Chapter Four The Guitar Guy
Chapter Four
The Guitar Guy
Griffin
The variety show clip was uploaded at six o’clock in the morning, and Ava and I have watched it no fewer than fifty times since.
My mug is in one hand, with my opposite arm holding Ava in my lap. Over and over, my daughter squeezes my phone between her tiny hands and giggles, leaning back and squealing when I shut an imaginary door in the face of Bernie Bird.
I take a sip of my coffee. Ava and I didn’t sleep, but that’s almost every night now. At least she’s laughing.
I smile and set her down before whirling myself around on the piano bench. I know I should be on my guitar. Jimmy’s gonna kill me if he hears me plunking keys instead, but I put down a few chords anyway.
The song isn’t bad. It’s kind of good. In fact, it’s sounding kinda catchy.
And…it’s “Bennie and the Jets.”
I drag my fingers down the keys, sending an erratic, discordant mess of notes echoing through the living room.
A sippy cup rattles on the ledge of the piano.
I have no clue when that got there. Just the other morning, I found a wrapped-up diaper beside my Gibson Les Paul instead of in the diaper genie right next to it.
At some point, you accept that items end up wherever they want when you have a two-year-old.
I straighten my posture on the piano bench, as if that would help my muse.
I’ve been trying to write music for months now, but no hit songs have sprouted from these tired fingertips.
If I could send even one track to the record label, they might be breathing down my neck—and Jimmy’s—a little less.
Agreeing to an international tour this coming March was supposed to make up for it, but the pressure hasn’t decreased.
I play again. The next combination of chords is no better, but at least it’s an original song: “Ava’s Jammies Jam.”
Ava’s head pops up. She bounces on her bottom to the rhythm. I chuckle, playing it again.
“Jammie?” she asks, pointing to the bedroom.
Educational songs for my kid are the only music I create now.
I shake my head. “It’s only two o’clock, munchkin. Not yet.”
She looks confused for a second, but it’s in one ear and out the other. She grabs the phone from the floor, taps the screen, and starts that variety show clip again.
Kids.
I’m not normally a technology dad, but Ava loves Bernie Bird. He was regularly scheduled viewing in our house before Birds on the Block was taken off streaming six months ago. We lost the five-bird crew: Bernie Bird, Penny Pigeon, Hector Hawk, Carmen Crow, Debra Dove…
I can’t believe I know all the names…
I shut my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. Sure, I watched Birds as a kid, but not to this extent. It’s funny how being a parent makes you an expert on children’s shows.
Ava stares at the phone, wobbling to her feet before toddling over to me. She gestures toward the screen, grunting out a noise that’s asking a question without words.
I twist around on the bench seat and bend down to pull her onto my lap again.
“You like Bernie, huh?” I ask, pressing play for her as she leans against my chest. She feels so tiny and fragile. Probably because her head is the size of my upper arm.
I cave and watch the video with her, seeing all two and a half minutes of me and Bernie.
Ava points to the screen.
“What’s up?” I ask.
She pokes the video the moment my eyes dart off-camera. Another unspoken question. I love her curiosity.
“Oh, I was just checking to make sure my shoelaces were tied,” I explain. “You know how we sing a song about that?”
She nods and settles back into the video.
I wasn’t looking at my shoelaces, but I’d hate to ruin the magic of puppetry for Ava. Even in person, Bernie Bird acted so lifelike that I almost forgot about the puppeteer at my feet.
Almost.
I get flashes of that woman sometimes. The pretty smile, those green eyes, squinting at the edges with little marks of playfulness.
She looked plucked straight out of the ’70s, with her feathery blond bangs and floral coveralls.
She was living sunshine, breathing that light into the fabric draped over her arm. Laughing at my misfortune.
Ava squeals with giggles again.
“Daddy funny,” she murmurs.
A smile crawls up my cheeks.
“Daddy’s funny?” I repeat back to her. She nods, her brown bangs bouncing in front of her eyes. Her mom’s bangs used to do that when she laughed, too, and Robin sure loved to laugh.
What is it with women finding only humor in my scowls?
I palm the wispy hair away from Ava’s forehead and kiss the space underneath, somewhere Robin refused to let me see because she said her forehead was more like a fivehead, and I wasn’t allowing her bangs to do their one job of hiding it.
Robin’s forehead was her only insecurity, and I’m determined for Ava to have none.
A key rattles in the lock on the front door before swinging open. Jimmy strides in, mid-cackle with a phone pressed to his ear. Strolling in behind him are my three bandmates, grinning at the video playing for Ava.
“Watching yourself? How egotistical,” Poe says cheekily.
