After letting everyone know I made it here in one piece and checking in with the manager and stowing my backpack in his office, I ask permission to roam the grounds and take photos outside while I wait.
I can’t start inside until Hannah gets releases signed by everyone agreeing to potential inclusion in the film.
It’s surprisingly quiet for the outskirts of downtown, and I quickly lose myself in the resilience. This is an area refusing to submit to gentrification taking place a few blocks away or the decomposing effects of time on architecture. It’s well-worn, but proud. A photographer’s dream.
It’s not until I hear my name shouted that I realize how lost in my surroundings and my own head I’ve been. There’s a blonde standing next to the building waving her arms overhead to get my attention. Hannah.
As I approach her, she’s as adorable as I remember, but somehow tinier. Grinning, she hugs me, and at 5’ 10” I tower over her.
I must be under the spell of new surroundings and lingering Xanax, because, even sweaty, I surprise myself and hug her back. Unless your name is Lola or Benji and I share DNA with you, I’m not a hugger.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says warmly. “You ready to get to work?”
I nod, “And out of this hellish, wet heat,” and follow her like she’s the Pied Piper.
She’s magnetic like Lola. Lola’s superpower is confidence and not taking herself too seriously. I think Hannah’s might be friendliness.
I’m searching my pocket for a hair tie to tame the frizz that’s multiplying by the minute as we walk through the front door and am not prepared when Hannah says, “Guys, this is Sophie.”
Lifting my chin, my eyes lock with Ever’s. They’re every bit as intense as I remember.
And my nipples pop. It’s an instantaneous, cartoon-like reaction.
The only thing missing is a champagne cork sound effect.
I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. I usually skip a bra because a: They’re medieval torture devices, and b: I’m not a D cup like Lola so lift, support, etc.
has always seemed pointless. I can’t deny that a little coverage would be nice to muzzle them right now, though.
The man nearest me is the first to take my hand when I offer it up to the general space in front of me. I’m so bad at this.
“Hi, Sophie. I’m Ben. We’re all happy you’re going on this journey with us.” When I say Ben talks slow, I mean sloth-like slow. But paired with a Texan drawl, it’s oddly engaging.
I can’t help but smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Ben.”
He squeezes my hand gently with both hands. “You’re shakin’ like a leaf, darlin’. You nervous?”
Dammit, he noticed. “Honestly?”
He nods. “Of course. We’re all friends here.”
“I’m shitting myself.” Way to give them all of you right off the bat, Soph.
But they laugh.
Ben’s hand is replaced by Jesse’s. He’s every bit as big as he looked on stage. I don’t have small hands, but his dwarfs mine. “Hi, Sophie. We talked on the phone. I’m Jess.” I wonder how much caffeine is running through this guy’s system because he is humming.
“Hi, Jess.” And then the unthinkable happens and I giggle. I fucking giggle. I know it’s nerves getting the best of me, but I’m flushing the other pill in my pocket the first chance I get. I recover by repeating what I told Ben. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Then Ever steps forward, and I swear my nipples try to bridge the gap and touch him. Jesus, calm down, girls.
“And we meet again.” The dimple settles into his cheek.
Holy shit, he remembers me? My mouth is dry, unlike other areas of my body because…that voice. I clear my throat before I manage, “Hi, again.”
Hannah looks from me to Ever and back again, and asks skeptically, “You know each other?”
Ever’s smile tips down on one side, like he’s amused. “We ran into each other not long ago.”
“Ba dum bum.” When I say it, imaginary sticks in my hands tap drums, then a cymbal crash. Stop, Sophie. Just stop. I look at Hannah. “You and I actually talked that same night too. It was after their show in Denver.”
Her brow furrows, and I can see she’s sifting through her memory bank as her cheeks begin to blush.
Anxious to relieve her unnecessary embarrassment, I add, “It was totally in passing while we were washing hands in the restroom. I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”
Ben turns and walks away as she covers her eyes with a free hand and says, “I may have overindulged that night. I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”
Before I can console her further, Ever draws my attention back to him when he says, “Hi, Sophie.” He offers his hand that’s every bit as big as Jesse’s but has a different effect on me. Because when his long fingers wrap around mine, I almost moan. I’m not shaking anymore; I’m vibrating.
