Chapter Fifteen Your Right Hand
Chapter Fifteen
Your Right Hand
Griffin
“Daddy, play!”
I have my guitar on both knees and Ava sunk in my lap between them, reaching over the neck to pluck strings. She shifts the guitar into the sun, reflecting beams back in my eyes. I squint, pulling both her and the guitar into the porch awning’s shade.
It’s bitterly cold. We’re in multiple layers of long sleeves and coats.
My bare hands are red against the chill as I strum.
It’s too cold to be outside, but Ava was getting restless indoors and she kept eyeballing the Larks’ cat, Steak, out in the yard.
After the fiftieth “Cat!” I put her in a balaclava and gloves, and we both went to pursue the thing.
Steak left a while ago, hurrying through the flapping cat door in irritation, so now I’m the entertainment, sitting on the porch rocking chair with Ava curled into my chest and a guitar in my stiff, frozen hands.
“What should I play?” I ask. “The E song?”
“Puh!”
“Puh?”
“P!”
“Oh, the P song,” I say, grumbling dramatically under my breath, “the one that isn’t finished, huh?”
“Play!” she demands again with a grin.
I’ve been playing for Ava a lot lately. We found that gentle guitar—the kind where I’m aimlessly searching for notes—is the only way Ava can sleep, and that realization has been a game changer.
If Beverly hadn’t been there to make it happen, Ava and I would still be in sleepless limbo. Beverly’s done a lot for us.
I rest my chin on Ava’s head and play the chords for the P song I composed one hour before. I haven’t perfected the lyrics, but Ava helps me with “uppy!”—puppy—and “ano”—piano. The titular letter is still a work in progress.
Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had a pulse in my fingers for music. Lately, it’s been erratic, thumping on surfaces and patting against Ava’s legs as she rests in my arms. It’s a beat thrumming down to my fingertips, itching for more, more, more.
Sometimes it’s songs about the alphabet.
But sometimes my lyrics linger on thoughts of a woman with feathered hair. A woman with cold fingers tracing over the rough ridges of my warm knuckles—two contrasting worlds combined into one.
I like holding hands with Beverly.
I think about it too much.
She’s gentle and careful with me, despite me being a foot taller and twice her size.
She’s like that with everyone, though. Beverly is clear and patient when teaching Nana new technology, despite the frustration (—these phone upgrades are specifically to use against us old, wrinkly-ass—).
She’s attentive when she helps her brother study for tests now that he’s back in school.
She even takes that mouth-breathing dog of his on long walks when he’s trying to focus, even though Pudge is not really hers and he plops down on the wet grass halfway through the walk, demanding they turn back. She ends up carrying him.
Beverly has a softness that I don’t deserve because anytime Beau is brought up in conversation, I’ve gotten in the bad habit of saying, “Oh, that dipshit?” She always rolls her eyes with a smile, which is the only reason I keep doing it. If it bothered her, I would stop.
Reluctantly, though.
I dislike that dipshit more and more as the town slowly reveals the past.
“I remember that time you and Beau went dressed as the couple from The Shining for Halloween! He chased you with the axe too! It was so good.”
“Oh,” Beverly said. “Yeah, ha.”
The dick.
“He was so funny at prom. I swear he and Tori shut down that dance floor. I can’t remember—were you there that late?”
“No, I was in the theater. I was finishing up some set stuff,” Beverly said. “But that’s great! Prom king and queen had to dance together, so I’m glad they had fun.”
He was prom king without her? He danced all night with someone else?
“Play!” Ava demands, bringing me back and calming my blood pressure, which seems to skyrocket whenever I think of Beau.
“Sorry, munchkin.” I adjust my guitar and strum once more.
“P!”
“Yeah, P.” P for punch. Punching that asshole in his smug face.
After a couple of playthroughs, I check my watch. “All right, let’s get moving. We’re running behind. We’ve got to get you some lunch before B comes back.”
Beverly went to help her parents with their lunch rush since Greg caught a small cold. She should be back within the next twenty minutes, and we need to hit the ground running with work. It’s always work, work, work with Beverly. She needs to take breaks, but try telling her that.
When I set my guitar aside, Ava starts revving up to a whine, the type that resembles an emergency vehicle. For her, Daddy not playing his instrument may as well be a house on fire, and her heart is now burning.
“How about T?” I ask Ava, bouncing her on my knee. “T is for toast. Can you say that?”
Her pink face pinches for a moment. “Tuh…tote.” The word requires a push, but she does say it. Sort of.
“Good job.” I pull her into my arms and shake her side to side, causing an eruption of precious giggles. I live for these giggles, and they feel louder now. Rested.
I feel like I’m playing house. A pretend fantasy. Elk Grove is nothing like LA. Barely any cars. Nobody seeking me out. Sure, the temperatures aren’t ideal, but it’s quiet. Calm. I can see why Robin wanted this for Ava, rather than the fast-paced life of fame.
