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“Hi. Amalia, right?”
“That’s right, Mr. Savage. I’m making myself tea. Would you like a cup?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I take a seat at the large kitchen table and watch her putter for a long moment. As she approaches with two steaming mugs, I say, “You remind me of my grandma. She loves tea.”
Amalia takes a seat after placing a steaming mug in front of me. “Are you close with your grandma?”
I nod. “She’s the one who raised me.”
“And look at you now. She did a fine job.” She blows on her steaming tea. “Is your grandmother still alive?”
I nod. “She’s really sick, though.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she recovers.”
“The chances are low. But she’s a fighter. We still have hope.”
Amalia puts a hand on mine. “I’ll pray for her. What’s your grandmother’s name?”
“Maria. But I’ve always called her Mimi, rather than grandma.”
“I’ll keep Mimi in my prayers, Mr. Savage.”
“Thank you. Call me Adrian.”
She smiles warmly. “Are you able to see your grandmother very often?”
“As much as I can. She lives in Chicago. I visit about once a month, whenever I’m not on tour. But I FaceTime her almost every day. I sing to her or tell her a story. She likes seeing my face. The medicine she takes gives her weird nightmares.”
She touches her chest. “Oh, bless her heart.”
I bring my mug to my lips, but the tea is too hot to drink. “I offered to take the year off to hang out with Mimi while she’s in treatment,” I say, “but she was adamant she didn’t want that. She insisted on getting to watch me ‘being a rockstar.’ She loves that I’ve been touring the world. Performing for huge audiences. She collects every interview and magazine cover.”
“She must be so very proud of you.”
“It’s all because of her. She bought me my first guitar when I was twelve. Our first Christmas together. She thought making music would help calm me down. Help me work out my anger issues. I was a handful back then.”
“All the more reason for her to be proud of you now.”
“Honestly, she’d trade all my success with the band to watch me settle down, get married, and give her a great-grandkid.” I chuckle. “I told her, ‘Sorry, Mimi, that’s not gonna happen. At least, not any time soon. A kid can’t raise a kid.’”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six. But, see, when you’re in a band, that’s like being eighteen or nineteen.”
“Like dog years, only in reverse?”
“Exactly. Dog years make a dog older than their chronological age, and ‘musician years’ make a guy younger, in terms of emotional maturity. Especially if he’s the lead singer or guitarist. Double points if he’s both, like me.”
She chuckles. “Why is that, you think?”
I shrug. “Lead singers, at least the ones like me, always get the most attention. Everyone tells us we’re gods among men, so we start believing the hype. In my case, it’s especially hardcore because my face and body are a big part of our branding. We shamelessly sell me as much as we sell the music.”
“That sounds exhausting to me.”
“It’s fine. I was born with this face, so might as well make money off it. And I’d work out, anyway, because I like being fit. I’m sure I’d drink more and eat more crap if I didn’t feel like my looks were a big part of the job. I’m actually glad I have good reason to stay healthy and take care of myself.” I lean in. “I’ve got some self-destructive tendencies, Amalia.”
“Oh, dear. Well, I’m glad you know that.”
I blow on my tea. “Honestly, I’m always one tick shy of becoming a train wreck.”
“Why is that, Adrian?”
“I don’t know.”
“If things are happy, you don’t trust them?”
“I think that’s a fair statement.”
“If things are happy, you start testing them? Poking at them, trying to test your theory they’re not as happy as you think. And then, by poking at them, you ruin them?”
I waggle my finger at her. “Hey now. Get outta my head, woman.”
She laughs.
“That’s probably why I don’t even have a permanent place to live. I feel like I can’t sit still. Whenever I’m not touring, I live in a hotel or in my best friend’s spare room.”
“Oh, dear. I’d go crazy if I didn’t have a place to call home. I love staying in hotels for vacation, but in my real life, I need security and consistency.”
“I don’t care where I live. When I was little, I slept in a closet, literally. And when I moved in with Mimi, we lived in her tiny, shitty apartment in Chicago. The place was the size of a shoebox! Want to hear something amazing? When I moved in with Mimi, she didn’t even know I existed before then. My ‘father,’ her son, hadn’t even told her about me because he was too ashamed he’d gotten some random chick, my mother, knocked up. But Mimi took me in, anyway, even though she barely had two nickels to rub together and certainly wasn’t planning on raising a wild little asshole at that point in her life.”
