Chapter 16 #2
“Dude, Willie’s lookin’ haggard. He’s missing most of his beard and one braid. He kinda looks like Great Aunt Freida. Wearing a bandana. It’s honestly a good look for Freida.”
I’m trying to be quiet, but that one makes all of us laugh a little.
“I think I love your mom,” Hannah says.
“Mom’s a fucking lunatic,” Jesse says.
And Ever adds, “But she’s our lunatic.”
Hannah tips her head and smiles. “So, music runs in the family. I’m curious, who’s the songwriter between the two of you?”
Ever tips his head in Jesse’s direction.
When Jesse doesn’t say anything, Hannah probes, “Your songs feel deeply personal. I wondered if you could spend a few minutes talking about the inspiration behind them?”
“Write what you know, right?” Jesse drops his gaze to the floor, and two seconds later, his head tilts and when his eyes meet Ever’s, there are tears in them. Paired with his bouncing heels, he looks ready to make a break for it.
Ever slaps his knee. “What do you say we go grab a beer and a burger before the show and save this for another time?”
Jesse bolts upright and is off the stage in two strides.
Hannah lowers her camera, and I don’t miss the concern registering in her eyes. “Did I say something wrong?”
Ever’s response, though short, is obviously meant to comfort when he says, “No, it’s us. We’re a little fucked up. Don’t take it personally.”
“I should’ve asked about triggers. Lesson learned.” She looks apologetic.
And it hits me that there’s a learning curve for all of us, maybe with the exception of Ben, who’s been a touring musician for almost a decade.
This is Hannah’s first major project outside of film school.
Ever and Jesse have only been performing for a few weeks.
And me? Well, I have no experience whatsoever.
After Ever joins Jesse at the bar, I’m not sure what to say, but I feel like I need to say something. “You’re a natural when it comes to interviewing.”
Moving a stool back to the center of the stage, she says, “I know a lot of the footage will get scrapped and it will all come together the way it’s supposed to in the end, but I feel like everything I’ve touched today hasn’t gone to plan.
” She glances up at me and tucks her long hair behind her ears so I can see her face. “You ever have days like that?”
I look back over each shoulder to check she’s not asking someone else because I feel like the answer to that question should be obvious. “Umm, yeah. Most days lately.”
I’m starting to get the feeling that maybe Hannah isn’t quite as put together as I thought. Maybe none of us are. She takes a deep breath and exhales. “It’s all going to work out.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answer honestly, “We’re both a long way from home. We don’t have a choice; it has to. You’ve got this.”
She’s looking down at the floor, but her head begins nodding solemnly. When she lifts her chin, her eyes are glassy, but there’s a small genuine smile on her lips. “This is already harder than I thought it would be,” she confesses.
I nod to agree and reassure her. “I got you.” As the older sister, especially after losing our mom, I’ve always felt protective of Lola. Looking at Hannah, that same feeling’s rising. “A burger does sound good.”
“Have you eaten yet?” she asks.
I shake my head. “The old stomach wasn’t too jazzed on all the firsts happening this morning. That made eating impossible.”
As she unplugs the lights from an outlet in the floor, she says, “I can’t believe you’ve never flown.”
“Life never required it. Plus, I’m cautious by nature. Possibly to a fault. There are lots of things I’ve never done. My sister dared me to do something that scares me every day, so I’m working on it.”
She brushes her hands off on her skirt as she stands. The floor is sticky and smells like a variety of decades’ old liquor spillage. “How’s that going?”
I shrug, but smile. “Scary.”
She laughs a little. “Fair enough, but I admire that.”
An unladylike snort escapes. “Says the woman who’s no stranger to traveling the world and bravely trying new things. A thirty-four-year-old flying for the first time is hardly something to admire.”
After I latch the case closed, she gives me a hand to help me up from where I’m crouched.
“It’s not just that. I know I don’t really know you, but you don’t try to impress.
In a world where everyone is clamoring for attention, you’re not.
I mean, your clothes and your sense of humor,” I glance down at my leopard print shorts, cropped black tee, and black Vans and don’t see the problem, while she continues, “you don’t try to fit in.
I hope when I’m your age, I can get to that point. You seem content to just be yourself.”
