Chapter 19
I Won’t Tell ’em Your Name
I’ve lived all over the Southeast, but my family moved to West Virginia from Lexington, Kentucky, my senior year of high school. It was a nightmare. My dad couldn’t keep the restaurant staffed, so at seventeen, I worked months straight without a day off. I was lonely, angry, and homesick.
After graduation, we moved to Cookeville, Tennessee.
We’d lived near Nashville before, but Cookeville was new.
I missed Kentucky and wanted to go home.
I had a solid group of friends for the five years we lived in Lexington.
They introduced me to the best music, and we spent countless Saturday nights at local gigs helping bands tear down and load gear so we could meet people.
I was disconnected, aimless, and numb in Cookeville.
Alex eventually convinced me to move back to Lexington.
It was great at first, like getting the band back together.
Alex helped me find a job, and Joey helped me get a studio apartment.
But then I needed a second job because I couldn’t survive on one.
I hardly saw Alex. She was busy, and her parents were going through a divorce, and I didn’t have time to do anything but work.
Joey got married, and his band was on hiatus.
Our little circle of musicians became accountants and teachers and moderately responsible adults. Even the old radio station was gone.
Lexington didn’t feel like home anymore, but I lived on my own terms. I could read historical romance all night and live on Pringles and Diet Mountain Dew if I wanted. No more double shifts for my dad or unpaid nanny duties. That first year was tough but so worth it.
That second year though … It was one long country song of despair. My rent went up, and I couldn’t get promoted to save my life.
I totaled my car and had to pay for rideshares for a month until Alex’s dad helped me buy another with the insurance money.
Then, my second job at a convenience store got dangerous.
The assistant manager was selling alcohol to minors, but the owner wouldn’t fire him unless I agreed to take over, and that was a hard pass.
If I got someone fired, they’d surely come after me.
I specialize in verbal warfare, which oddly enough doesn’t come in all that handy in a crisis.
I didn’t want to give up, but I had to regroup, so I moved back to my parents’ house in Cookeville to save money. I got a decent job in a call center and only worked for my dad on rare occasions, but living under his roof meant I still felt obligated to help.
I didn’t know anyone in the local music scene, so I spent the better part of a year working, taking online classes, and reading on the bunk bed below my youngest sister, Liza, who was eleven. My parents were barely speaking, and my brother, Jamie, was still wetting the bed at the age of ten.
Dad berated him and threatened to make him sleep in the bathtub constantly. We took turns changing his bed, hoping Dad wouldn’t know. The only one who seemed to be doing better was Layla. She found her niche in the drama department at her high school, while I felt more out of place than ever.
Since I’ve been the new kid my whole life, that’s saying a lot.
For over an hour, I drive with the music low, letting my mind wander and my stomach settle.
I usually blast the radio and thoroughly enjoy my road trips, but it’s taking longer to decompress.
I haven’t forced myself to think about the breakup yet, but I feel lighter.
Maybe I purged more than the contents of my stomach.
Which is good, because now I need to shift gears and deal with my family.
Right after I moved to Crappie Branch, my dad decided he wanted a fresh start too. After twenty-five years of being explosive, critical, unreliable, and selfish, he finally did the decent thing: He cheated on my mom and left.
Yep. I said what I said.
There was some speculation of cheating early in their marriage, but this time, all the evidence was on an itemized credit card bill, complete with login information, saved on a laptop the kids use for school.
Mom avoided telling me for as long as she could because she didn’t want me to quit school and move back. I finally got the details out of my Aunt Tamara since secret keeping is not on that woman’s resume.
Now, Mom supervises one division of a restaurant management company and Dad runs another while avoiding her like the plague. I wonder how it’s going since he’s had to show up and do his job every day without Mom to cover for him.
Sure, I’m bitter, but I’m also relieved. We walked on eggshells for years, and it’s finally over.
It’s still an issue for my siblings because they’re required to visit him, but at least their lives have a much lower stress level twenty-six days out of each month.
My dilemma now is whether to see him while I’m in town. I haven’t the last three times I’ve been to Cookeville.
We were trained not to inconvenience Dad for any reason, and it’s still hard for me to rely on anyone. He’s the reason I walk around with a force field of sarcasm and loud, happy music to keep the feels away.
Because I’m a bother.
I’m inconvenient.
Be useful or stay out of the way.
