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When Andie appears to be satisfied, the melody of a song hushes the rest of the room. She clears her throat and finds me along the wall. The smirk that takes over her mouth makes mine tip upward. All eyes are on her.
“I thought I’d treat you all to a little musical snack.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes like the one that appears when she’s teasing me. “Sometimes the only thing you can do is show people who you are and hope they believe you.” She turns to the girl and winks.
Andie’s fingers work together in rhythm with the guitar, and a song takes form. Her voice starts out soft and gentle, but whenshe hits the chorus, there isn’t a person in the world who could ever say this woman can’t sing.
I listen to every word, knowing it comes from her soul. She sings about being called a rebel and being afraid. She says she was covered in lies and hidden from the truth.
As I listen, so much of this song speaks to me. It could have been written for me. Standing in this room with these people who only want one thing from me–to perform. What’s left of me when it’s over is up to me. If I let them, they’ll take it all, and I’d be left with nothing resembling the man I want to be.
Andie’s voice pushes through my thoughts as she sings about being dragged through hell, but it only making us stronger. She talks about wearing our scars and calls me out. “People can talk, but Pretty Boy, they’ll never know.”Her eyes meet mine as she tells me she can’t teach me how to live, but she’ll fight when I’m standing on the ledge.
It’s exactly what she’s doing. Even now, in this room full of people judging her and thinking the absolute worst, she’s standing up for herself. She’s living and speaking her truth, regardless of what anyone thinks or says–no matter how many people in this room would like to see her crumble and fall.
When the final chord fades, half the people clap, holler, and whistle. She only climbs down and hands back the guitar. She hugs the girl, saying a few words before heading straight for me.
“Nicely put,” I say as she stops before me, a small smile on her lips. “I especially liked the mention.”
She bows her head as if saying, ‘You're welcome.’
“Want to get out of here? Tacos on the way home are my treat.”
Her eyes widen, a grin replacing her smile, and it’s the real deal. “Heck, yeah.”
______
“After wading through the muck of Morgan’s lies, I think this might be the best taco I’ve ever eaten in my life. I bet this is what the woman who swam the English Channel felt like. I bet she thought about her favorite food the entire time she was in the water.”
Andie sits in the passenger seat of my truck with her legs crossed, lifting her taco to her mouth to take another bite. “If I ever get stuck on an island, someone needs to make sure there’s a taco stand.”
“You’re ridiculous. No one could or should eat tacos every day.” I take a bite of my own taco.
She raises and lowers one shoulder. “Well, good thing I don’t like you. I really don’t care what you think. I’ll eat tacos as much as I want, and if you judge me, well then, that sounds like a personal problem to me.”
She takes another bite, talking around the food in her mouth. “When I was pregnant with Ax, I couldn’t stand anything spicy. I seriously cried about it one night. It was like all the good things in life were gone. Alcohol, sleeping, walking without feeling like I was going to pee my pants, nachos…”
I stare out my window, imagining all of the things that probably made her cry during that time, and it causes a dull ache in my chest. All of the things she went through, things no one should have to go through, and she did it alone. I’m very familiar with the feeling, but finding out she was pregnant after losing her husband and not having the support of her family had to be traumatic and extremely scary.
She crumples her wrapper, tosses it into the bag, and turns in her seat to face me. “Can I ask you a question?”
Her voice is soft, and I know this isn’t some flippant question to give me a hard time. I’ve only known Andie a little while, but Iknow her well enough to know this is a personal question I may not want to answer. It doesn’t mean I won’t, but there are certain things I just don’t talk about.
I finish chewing and toss my own wrapper. “Do I have the option not to answer it?” I try to cast some light on whatever is coming.
I feel her eyes roaming over me as I take a drink. “Sure.”
“Ok, then.” I glance at her, bracing myself against my seat for whatever she wants to know.
“You said tonight that you entered the system as a baby.” She pauses for just a second before asking her question. “Do you know anything about your parents?”
My instincts weren’t wrong. This is at the top of the list of things I don’t like or want to talk about. A couple of years ago, it would’ve been an easy answer. ‘No’ is a quick response, but now that’s not the truth.
I keep my eyes averted, knowing I can’t and won’t lie to her. I also know telling her would be ok. I know it wouldn’t change our non-friendship, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t look at me differently because of it.
Tonight, when Mrs. McNeil started giving me the pity face, I know Andie saw it too and changed the subject. How many people would recognize that, and if they did, be sensitive enough to step in rather than stand there waiting for the answer themselves?
I screw that cap on my water bottle, deciding I can trust her. “There are a lot of days that I wish the answer to that question were no, that I don’t know anything about them. The truth is, I don’t know much, but enough.”
I see her shift in her seat out of the corner of my eye like she’s settling in, all ears.