“You’re one to talk,” I grunt back.
Poe is my lead guitarist, never caught without his signature fishhook earrings, pants that are tight enough to fist grip his balls, and one eye always on his own social media. The lovable Brit.
“I’m only watching because Ava wants to,” I say.
“Sure, you are,” Royce says, following Poe through the doorway. Royce is my bassist, and his voice carries the same low monotone notes leaving his guitar—a perfect fit for his sarcasm.
Dom, my drummer, only grunts in agreement. Dom is the opposite of his instrument. Silent. Only talks when necessary. He’s my oldest pal, and ever since I met him in Nashville, he’s let music express emotions for him. We have that in common.
Dom shuts the door, and the snap echoes off the white walls.
I never got around to decorating. I could hire an interior designer, but I don’t want strangers in my home with Ava around.
So now it’s mostly unhung frames leaning against my kitchen counter and the occasional colorful smear I’ve tried too many times to erase from the walls.
Washable markers, my ass.
Poe crouches in front of Ava, tickling her socked feet. “How’s my favorite girl?”
Behind us, Jimmy says into the phone stuck to his ear, “Right. Right, yeah, I think so.” He’s pacing in the kitchen, running a palm through his slicked-back hair. He’s stressed about 90 percent of the time. The gel is a lost cause.
Royce flops onto the couch and leans his neck over the headrest.
“Long day?” I ask.
He rolls his head over with a sigh. “Haven’t you gotten Jimmy’s emails?”
“Been a bit busy. Bad?”
Dom’s pointed stare says everything Royce doesn’t.
Poe fills in the gaps as usual. “The record label threatened to give our studio time to Beau.”
I scoff. “That asshole? Why?”
Poe waves his palms in the air, clacking his many rings together. “That’s what I’m saying!”
“He’s performing at the Grammys next month,” Royce says.
I shrug. “Okay. So am I. Why’s that matter?”
Jimmy strides over, pulling the phone away from his ear. “Because he has a new album,” he hiss-whispers into our conversation.
I grit my teeth and sigh.
Beau is the epitome of a musician who found fame too quickly. We had the misfortune of sharing a table with him at an award show two years ago. He stuck to us like glue at the after-party. I’m all for supporting rising musicians, but that guy?
Fuck that guy.
He didn’t tip the servers. He didn’t bother to recall anyone’s names.
He talked trash about everyone in the industry, including Dolly Parton, and who the hell talks bad about Dolly Parton?
We heard afterward that Beau publicly dumped his long-term high school sweetheart in some club. I wasn’t surprised. The ass.
If Beau can write a new album, then I sure can. I need to get my shit together. I need to snap out of…whatever this is.
Jimmy raps his knuckles on the kitchen island. “Uh-huh, well, I’ll need to talk to the big guy about that one,” he says. “C’mon, I think we can do it a bit later, don’t you agree? Get you some extra golf time in, huh?”
“Who’s he talking to?” I murmur to Dom. He shrugs, holding out a single finger to Ava. She pulls it, and Dom blows out a raspberry, sending her into a fit of giggles.
I give a wan smile. My bandmates are so good with Ava. When I brought her home one year ago, I was floundering. They helped me in ways I’ll never forget, and I’ve repaid them by not writing a single damn song. I don’t deserve this crew.
“Again,” Ava demands from my lap, shoving the phone toward me.
Royce snorts. “My kid won’t stop watching that video either.”
“It’s gonna burn her brain out,” I say, gently tugging my phone from Ava’s fists. They tighten for half a second. Her face scrunches up. I’m worried we’re about to have a breakdown, but her grip releases when a wrapped sucker dangles down over my head.
“A gift from Uncle Jim,” Jimmy announces, his phone no longer stuck to his ear. Ava takes the lollipop from him, giving me a passing glance as if asking for permission.
I sigh. “You can have the lollipop. Mind playing for a bit while Daddy talks with”—I grimace—“Uncle Jim?”
Jimmy being an uncle is laughable; kids are far from his forte. But he spends enough time here, along with Poe, Royce, and Dom, that all four of them may as well be family.
Ava crawls out of my lap and runs as fast as her chunky little legs will take her to the dumping ground of stuffed animals, plastic food, and coloring books.
I shake my head. “I don’t like her having candy, Jimmy.”
Jimmy shrugs. “Her baby teeth are gonna fall out anyway.”
Royce groans. Dom shakes his head. Poe cackles. Neither Jimmy nor Poe have a family. They’re married to their jobs, which basically means they’re married to me. I cringe at the thought.
I knock my chin toward the phone Jimmy tucks into his slacks pocket. “What was that about?”