AllFreeNovel
Share Us
So tonight was the first ever fundraising benefit for my new music program. I’d started a charity that would provide schools across the country with the learning resources, instruments and music teachers to host free after hours music classes. And then as an extension, every semester I would be awarding fifty scholarships for students who showed talents, but were from disadvantaged backgrounds that prevented them from pursuing a career in the arts.
I’d hand selected the first round of recipients, sifting through application upon application of kids telling me how much music provided an outlet from their shitty home lives. And it was all the confirmation I needed that I was finally on the right track.
Seeing the disbelief on the faces of the people who had been chosen, when I’d Skyped to personally congratulate them, I knew I couldn’t miss out on tonight.
It felt therapeutic, a way to help my younger self heal from the hardships I’d faced. I guess knowing that in some way I could be the one to help navigate that trauma for even one individual, made it all worth it.
26. “Fast Car”
Grayson
A few months ago
“Come on, Graaay,” Violet whined, channeling every ounce of attitude an almost twelve-year-old girl could muster. My head pulsed with the combined assault of the ungodly hours and the distinct absence of caffeine. Violet had strategically waited until I was at my most vulnerable, stumbling bleary-eyed into my kitchen before sunrise. She knew I could barely function in my pre-coffee state, needing at least three cups to feel human, and she was trying to use it to her advantage. If she’d been banking on my reluctance to engage in a debate when I was this cranky, she had another thing coming. Time for some tough love, kid.
“Violet, for the fifteenth time, no. You’re not heading to the movies at night with Jace, let alone being driven there by his seventeen-year-old brother who I’ve never met. Do I look like I have the word “sucker” tattooed on my forehead? In what world does that sound like a solid parental decision?”
“Sally’s mom said yes! Why can’t I go?” she yelled in response, immediately going from zero to a hundred.
I turned toward the coffee machine, refusing to give into the urge to yell right back, and instead contemplated my options. There were several classic responses I could have gone with—the timeless “if Sally’s mom said she could jump off a bridge” spiel, or the whole it’s past your curfew argument. I briefly considered the outdated notion about boys having ulterior motives, but I discarded that just as swiftly, the concept not sitting right with me. She was still very much a child and she behaved as such. I never wanted to shatter her innocence by insinuating that she couldn’t have friendships with boys—I wholeheartedly believed she could and should. I coached Jace and he was a good kid. But I also couldn’t, in good conscience, let her hang out with his strange, almost adult brother alone.
In retrospect, this should have been a moment of connection between us. A chance for me to impart the harsh realities of the world in an age-appropriate way, and to reassure her that I was doing my absolute best to keep her safe, even if it meant making the less “fun” choices. But it was five-thirty in the fucking morning, and frankly, I just didn’t have time for this.
So instead, my mouth decided to take a different approach without my permission, uncensored words falling out in the worst possible way. “For fuck’s sake Violet, I said no. There is no way in hell I am letting you get in a car with a complete idiot that I don’t even know. Need I remind you that your parents were killed by a teenager who was driving drunk? Do you want to die too? Huh? After everything I gave up for you, I would have thought you’d be a little more grateful. I’m not trying to ruin your life or whatever other bullshit you want to come up with. You’re the only person I have left and I’ll be damned if I lose you too!” My voice escalated with each word, the anger boiling over.
The ensuing silence was suffocating. My head throbbed, and I berated myself for losing my shit. Way to go, Gray. Stellar performance. For the millionth time, I questioned why anyone in their right mind would entrust me with the responsibility of raising another human when I myself was a walking disaster.
The sound of sniffles behind me pierced through my heart like a dagger. Before I could even turn around to confront the aftermath, I heard rapid footsteps on the wooden floor, followed by the resounding slam of a door, rattling the kitchen windows.
And the “Parent of the Year” award goes to…
The weight of indecision bore down on me. Should I let both of us simmer down for a bit, or should I dive right in and grovel profusely with my apology? I knew I’d have to eventually and so might as well go through with it immediately, but what on earth could I say that wouldn’t make her feel even worse?
How could I even begin to explain that my outburst was the culmination of a tangled web of emotions, stretching back to before she was even born? That despite loving her fiercely and being willing to lay down my life for her, I also harbored resentment. I wanted her to have a better life than I did, yet I found myself jealous of her greatest worry being whether she could go to the movies with a boy she liked. How could I explain the loneliness and sorrow that threatened to engulf me some days? The burden of single-handedly shouldering the responsibility of fatherhood, without anyone to share my fears and anxieties with, felt like I was drowning.
How could I explain that opening the stack of mail last night, only to find a restraining order from Colton Ray’s legal team, had been my breaking point? That all the years of yearning, heartache, and regret had been tempered by the hope that one day I could make amends for my mistakes. It had been that hope that had pushed me to finally mail my journals that I’d kept ever since he left to his address, my final attempt at making contact. Seeing in stark black and white ink that Colt wanted nothing to do with me anymore left me questioning the direction of the rest of my life.
All this time, I’d operated under the assumption that Colt’s manager had been the barrier between us, keeping me from successfully reaching out to him. I had convinced myself that a direct conversation with Colt would mend our relationship. It hadn’t occurred to me that Colt might have been the one to task Carl with ensuring he didn’t have to deal with me. Yet, there it was, at the bottom of each page of the legal document—Colt’s signature. The sight of the elegant cursive transported me back to another era, a night that felt like a million years ago now.
Colt lounged at our little round kitchen table, feet propped up on a chair, chin resting on his knees. He was scribbling away in his notebook, likely jotting down song lyrics judging by the piles of torn and crumpled pages surrounding him and the adorable furrow between his brows. However, Colt glanced up as soon as he heard my footsteps, a sure sign he wasn’t engrossed in writing. When Colt got lost in his creative process, not even a bomb could tear his attention away from his work.
“Oh good, you’re back,” he greeted me with a grin. “I need your opinion because I’m struggling here.”
“What are you working on?” I asked.
“Well, so you know how you’re always telling me to dream big and I need to manifest and blah blah blah?” he began.
Cheeky little shit. “Sure, and?”
“So, I realized that when I go to get my driver’s license next week I’m going to have to put a signature on my paperwork. And then I realized I don’t have a cool one. And you know who needs a cool signature?” he teased.
“Musicians?”
“Bingo!” he confirmed, snapping his fingers. “I mean, in the highly unlikely event I ever get to the point someone asks me for an autograph, I don’t want something boring or that takes five minutes to write. But then I felt stupid even thinking that far in the future because as if I’m ever going to be asked for an autograph. I’ll probably end up working as a paper pusher in some dead ass job and will need an actual adult signature, not a wannabe rockstar one.”
Colt’s lack of faith in his talent always hurt me. Even tone-deaf, it would be impossible to deny the sheer brilliance of his raw talent. He liked to tell me I only thought that because I was biased, but after I coerced the team into listening to him sing, he’d had to eat his words. Those guys wasted no time, immediately brainstorming and Googling how to get him an audition for America’s Got Talent.
I refused to accept that Colt couldn’t see his own talent. Even his songwriting skills had the power to move grown men to tears. I think it mostly came down to his ingrained belief that all the good things in his life would inevitably be ripped away from him. He feared that if he were to actually pursue his dreams, it would end up with him losing the one thing that kept him sane during all of the hard times.