I stand, swooping Ava up and onto my hip. She grabs a fistful of my long hair with another giggle. I should have thought to pull up my messy locks, but oh well. It’s her lock of hair now.
“Totes,” Ava repeats.
“Attagirl. Toast.” I emphasize the stuh sound. She doesn’t bother repeating, momentarily distracted by the flash of Steak running past in the yard.
My back pocket buzzes. I set down Ava as I pull out my phone. I don’t know why I expect Beverly’s voice, but instead I get—
“Griffin, where have you been?”
“Oh.” My shoulders drop. “Hey, Jimmy.”
“Don’t sound so excited, big guy.”
“I won’t.”
“You haven’t called. You barely pick up.”
“Service isn’t very reliable out here.”
“Yeesh, how’s it going in those mountains?”
“It’s…relaxing.”
“With no service? Cannot even imagine.” A car honks in the background. “Hey, buddy, this is my lane! My lane, you asshole!” He must be in traffic.
“How are the guys?” I ask. “I haven’t heard from them much, aside from Poe reading books, apparently.”
“Don’t even get me started,” Jimmy groans. “He’s on some nonfiction kick.”
“Self-improvement?”
“World history. I don’t wanna talk about it,” he groans. I chuckle to myself. “But listen, they’re ready to go for you!” Jimmy has perfected the salesman voice. “And, get this, good news: People actually want interviews with you again! Especially you two.”
“Me and Poe?”
“No, you and Beverly!” he says. “The new it couple!”
My stomach clenches tight, as does my fist. “Says who?”
“Are you not on the internet? Griff, there are literally hundreds of videos with montages of you. Maybe more. Speculation! Fan fiction! You heard about that? You and Bev are a mystery.”
“Maybe let’s keep it that way, then.”
Jimmy laughs. “They want to know—” Another car honks. “Go! It’s your turn!” I rub my temples. Even this brief intrusion of LA is stressing me out. “Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, they want to know about your relationship.”
I feel my molars grinding. “I’m sure they do.”
“You seem mad. Are you mad? What’s the point of this whole charade if you’re not gonna show her off?”
“Show her off? She’s not a…” I kick the gravel and tongue my cheek. “Trophy wife.”
“Right, she’s a trophy girlfriend,” Jimmy jokes.
“Jimmy.”
“I’m kidding. Obviously, yes, of course she’s not a trophy wife. She’s a puppeteer.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He whines. “Griffin. Help me out here. You’re tossing me mixed signals. Do you want to show her off or not?”
There’s an uneven silence. It’s one that Jimmy would normally break himself, but I can tell his gears are turning.
“Griffin, this looks real good for you. I mean, jeez,” he says. “At least tell me you’re taking her to the music awards.”
The sound of popping gravel comes from the end of the driveway. Beverly’s massive station wagon bounces down the road, kicking up dirt. Behind the windshield, she gives a grinning wave that has my lips tilting up at the corner of my mouth.
Jimmy groans and repeats, “At least tell me that, Griffin.”
I’m not sure how to respond. It’s one thing to fake date in a small town for a thrift-store owner, but it’s another thing entirely to fake date on the red carpet. In the public eye. On television.
Beverly wouldn’t want to go to an award show. She likes being behind the partition, playing someone else. It would be a lot to ask of her. Robin didn’t want it, either—for her or Ava.
I run a palm over my beard. “I haven’t asked.”
Beverly parks and jumps down from the front seat.
She’s in yet another ’70s fashion statement: high-waisted pants and a ringer tee with the faded face of Bernie Bird smacked on the front.
She runs around to creak open the passenger door.
Too many things fall down in her arms. A tote bag, her coat, a Tupperware container, and then the familiar haphazard lump of cobalt blue feathers: Bernie Bird.
Ava runs across the driveway as fast as her tiny legs will take her and barrels into Beverly’s leg. Beverly gives out an exaggerated “Oof!” making Ava laugh. Bernie Bird’s feathers float in Bev’s face. She blows out a breath to get them out of the way.
“Hey, A. Want some snacks?”
“B!” Ava says, pointing up to Bernie.
Beverly shakes the Tupperware. “I’ve got pancakes and eggs.”
Ava’s eyes brighten more. “Cakes! Hi, cakes!”
Beverly meets my lingering gaze, knocking her chin toward the house and mouthing, I have food.
I nod and hold up a finger as if to say Be there in one second.
Beverly leads Ava into the house. The door shuts behind them with a snap.
“Let’s think about something else then,” Jimmy says and clears his throat. “The album. You’ve written a song or two, I hope?”
“Just mostly brainstorming. But I’ve written a song about the letter E.”