When I was old enough to be on the payroll, I paid for my own guitar lessons, clothes that fit, and a few concerts. My work ethic eventually paid off when I saved up for a car and planned my escape. So, maybe it took more than one attempt. I did it. Twice.
Reliving my childhood to avoid thinking about what just happened won’t help me decompress, so I press play and rock my head side to side to loosen my neck.
My uncle made a compilation of my favorite Beatles songs for me when I was a kid.
I had two copies—one of them is stuck in this fifteen-year-old CD player.
I’ll give you one guess who has the other.
I’m a little over halfway home, singing about my favorite man, when my phone echoes the same song and an unfamiliar picture appears on the screen. Is that … me?
It is me, singing with a hazel-eyed, shaggy-haired, human bottle of Xanax. I’ve never seen this picture, but since I’m driving, I’ll have to take a closer look later.
I turn down the volume and tap the speaker on my phone in its holder but continue singing. I only stop when I can’t tell if he’s there.
“Heyyyyy, Jude … are you there?”
“Y-yeah, baby, I’m here. I didn’t want you to stop,” he says, a hint of his rasp coming through the speaker.
Did he just call me baby?
It happens, but that makes the third time this week—not that I’m counting.
Once is playful. Twice is teasing me. But three times is a habit. And it’ll be habit-forming for me if I’m not careful.
“Ummm … I’ll try to keep going next time.” Well, that was super eloquent.
“I’d appreciate the effort.” There’s only a slight tease in his voice, and I hear the gentle strumming of his guitar.
I’m momentarily silent, straining to hear what he’s playing, but my phone speakers are tinny and distorted.
“Did you call to take my song request?”
“Anything you want.”
You. In this car with me. Duh.
Three days is too long without my emotional support human. I don’t care if he only sits there and breathes. “Surprise me.”
“Can I make you cry?”
“Why would you do that?” I say playfully. He has no idea I have no tears left.
“You’ll like it.”
“Okay, fine. Rip my heart out. Get it over with.”
His soft laugh fills my car and calms my nerves. “I got you, drama queen. Just trust me.”
“Always.” I brace myself to be emotionally assaulted by his voice and guitar.
“I’ll play a couple. I’m setting the phone down. Stay with me.”
“Yes, sir.” We’ve done this before when I have a long drive. Obviously, I have him on speaker, but he sits the phone next to him to distort the sound less. I can hear him, but he can’t hear me.
He’s probably going to play some post-grunge-era rock like Goo Goo Dolls or Tonic. He’s so good at it, even though that stuff wrecks me, which is silly, I know. But everything about him is a lesson in masochism at this point.
He starts strumming again.
Oh, my heart.
Whatever he’s playing, I could get drunk on it.
Which would be bad, even metaphorically, since I’m driving.
It’s not what I expected. The unfamiliar pattern of chords starts tentatively, then swells and retreats with the most thrilling push and pull.
I feel it deep in my music-obsessed little soul.
But then it slows, quiets, and eventually shifts to a familiar favorite.
I wish I wasn’t driving so I could safely close my eyes and soak it up. Once he sings it through, he pauses. I assume to switch guitars. He begins to strum the gorgeous, unfamiliar song again. Then he transitions back to another song I know.
I’m positive he has started an original song then changed his mind twice, which is odd. He’s usually so deliberate. It’s not like him to second-guess himself. Still, my entire being relaxes while I listen to him play.
“Gah … Marry me now,” I mumble to myself with a deep sigh, waiting to hear him pick up the phone.
“That’s all it took? Wish I knew that sooner.”
Welp. He heard me. And his reply was a little more sarcasm than humor.
“Jude?”
“Yeah?” he says.
“What were you playing before ‘Name’?” I ask.
“I … changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“It’s not quite ready.”
“Just give me whatever’s in your heart.”
He lets out a huff. “You’ve had that for a long time now, Punk.”
Oh.
“Is it why you called me? A new song?”
“I’d call you anyway.”
“I’m glad you did. But the song you were playing … I loved it. I want to be the first to hear it.”
“You will. It’s all yours.”
It’s mine? What does that mean? I know he’s written songs that Sam performs solo, but it’s mine? My eyes must be sweating again, but sharing a project is intensely personal, so I won’t push.
I’m dying to hear it, but I understand. “Okay, whenever you’re ready.”