“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“What for?” I asked, changing lanes. “It was bound to happen someday. Honestly, we’re lucky to have stayed together as long as we did.”
“So? That doesn’t make it any less shitty for you,” she said. “Have you considered joining another band?”
I released a heavy sigh. “Not really. I don’t think it would feel right. Midnight in Dallas worked because we had such a solid foundation as friends. The idea of starting over…I just don’t think I can do it.”
“Fair enough,” she said, and after a few beats, she asked, “Do you think you’d ever move here? You know, on a more long-term basis? Or do you have family elsewhere you might want to live close to?”
I shook my head. “All of my family’s here.”
“Really?” she asked. Her tone was content and casual, as though we were discussing the weather. “Did you grow up here or did your folks move here?”
“No, I mean the guysaremy family,” I said. “I…I don’t have anyone else.”
She frowned. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“It’s okay,” I added. “You couldn’t have known.”
“Are they…” she trailed off, her eyes resting on me. “Are your parents still alive?”
I sighed. “I don’t know.”
She continued studying me, waiting for me to speak again.
“I went into state custody in Kentucky when I was ten. My father went to prison when I was about seven, and I guess it was too much for my mother to handle because she wasn’t sober for another minute of her life after that. I tried to hide it and take care of her, but eventually, one of my teachers caught on,” I said, focusing intently on the traffic in front of me as the GPS spat out directions.
“Luca…”
“I grew up in a group home until I eventually aged out of the system.”
“Fuck,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “It wasn’t an ideal upbringing, but the people that worked for the home helped me learn to be independent from an early age. By the time I graduated and found a job, I at least felt prepared to be on my own. While some kids were going on vacations with their families or playing sports, the house manager, Mr. Fink, was teaching me and the other kids about budgets and how to do things for ourselves.”
“He sounds pretty great.”
“He was,” I said with a nod. “He’s the one that got me into playing the guitar.”
“Did he teach you?”
“He taught me some,” I answered. “But once I mastered the basics, he said I needed a real professional. When I was thirteen, he introduced me to his aunt Gladys.” I couldn’t help but smile at the memory.
“Gladys?” she asked. “Did Gladys have a last name or was she like Prince?”
I chuckled. “It was Hibbert, but she was one of those people whose energy was so big she didn’t need a last name.”
“A legend,” McKenzie said.
“In her own right. She was a retired music teacher,” I said. “She was pushing sixty at the time, and she chain-smoked cigarettes like she was single-handedly keeping big tobacco in business, but the woman could rock out like Hendrix.”
She laughed then, and I glanced over, catching the way her nose crinkled when she smiled.
“That might be the coolest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said.
“She was the best,” I said. “She taught me everything. Don’t get me wrong, she was also a hard-ass and made me practice seven days a week. If we were working on a piece and I messed up, she made me start from the beginning over and over again until I got it right.”
McKenzie’s eyes widened.
