Page 201 of The Comedown

“Yeff!”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yeff!” she screams with a bounce in her knees that obviously helps project her little voice even further than if she hadn’t. Obviously.

“Sister wants to go and you know what that means,” I say to Holter, grinning as innocently as the actual Virgin Mary.

Now he’s the one rolling his eyes, mumbling, “Brother has to go, too.”

“Damn right.” I lift Lyric up by her armpits. “Besides, it’s not every day you get to see your mom perform onstage for thousands of fans.”

“It literally is though.”

“Your brother’s attitude stinks,” I tell Lyric, and she plugs her nose, blanching like she can actually smell it. She’s the fucking best. I had no idea kids were this fun. Holter used to be, too, until his balls dropped and he stopped caring about anything other than girls, football, or the car his mom and I bought him for his sweet sixteen.

Sweet, my ass. Holter took off without a backward glance the second those keys touched his palm, sending Collette into a crying fit for three days straight.

Truthfully, he actually is a good kid. He gets good grades, he’s the starting quarterback for his new high school, and he’s on track to get a full ride to basically any college in the country that has a football team. Kid never even gave me any shit for slipping into dad-mode back when I married Collette either, probably because he was just happy to finally have one.

I always said Bodee Keys was a fucking bum. I really hope he’s hating his time in the clink. He’s only got a few more decades left.

“And it’s not every day. Only Friday nights, Saturday nights, and Sunday afternoons after Sunday morning crepes!” I yell up at Holter, chuckling when he shakes his head.

Tonight was the homecoming game and Holter didn’t make court, so he’s pissy. His ex-girlfriend did though along with one of his good buddies. Hollywood drama’s got nothing on high school drama.

I smile thinking about the video I got of it all. I’ll show it to Collette later, making sure to add my own commentary to the teenage reality show we clearly live in. I never miss a game and I record them all, whether Collette makes it or not. She tries to catch as many as her schedule allows, but it’s harder for her because she gets mobbed by fans wanting photos and autographs. You’d think after living here for the last couple years, the locals would be used to us by now.

Turns out there’s more to Vegas than just shotgun weddings because not long after ours, Collette landed a residency here, and we’ve been living the desert life ever since. Her show on the strip only gets bigger and better each year she’s signed on, even through two pregnancies. It’s true what they say, what happens in Vegas, does stay in Vegas. At least we did.

Mary comes down the stairs, cradling what I assume is my swaddled newborn son but could easily pass as a bundle of blankets, and scolds Holter for leaving the water running.

“Hey,” I say before Holter can disappear in the bathroom.

“What?”

“What’d Morrison say when you guys shook hands after the game?” Jake Morrison is the quarterback for Holter’s school’s biggest rival, and he and Holter don’t get along for shit. Naturally, I hate him and his dad. I’ll probably have to put him in a chokehold or something. The dad, not the kid. Unless he’s eighteen already…

Nah, just the dad. Holter can handle his own.

“The usual.”

“‘Tell your mom thanks for last night’?”

“Yep.”

Motherfucker.

“You oughta kick his ass next time yinz play them.”

“Bad language,” Mary tsks.

I jerk my head back like I do every other time she says this shit, telling her, “But, Mary, bad language is the only language I know.”

“You write beautiful songs and those are the only words you know?”

“You think my songs are beautiful?” That might be the nicest thing she’s ever said to me.

“Then you’d have to kick every guy on my team’s ass because they all say stuff about Mom,” Holter says, getting us back on track with what matters most—my wife. Who loves my dirty mouth, by the way.