I shrug because that’s a lot to take in, and I’m too distracted by hunger to decide if that was a compliment or a partial insult. Either way, I’m not sure I care, so I guess she’s kind of right. “Let’s eat while we can, I’m starving,” I offer to change the subject.
The burger is the best I’ve ever had. Who knew a dive bar on the outskirts of Atlanta would turn out to be the mecca of greasy beef? I pass on the beer for now and opt for two bottles of water instead. I’ve sweat buckets and need to rehydrate.
At six o’clock, the crowd that’s been lined up out front for hours is let in one by one after paying the cover and showing ID.
There’s no pre-sale for tickets for any of the venues on this tour, so getting in is a first-come, first-served situation.
Thirty minutes later the small bar is packed, and the owner has posted a bouncer at the door to turn people away.
I watched a few of Ben’s videos to familiarize myself with his music and scrolled through his social media feeds.
As a solo artist, he doesn’t have the kind of following that sells out arenas or even medium-sized venues.
What he has is more intimate and precious; he has loyalty.
A fanbase that’s been with him since the beginning, and they’re hardcore.
Most of the crowd is wearing his name on T-shirts or hats.
And none of them are new. This is merch with some age. It’s been with them for years.
Since everyone was asked to sign a release when they walked through the door, I can wander freely and take photos.
Candid shots have always been my thing because I enjoy blending into the background, but tonight the posed shots are my favorites.
It’s Friday night. These folks have undoubtedly worked hard all week, and they’re ready to blow off some steam and have a good time.
They see my camera and turn it on. And, like osmosis, their good time becomes my good time.
I have no power to deny it, so I submit.
By the time Thicker Than Water is set to go on, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and my voice is hoarse from talking loudly to be heard over the cacophony of classic rock on the jukebox and voices that increase in volume proportionally with the amount of beer being consumed.
Jesse is tipsy as he takes the stage, a highball glass of amber liquid in hand. He raises it to the crowd as Ever takes the stool next to him and adjusts the mic stand in front of his guitar. “Pleasure to be here in Atlanta with you tonight."
The place erupts in whistles and cheers. It’s clear they have a few fans here just for them, judging by the response.
He tips back the glass, downs it in one gulp, and abandons it on a stool behind him. Returning to his mic, he rubs his hands together before looking at Ever, who nods and starts strumming. “This is my brother, Ever. I’m Jesse. And we’re Thicker Than Water. Let’s have some fun.”
For the next thirty minutes, Jesse and Ever wrap one hundred people around their fingers. They’re more rock than Ben’s country, but the crowd is into it. I thought they were good in Denver, but they’re feeding off the enthusiasm in the room. It’s collective euphoria.
I’ve probably walked ten thousand steps inside these four walls today, and it’s paying off.
The shots I’m capturing have a pulse; they’re teeming with emotion.
I know Hannah feels the same. Her game face is on behind her camera, but the twinkle in her eyes tells me this is beyond what she expected or hoped for.
The applause the crowd gives them when they leave the stage is thunderous. They won everyone over.
I give them a few minutes to catch their breath, but when I follow out the back door behind the stage that’s cordoned off for staff and entertainers only, Ben is congratulating them.
I’m undetected and get a few shots. I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment until Jesse strides over, gathers me up in a bear hug, and lifts me off my feet.
Any other night I would protest, but tonight I welcome it.
“Can you believe that, Soph?” Jesse asks as he spins me around. When my feet touch ground, he releases me and looks like a giant dog that’s all tail wag. “The crowd was incredible, right?”
I nod. “They were. I’m not sure what’s in the water here in Atlanta, but that was special.”
When I look at Ever, he’s watching his brother with a small smile on his face that looks like it starts in his eyes.
And it’s not just an I’m-happy smile. This is different, an I’m-happy-because-you’re-happy smile.
I’ve seen it on Lola’s face so many times with Benji that it’s unmistakable. It turns my insides gooey every time.
Without thinking, because I’m under the spell of whatever this night is, I turn toward Ever and open my arms. He steps into them and squeezes me as hard as I squeeze him.
Adrenaline is a funny thing; sometimes it mutes who we are to give us a glimpse of who we can be instead.
