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I looked at the pictures set here and there in the big room. There were lots of them taken here at the plantation. All featuring us kids, with only a few of my dad, and he was always in the background. In the shadows. As if he didn’t feel he was a part of us. When had that happened?
Had we, us girls, us crazy, loud, girls, pushed him away without realizing?
“No,” I whispered to myself. “You never wanted to be part of us, and that sucks, because it’s all I ever wanted.” I paused as a wave of sadness washed over me. “I just wanted to matter to you.”
I pulled one of the heavy throws from the sofa and sank into the plush rug in front of the fireplace. I leaned back against the sofa and stared up at that guitar and the record that meant so much to my father. I stared at it for so long, my eyes blurred, and then I realized I wasn’t alone. When I knew I could speak, I did.
“I don’t know my dad. Not really. I know he grew up in this house. I know he hates peas, because I hate peas. I know he’s allergic to penicillin, because he wears this silver bracelet that says so. I know he likes to bang girls half his age and that he prefers single malt whiskey over beer. I know that when he’s on stage, he never plays a guitar with new strings, because I heard him tell that to his guitar tech once. But none of those things are important. None of them matter, not really.” I closed my eyes and exhaled. “I mean, why does he hate peas? Is it the taste? Is it the texture? Or does he just hate the color green?”
I didn’t have to open my eyes to know Boyd was in front of me. I felt his hand on my cheek and leaned into it, thinking that I could get used to this. To his touch and feel and smell.
“I don’t want…” My eyes flew open as I looked up at Boyd. “I don’t want him to hear me sing.” I looked away, up at that damn record again. “I don’t even know why, Boyd. I just don’t. I mean, I had years and years of wanting him to notice me. I did so many things I’m not proud of because I wanted him to notice me. To see me. And if I do this… If I let you guys release those songs and tell the world it’s me…”
“He’ll see you.” His voice was quiet and calmed that part of me that was ramping up.
“Yes. I don’t know how it will feel. I don’t know if I could handle it.” My voice caught. “It sounds so silly, and hearing it out loud is embarrassing.”
“No. Feelings are never silly or embarrassing. They just are.”
Boyd’s eyes were so dark, I felt like I could disappear inside them forever. I nodded, unable to answer because there was a large lump of emotion caught at the back of my throat.
He slid onto the floor beside me. He’d pulled on his jeans but was shirtless.
“When was the last time you had a conversation with Axel?” he asked, staring up at the guitar.
I shrugged. “Honestly? I don’t remember, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was when his mother died ten years ago. Just before he met your mother. I remember I came downstairs because I was thirsty, and I heard something. He was in here, alone with a bottle of whiskey that was nearly empty, and he was staring up at this record on the wall.”
I took a moment as the visual flooded my brain.
“I remember how hard his breaths sounded when he exhaled, like he was squeezing out every inch of pain inside him. He looked at me, his eyes were red like he’d been crying or something, and he told me…” My voice caught, and I had to take a moment. “He told me that if he could change places with his mother, he would. Said he’d never get out alive anyway, so what was the point? I remember telling him that he had me. That I was the point. That so were Harmony and Lyric. He looked me straight in the eye and didn’t say a word. Then he threw his bottle of whiskey at the fireplace and left me there.”
I could still feel the pain of that day. The rejection I’d felt and the emptiness in my father’s eyes. He’d always chased demons, but I’d never known how big they were. And that was the thing about my family situation. I still don’t know. How could I help him fight something when I didn’t know what that something was?
“I get how you feel, Echo. Families have a way of leaving scars, and even though they fade, they’re always there. Seems a shame, though,” Boyd said, drawing me into his arms. “To keep all those gifts you have locked away.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I kept quiet. We sat there, the two of us, for who knows how long, staring up at nothing. But it was long enough for the sun to come out. Long enough for Marta to get the coffee on, because I could smell it. Long enough for our cocoon to break.
Zach wandered in and took one look at us before raising an eyebrow and plopping his ass on the sofa two inches away. “Took you two long enough.”
“Fuck off, Gilbraid,” Boyd replied, though he didn’t sound like he meant it.
“Echo, what are we doing with those tapes?” Zach leaned forward, and I couldn’t ignore him anymore. He was starting off hot like a dog with a bone who wouldn’t give up.
“Fuck the hell off, Gilbraid.” Boyd was serious now and sat straighter, glaring at the man beside us.
Zach held his hands up. “Hey, I’m just asking.”
“She doesn’t want them out.”
Zach ignored Boyd and fixed me with a look that told me just how screwed up he believed I was. I couldn’t argue with him there. “You write songs and you play guitar like a damn dream. What the three of us did in that studio yesterday is something that doesn’t happen often. Hell, most musicians go through their entire lives without doing what we did. So tell me, Echo, what the hell are you so afraid of?”
I had to hold Boyd back because he was going for Zach’s throat, and I didn’t have the mental capacity to deal with a full-on battle in the family room.
“Like I told Boyd. I don’t want anyone to know. It’s my secret. Something I can keep just for me.” Total bullshit, but I was hoping Zach was buying.
“I don’t buy that for all the damn tea in China.”
Guess that would have been too easy. Gilbraid was, if anything, one of the sharpest knives in the drawer. His mouth clamped tight, and he shook his head, muttering under his breath. Then he nailed me with another look.
