The song is demanding, butdelightful, and I can’t help but laugh when Patty speeds up. “Brat!” I say.
“Keep up,” he challenges.
From the corner of my eye, I see the door open, and in walk my parents. I’m too focused, too caught up in the music to do more than smile at them, and when my dad grabs his Martin D-28 off the wall and starts flat-picking along, Patty grins like a wolf. Next, my mom grabs her Gibson F-5 mandolin, and her fingers dance over the strings in crisp, percussive chops that fill in the rhythm.
And of course, because my dad is my dad, he forces the pace even faster. Patty leans into his guitar to match the driving rhythm, while my mom and I get closer, our hands and fingers flying over our instruments, making the air itself dance around us like sparks from a bonfire. When my dad whoops, Momma and I look over and laugh, and that’s when Patty and I lock eyes.
And suddenly, I feel a connection that defies anything I’ve ever felt before. Without any sort of plan, I know what he’s thinking, where his music is going—just like he knows where mine is.
I rip a fiddle break, high and wild. He answers, adding bluesy bends and fast runs. Each riff is complementary, designed not to challenge but to enhance. And the longer we play, the strongerthe connection grows, until I’m having more fun playing than I’ve had in my life.
My entire life.
No performance has ever compared to the exhilaration and unspoken harmony of playing with Patty. My parents, too. The effortless flow and raw joy are like nothing I’ve experienced.
And somehow, I’m certain Patty feels the same way.
When the song reaches the end, we all play our final note and hold it until the exact same moment. And then we all burst out laughing.
“Wow, kid,” my dad says, putting down his guitar to hug me. Mom hugs me next. “You’re better than ever.”
“Thanks, Daddy,” I say. “You, too.”
“And Patrick,” my dad says, holding out his hand for Patty to slap and then bump in that way guys always seem to figure out. “That was some quick picking. I almost couldn’t keep up.”
Patty chuckles, putting his guitar carefully on a stand near his stool. “That’s generous of you. But we both know it’s the other way around. I’ve wanted to play like you since I was twelve.”
My dad looks genuinely touched. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“Y’all, Patty went to NECM. And it shows, don’t it?” I smile and grab a water from the mini fridge. “But it’s fine. I’m not embarrassed to be the second-best musician on my own tour or anything.”
“Nice try. You played every instrument on your album,” Patty says.
I toss him a water, then hand one to each of my parents. Patty drains his quickly.
"Is that a triple forte tattoo?" my mom asks Patty, catching a glimpse of the ink with the curved edges. And now I want to kick myself for not having seen it before.
Patty looks at thefffand then slowly lowers his arm, like he’s trying to keep cool. "Uh, yeah." He pauses, and I almost want to prod him so he’ll keep talking, but his eyes flash to mine before returning to my mom’s—like he already knows what I’m thinkin’. "I was in a band in college, and the lead singer and I thought it would be cool to get tattoos that only music nerds like us would get."
My mom laughs. "What did it mean to you?"
"Exactly what you’d expect. I thought I wanted to live as loud as possible. It couldn’t be more different from how I feel now."
"Louder isn’t always better," Momma says.
"What did the other guy get?" Dad asks. "The lead singer of your college band?"
"A fermata."
Dad cocks his head to the side, his fingers sliding up his guitar as he strums. "The symbol? So you got a tattoo about living life to the fullest, and he got one saying that he was, what, taking a break? Pausing longer than usual?"
"Waiting, I guess," Patty says, and the sadness in his voice strikes like dissonance.
The conversation shifts, and my dad keeps strumming, but my mind is caught on Patty’s words. On the way he used to be. On what changed him. And then, because I can’t stop myself, I let my walls slip further, just for a second, and wonder …
What was he like back then? When he wanted to be loud?
Patty starts playing the first notes of another song now, and it takes me a second to recognize it, because of the subtle differences he’s putting into it.