“Hi.” As soon as the word is out of my mouth, I want to kick myself.
You already said hi, dumbass. My brain is scrambled, and it’s like some sort of six degrees of separation shit is going on, but the orgasm version: this man, his hand, my hand, my clit.
It’s all connected, and I feel like it’s written all over my face how many times I’ve come thinking about him.
Our hands are suspended between us unmoving. I’m making this weird, I know I am. His thumb sweeps against my wrist like he did the first time we met, and he says, “Hi,” again. It’s when he winks, and his smile widens that I realize we did this last time, repeated ourselves, and he remembers too.
I shake my head and can’t help smiling while my cheeks blaze with heat.
The spell is broken when Hannah asks, “Can you help me with lighting, Sophie? I want to film some interviews on stage with the guys before this place starts filling up.”
“Sure,” I say, watching her make her way toward the stage where several hard-sided cases are lined up.
I release Ever’s hand and, as I walk away, he calls out, “Ben’s right. We’re all happy you’re here, Sophie.”
Ever and Jesse are sitting on two barstools, side-stage.
Hannah is across from them hidden behind a camera and a ring light.
I’m on the floor in front of the stage, trying to blend in while I capture still shots of it all.
It’s not loud in here yet because it’s still early, so I can hear their conversation.
The contrast between the two brothers is stark.
They couldn’t be more different and not just their looks.
Ever is quiet, while Jesse’s all energy to the point that he can’t sit still.
“I want to dig right into the origin story of Thicker Than Water,” Hannah says. “You’re blood. Brothers. Clever name. Where did your mutual love of music come from?”
They look at each other like they’re comparing notes, and then Jesse asks, “Mom, right?”
Ever nods his agreement.
Jesse continues, “I don’t remember a day I didn’t hear her sing, especially when we were young. One summer when I was about ten, so Ever,” he looks at him, as if to verify his math is correct, “you must’ve been seven, right?”
Ever nods again, and it’s sweet how patient he is, content to let his hyperactive brother take the lead.
Jesse picks up the thread. “We lived in the middle of nowhere Louisiana. And when I say nowhere, I mean no-fucking-where. There couldn’t have been fifty people in a fifty-mile radius.
The attic apartment Mom rented didn’t have A/C, and it would get so damn hot inside.
She’d put a few dollars’ worth of gas in her old Corolla, and we’d drive backroads with the windows rolled down just to get out of the house and cool off.
We’d sing along to the radio until the car was on fumes, and then we’d go home. Remember that, Ev?”
He’s a good storyteller. I’m watching them through the screen on my camera, and it’s not hard to imagine this being on film eventually. The audience will eat them up.
“Yeah. That was a good summer. Probably my favorite summer as a kid.”
Jesse nods, but as I zoom in, his eyes look far away. “Calm before the storm,” he mutters.
I glance up to catch a glimpse of Ever’s face. He sees his brother sinking and is there to rescue. “That’s the same summer she bought Dolly and started teaching us how to play guitar.”
Jesse squints like he’s searching his memory. “Was it that summer?”
Ever nods. “Yeah.”
Watching them sort through shared family memories makes me think of Lola. It’s amazing how differently we remember the same situations from our childhoods. Different person, different lens.
“Shit, I’d forgotten that.” Jesse’s smile returns and is slight, but wistful.
Hannah asks, “What was Dolly? A dog?”
Ever jumps in when Jesse doesn’t answer. “Sorry. No, it’s an acoustic guitar Mom bought at a pawn shop. It’s the same one I’ll play tonight. She’s nothing fancy, but she’s reliable.”
“And she named it Dolly?” Hannah probes.
Jesse looks at Hannah and shakes his head. “You have no idea how deep Mom’s love for Dolly Parton runs. She’s always wanted to be like her—singer, songwriter, big heart, big hair. You name it, she thinks Dolly does it best.”
Hannah laughs a little. “She’s not wrong.”
Jesse cocks his head in his brother’s direction and asks curiously, “Does she still have that velvet painting of Dolly?”
“She’ll probably be buried with it. It’s hanging on the dining room wall between your graduation photo and the macaroni art Willie Nelson I made her in third grade.”
Jesse claps his hands and a genuine laugh erupts. “How have those noodles survived through the years?”