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“And then she said, ‘I hope you are, baby.’”
My chest tightened uncomfortably.
“She came to my room later that night and told me she’d go to the festival.” She choked on another sob. “She even asked me what she should wear.”
The sobs turned into a humorless laugh. “I picked out the fucking outfit that she died in. Imagine that. And my stupid ass was so happy that she was coming that I didn’t even apologize. I just started telling her what to wear, the set list, and where she could stand so she’d have the best view.”
“Sugar…”
“She died thinking I thought she was a bad mother.” I pulled her closer. “She died thinking I didn’t love her.”
I shook my head. “No. She didn’t think that.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t know exactly what she was thinking that day,” I admitted. “But I know she spent fourteen years loving you. One argument doesn’t erase fourteen years, Sugar.”
Her chin trembled.
“And you didn’t make somebody drink and drive.”
“But if I hadn’t said those things, she wouldn’t have come.”
“Maybe not,” I said quietly. “But wanting your mother to see you perform isn’t the same as wanting something bad to happen to her.”
She stared at me for a long moment before breaking again. “I was so mean to her.”
“You were fourteen, Sugar.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“No, it isn’t,” I agreed. “You said some hurtful things, but I know your mother wouldn’t want this for you. She wouldn’t want you to torture yourself forever.”
Her eyes filled again.
“Your mother’s number one priority was your safety. She loved you so much that she was willing to go against everyone, whether that made her look like the bad guy or not. I didn’t know your mom, Sugar, but I’m sure she’d want you to do whatever made you happy, whether that’s brewing beer or performing in front of a sold-out arena. She died, but that doesn’t mean your dreams have to die with her.”
She wiped her face on my sleeve. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s anything but simple; real work is never simple. Don’t bite my head off, but talking all this out with a therapist may help.”
“Yeah,” she whispered.
The knot in my stomach finally unclenched. There was a fifty percent chance she’d reject, and I didn’t want that for her. I didn’t want Vera to keep denying herself happiness because she felt she owed a debt.
“I don’t know if I could ever get back on stage,” she said.
“Then don’t.”
Her eyes flickered to mine. “Seriously?”
“I’m not going to convince you to return to Obsydian Trip. I meant what I said. If you want to spend the rest of your life making beer, I’ll still be your biggest fan. But if you wake up one morning and decide you want to play the drums again, I’ll be there for that, too. I’d be in the front row, embarrassing the shit out of you.”
“Fanboy,” she teased.
I sighed and pulled her closer. “You have no fucking idea.”
She smiled and leaned forward, resting her forehead against my chest. We stayed like that for a while—neither of us saying anything. I was perfectly content to lie there holding her until she decided what she needed next.
