Chapter 7
EVERETT
“What do you think?”
I swivel the desk chair away from the turntable I’ve been staring at for several hours.
Will’s shoulder is tipped against the studio doorway, his arms folded across his chest. Same shaggy hair that curls at the tips, same worn jeans, same comforting smile.
The only thing that’s changed about my closest childhood friend is the smattering of dark hair across his face.
Even if it’s patchy in places, the beard suits him.
I don’t know how to answer his question. I slipped into some kind of trance the moment I walked in here. There’s a lot I’m still taking in about the space. Like the round wool rug in the center of the room that looks an awful lot like the one that once sat beneath his grandmother’s kitchen table.
“She’s into pawning everything she owns lately.” He rolls his eyes when he catches me looking at it. “I think they’ll take it if you schedule a garbage pick-up.”
With the way his mouth bends down at the corner at the mention of Delilah donating their things, it’s bothering him.
“You want to talk about it?”
His brow arches. Will and I don’t do this sort of thing—talk about our feelings. Maybe it’s my way of apologizing for always keeping everything inside when we were teenagers.
“I think she’s sick,” he blurts.
I stand. A reflex that has him straightening his posture too. I walk toward the couch, and he follows. “I’m sorry, man. Is there anything I can do?”
He shakes his head. “You know her.” Stubborn is what he’s implying. Even if he pressed her on it, she’d tell him, I’m old, and old people are meant to die.
“I just came over to say thanks.”
I stare at him quizzically. “I should be the one thanking you.”
His eyes map the acoustic foam paneling and the gallery wall of records above the sofa we’re sitting on. They trail across an ergonomic desk and high-fidelity speakers. Land on the microphone and guitar. “This project has kept me busy.”
When Will and I graduated high school, he did the opposite of me.
He dove headfirst into a five-year college program.
Graduated with a Master of Science from the University of Idaho in architecture, started his own company, and grew it to a four-guy crew before I ever signed with my record label.
Based on that, I figured he was doing well.
I don’t love the forlorn look on his face that tells me he’s not.
“You’re incredibly talented, man. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to do it but you.”
He nudges my shoulder. “It’s the fancy sound equipment. Makes any space look good.”
I chuckle. “Well, they definitely know how to go overboard, that’s for sure.” The two dozen boxes on the back patio I need to break down for recycling day is evidence of that. “But Emma was right all those years ago. You’re good with your hands.”
The tips of his ears pinken at my mention of the comment she made about the front porch swing he built for Delilah when she lost her husband. Or maybe it’s the compliment. The guy’s never been great at accepting flattery from anyone.
“As Rhett Dawson’s oldest friend, do I get to hear his latest hit?”
It’s funny hearing him call me that when he’s one of the few people who ever use my first name. Someone who knows more about Everett than Rhett.
I rub a thumb against my jaw. He opened up to me; I owe him one.
“There is no latest hit.”
He studies me, waiting for an explanation.
“I’ve spent all morning in here. All of this pent-up stress, it’s blocking me creatively, and I don’t know how to get rid of it.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Sounds to me like you need to get laid, man.”
I roll my eyes. “You sound like my manager.”
It’s definitely something Todd would say, but not Will. I haven’t spent much time around him since I moved to Nashville, but I know he wasn’t with anyone when I left. I think he should take some of his own advice.
“Well, I just wanted to stop by and make sure you liked the space, but I should get going. Delilah got the Halloween boxes down today, and she’s hell-bent on going through them before I leave tomorrow.”
I squint at him. “It’s April.”
“It’s Harrison Boulevard. I know you’ve lived in Tennessee for a couple years now, but you couldn’t have forgotten that much about this place.”
Live bands, packed streets, king-sized candy bars, and an endless night of noise all come to mind. People plan and prepare early. A couple of years isn’t long enough to forget what this place is like on Halloween night, or any other day of the year for that matter.
“Nope. Haven’t forgotten.”
Will makes his way to the door before looking over his shoulder.
“This was nice,” he says. “Why didn’t we ever do this growing up?”
Because I wasn’t ever honest with you. His question is loaded with a million hidden moments that make up the latter part of my youth.
He was there. We did everything together.
We’d raft the Boise River. Ride mountain bikes in the foothills.
Mess around with my guitar in this very loft.
But we never shared our problems, and something tells me he’s kept a few secrets of his own over the years.
But I want it to be different now. Hell, I wanted it to be different back then. Different has always been my problem, and I never planned on dragging him down with me. Will had a hard enough time being the nice guy who finishes last. I didn’t need to add to that.
“You’ve always been my closest friend.” I hope that’s enough to convey that I’ve given more of myself to him than anyone else without having to admit that, even now, I still can’t fully be myself around him. “Thanks again for doing all of this.”
“Glad I could help.” He opens the door. “I got a couple of small jobs out in Emmett the next few weeks. I was wondering if you could check on Delilah while I’m gone.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, man. See ya.”
He disappears down the stairs while I try to pinpoint the emotion buried behind his tone. Frustration? Sadness?
I never got the impression that Will wanted to stick around Harrison Boulevard any more than I did.
But he’s also the most loyal person I’ve ever known.
He would lend a hand to anyone who needed it.
If Delilah wanted to donate her things or go through her Halloween decor months early, it’s not in his nature to withhold help.
I pick up the guitar leaning against the corner of the room and find a seat on the sofa. The gravity of a blank page pulls me under as I close my eyes and hope for my first melody.