Like a 90-day trial offer that only lasts seconds, but it’s long enough to decide if we want to keep it or return it.
I wanna keep it.
His long arms are wrapped around me, a big hand cupping each of my shoulders, and his cheek resting on the top of my head.
If I’m dreaming, please, for the love of baby otters, don’t wake me up.
I’ve never been hugged like this. He’s so big, I’m cloaked in him.
It feels safe and intentional and complete, like I could crawl inside him, bared and defenseless.
“If they weren’t Thicker Than Water fans before, they are now,” I say into his T-shirt.
When his calloused thumbs brush back and forth over my bare shoulders, it makes my thighs clench and my knees weak. Maybe Lola was right, and I am in my sexual prime, because the way my body reacts to this man is Pavlovian.
As we both let go, I hear the door behind me open on creaky hinges, and Ben calls out, “Meet us inside, next rounds on me before I go on. And nice hat, Sophie,” he adds with a chuckle.
Jesse’s voice follows Ben through the door, and Ever and I are alone. I know I should take a step back and give him space, but my legs aren’t getting the message my brain is sending.
I tip my head back to meet his gaze because he’s at least six inches taller than I am, and he spins the bill of my hat around to the back so I can see his eyes.
“He’s right, nice hat.” It almost sounds convincing, but the sarcasm is peeking through.
“It’s so cute that you could say that with a straight face.” The weathered old hat has a Ben Gatlin patch on the side that’s holding on for its life by a few stitches, and the front reads: If it ain’t country, it ain’t fuckin’ shit.
He cracks a smile and concedes, “It’s shit, Soph.” I love that he and Jesse have decided I need a nickname.
“With all due respect, sir, I think you mean fuckin’ shit.”
He nods slowly several times and says solemnly, “With my whole fucking chest.”
We’re both on the verge of laughter but somehow holding back. “When a seventy-year-old woman named Tater Tot wants to buy you a shot of Jim Beam and gifts you her beloved trucker hat, you aren’t allowed to turn her down. It’s Georgia law.”
“Tater Tot, huh? Is that her given name, or…”
“I mean, probably not, but it’s her chosen name and honoring personal identity is what’s most important.”
His smile opens wide and his teeth and dimple make an appearance. Every time this happens, the crack in his intimidating outward armor makes me want to step close and press my eye to it to see what’s inside. “Please tell me that’s a true story.”
I would forfeit my next paycheck, rent be damned, to lick that dimple. I casually take a step backward, though it doesn’t put much distance between us, and cross my heart. “It is. The odds are astronomical that she’ll flash her titties or throw her bra on stage during Ben’s set. She’s a legend.”
His shoulders bounce in silent laughter.
“You need Thicker Than Water merch, stat.” I mean it. It would sell like crazy.
“You think?”
“Come on, Ever, give the people what they want.” Innuendo has entered the chat.
He captures the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth, worries at it for a second, and quickly releases, like he’s thinking it over. Then he narrows his eyes and playfully says, “I have a feeling it’s going to be impossible for me to say no to you.”
I live for banter like this. The kind that usually only exists in movies or books. “God, I hope so. Because, at the end of the night, this hat is going to be returned to its rightful owner, and I’ll need a replacement. Don’t tell Ben, but I’m a metal girl to my core. This hat is sacrilege.”
The grin remains. “I knew I fucking liked you. A woman after my own heart.”
“You know what they say: If it ain’t metal, it ain’t fuckin’ shit,” I deadpan.
He barks out a laugh that’s so genuine it loosens something deep inside me, and I join in, unable to help myself.
Laughing with someone like this is so rare.
It’s pure and intimate like nothing else, because it can’t be faked or forced.
It’s validation that ties two souls together, like splicing a vein and bleeding out into the other. Pure connection.
There are tears in both our eyes when we hear the creak of the door, and “There you are” bursts our little bubble.
It’s Hannah. Her eyebrows are pinched together as she looks from me to Ever.
I know she heard us laughing, but we’re standing so close and my gung-ho nipples must make me look guilty as hell, because when she adds, “I need you inside, Sophie,” the edge in her voice is unmistakable.
Ever’s back is to her, but he mouths, “Busted,” before he whispers, “You have no idea how much I needed that. Thank you.”