“You boys make sure to include Maya,” Mom told them, opening the sliding glass door for them to fly out. “Well, I guess we’ll do the dishes.”
“Would you like me to hold him?”
“Oh, uh . . . that’s okay.” She took the baby to the bouncer in the corner. “We’ll let him jump around.”
“Okay.” I pretended like that didn’t sting. Had Brooklyn told Mom under no circumstances was I allowed near her baby? Was I really such a monster?
Maybe that stagehand had been right. Maybe I was a bitch. Maybe Mom and Brooklyn were afraid I’d rub off on the innocent.
“Can I help?” I asked as Mom opened the dishwasher.
“No, we’re good. We’ll just play and have fun until the kids have swimming lessons this afternoon.”
Outside, the kids’ laughter rang loud. Colin and Evan were chasing each other around the playhouse while Maya sat on a swing, kicking her legs.
My God, Colin was like Graham. They had the same features. The same laugh. Nan hadn’t told me just how much son resembled father.
Nan had been the one to call and tell me that Graham had a baby. A boy. Everyone, including her, had kept the pregnancy a secret. At the time of her call, I’d had an airplane ticket to fly home and surprise everyone for a weekend visit. I’d saved up for months.
Then she’d called, and the minute we’d hung up, I’d ripped those tickets in half.
And I’d spent the past seven years pretending like that phone call hadn’t happened. That Graham hadn’t made a child with another woman.
A beautiful, sweet child who might have been mine in another life.
My headache came roaring back with a vengeance as I stared at them through the glass. The caffeine and pain pills had kicked in, but the thought of an awkward day with Mom, around Graham’s tiny clone, was too much.
“Mom, can I borrow your car?” I asked, turning away from the kids.
“Uh, sure. Why?”
Because I’m suffocating. “I just wanted to explore town a little. See what’s different.”
“Well, I, uh . . . I need the car—”
“It’s okay.” I waved my hand, already walking through the room. “Never mind. I’ll just take a walk.”
“Quinn . . .”
She spoke, but I was already dashing upstairs to get some cash from my purse and a pair of sunglasses. I swiped a black hoodie from my suitcase and tied on my favorite pair of Chucks. I shoved my drumsticks into my back pocket, then I was gone.
The moment the door closed behind me, I let the air rush from my lungs. The tension in my shoulders eased with every step away from the house, and after a few blocks, the pain in my head was nearly erased. I wandered downtown, leisurely strolling up Main Street. Only two or three shops from my youth were still in business. Most had been replaced and renovated with kitschy stores geared toward the tourists who came flocking to Bozeman each season.
My hometown wasn’t as rugged as it had once been. There was a primness to the quaint atmosphere, likely driven from the influence of outside money. But it was still home, peaceful and charming.
The air was cool and crisp, not yet hot this early on a June day. I let the sunshine warm me as I walked up one side of the street, then down the other, exploring slowly until hours had passed and I steered my feet toward home.
My phone buzzed in my pocket on the way, and I pulled it out to see a text from Harvey.
Progress?
“No, Harvey. No progress.” I shoved it away without a reply.
I loved our producer, Harvey, but lately he’d been driving me insane with his constant check-ins.
Once I got home, I’d lock myself in my bedroom and attempt to write something, anything, to appease him for the rest of the week. I didn’t need his stress on top of my own.
The sidewalks were empty and I hummed a melody to myself, matching its rhythm to my strides. It was crude and I only had a few notes, but it was a start. While Mom was at the kids’ swimming lessons, hopefully I could tinker with it on the piano.
I hummed it over and over, committing it to memory by the time I reached home.
“Hello?” I called without a reply as I wandered to the kitchen.
Mom had left me a note on the island.
Went to the park to play before swimming. Be back by three thirty.
I sighed and went to the piano in the living room, glad for the solitude. The Yamaha upright was clean but seemed lonely. It was no longer the focal point in the living room, having been shoved into the far corner to make room for a larger TV. The tall, black back held photos on top. The bench seat that slid under the keys looked to have been hiding under there since I’d left. Didn’t anyone play anymore?
I sat down and raised the lid, running my fingertips across the smooth ivory. A shiver ran down my spine. There was magic here. There was music. It danced in my hands as I splayed them over the keys and pressed down slowly to play C major.
There was a tang to the chord. A slight hitch that reminded me of countless hours of practice. This piano didn’t have the smooth tone of my concert grand, but I liked that it gave the notes character and a bite.
Its edge fit my mood and I dove in, playing song after song. My eyes drifted closed as the melodies filled the house and consumed my mind.
I didn’t bother flushing out my new song in favor of the old, familiar songs I’d written with Jonas and Nixon in the early days. We’d had so much freedom and fun back then, so I played the songs that had never found their way onto an album. The songs the label had deemed not within our brand. They were rough and raw and fun. They reminded me of simpler times. Of easy laughter and gigantic dreams.
So lost in the music, I didn’t realize I had an audience until a throat cleared behind me.
I spun around, gasping, and found my father’s face. “Oh. H-hi.”
“That was . . .” His expression stiffened, only slightly, but I’d seen that look enough to notice the censure.
“That was what?” Loud. Harsh. Noise. Those had been his favorite words to describe my music.
“That was, uh . . . different.”
Fair enough. He wasn’t wrong.
Dad walked to the couch and took a seat, his shoulders slumping forward like the weight on them was too much to hold up any longer.
The clock beside him showed it was nearly four. I’d been playing for hours. “Mom must have run long with swimming lessons, huh?”
“I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”
“How are you?” I asked.
He lifted his head and gave me a sad smile. “I wish your Nan was here to help make this easier.”
Me. He meant to help make it easier with me. Nan had always been our go-between and mediator, long before I’d moved to Seattle.
“I wish she was here too,” I confessed. So, so much.
“I met with her attorney today and went through her will.”
“Alone?” If Mom had been watching the kids, who’d been with Dad?
“Walker and Brooklyn came with me,” he said. “I stopped by to see if you were here but . . .”
I’d been on my walk, and he hadn’t bothered to call.
For nine years, my grandmother had called me every week without fail, sometimes numerous times in a week. After those first three weeks, my mother had found a way to dial my number, breaking her silence.