Chapter Four The Guitar Guy #2
“It was the record label demanding more music from Griffin Harvey,” he says, taking a seat on the couch. “Surprise, surprise.” He crosses an ankle over his knee, narrowing his eyes. “Y’know, their patience is running thin, big guy.”
I lean my forearms on my knees. “Yeah, I know.”
“Please tell me you’re making progress on something. Anything. And why are you at the piano? That doesn’t look like your guitar to me.”
“I’m just trying something new.”
“Nobody wants piano stuff, Griffin. You’re the guitar guy.”
“Yeah…” The words drift off.
“Y’know, for a musician, you sure don’t like to write music anymore.”
I shoot him an exasperated glance. “I do. I write stuff every day. Just…not stuff you can sell.”
Songs cycle through my mind as I’m making Ava breakfast, as we count to ten, and when she needs to eat more broccoli. I have a perpetual twitch in my fingers from the imaginary chords I’m strumming, like my hands long for a beat to play. But they’re not hit singles. They’re kids’ songs.
Jimmy’s eyes widen. “What are you talking about? Of course I can sell anything you write. I don’t care how bad it is.”
“Well then, I have a new song for bubble baths,” I say.
Jimmy blinks. “Pardon? You what?”
“I have a song for bubble baths, picking out clothes, and eating broccoli.”
“Bubble baths,” he repeats.
“I’m a dad, man,” I growl out. “If I can write a song about diapers or how to braid hair to get some music out of me, I will.”
“But nobody wants to hear that,” Jimmy says.
“My point exactly.”
Poe barks out a laugh. “Honestly? People would probably hear you sing about your last shi—”
Poe is interrupted by calls of “Stop” and “Hey” and “Little ears, Poe!”
Poe cuts a look to Ava, then shrugs. “Your last turd, then,” he corrects. “They’d hear Griffin Harvey sing anything. You’re a rock star.” Even though he says it with a cheeky grin, I cringe.
“Rock star,” I echo. “God, I hate that term.”
“Famous,” Poe amends. “Is that a better word? People want more of you. They’ll take what they can get.”
I shake my head, thinking of the slew of interviews. The What are you wearing? and What’s your go-to tour snack? and Who are you dating?
“They already know too much,” I grumble.
“Well, they don’t know everything,” Jimmy says.
I flick my eyes to Ava instinctually, in her own little world on the mat, stacking blocks haphazardly with her feet tucked under her bottom. She’s at peace, just as she should be.
“And we’re gonna keep it that way,” I say. It sounds like a threat because it is.
Jimmy nods in agreement, not ruffled by my direct tone.
I’d strangle the first paparazzo who caught wind of Ava’s existence, and so would my bandmates.
But Jimmy would too. He’d at minimum find a way to raze the photographer’s reputation to the ground.
Jimmy might be a sleazy shark, but he’s our shark.
Ava’s mom wanted her to live a normal life. It’s unfair that Robin couldn’t be the person to give that to her. Robin’s laughter would have been better for Ava than my busy schedule. But we live with the cards we’re dealt, and I wouldn’t trade Ava for the world.
I miss Robin. I knew her for less than two years, but she always looked at me the same way Ava does now—with familiarity, like she’d known me forever. We were a one-night stand that turned into a long-distance friendship built around the precious baby of ours growing inside her.
I proposed to her at one point, which feels ridiculous in hindsight.
Robin wasn’t looking to start a life with me, and she insisted I wasn’t in love with her either.
She was the type of woman who wanted her garden, her paints, and her daughter.
I was never more than the secret coparent, but I was prepared to give her my entire life if she’d asked—right up until she lost hers.
It was an accident. A routine bicycle ride gone wrong.
Someone wasn’t paying attention to the winding road or the bike lane beside them.
Here one moment, gone the next. I fought for custody, but it was too easy.
Robin and I were unfortunately cut from the same cloth.
Her parents didn’t want to be involved in her life, either—not even for their new grandchild.
I haven’t seen or heard from them since the final court date.
The first few months of full custody were hard.
The boys and Jimmy stepped up when I was too grief-ridden and confused to do it by myself.
Dom has three girls, so he taught me how to braid hair.
Royce gave me his son’s old picture books.
Poe, a successful culinary school dropout, cooked us meals most nights, setting aside leftovers when he couldn’t.
Jimmy took on the sole responsibility of ensuring nobody asked questions about Ava.
He hires a different nanny each month, parting ways around the time she seems interested in who the famous parents might be.
They say it takes a village to raise a child.
These guys have been more like an entire city, and I love every goddamn one of them for it.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss Robin.
Sometimes I swear she whispers in my ear at night.
Though it’s mostly along the lines of Get up and make breakfast, you sad bum.
Also, our daughter wants a Barbie. Buy her one.
Ava giggles, pulling me back to the present. At some point, she snuck back to our circle of conversation. Poe hands her his phone with the Bernie Bird video pulled up.
“Dude,” Royce says, smacking the back of Poe’s head.
Poe sits on the floor with Ava curled up close. “But I wanna watch it too,” he argues with a grin, winking in my direction. “You cutie, you.”
I roll my eyes.
“Daddy?” Ava asks.
“Yes, munchkin?”
“Again?”
“Yeah, all right.”