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After a few rings, a young girl’s voice answers.
“Hello?”
I have no pulse when I recognize the voice.
I just grin like the demented freak on a mission I actually am.
For someone so used to pushing people around like chess pieces, it’s weird feeling like a pawn.
There’s no denying the fact that Milah Holly maneuvered me pretty deftly, and if she gives me another shot with Callie, with fixing the gaping hole in my soul, I could fall down and kiss her feet.
“Easterly?” I say, then add, “Natalia.”
“That’s me...who are you?” She sounds suspicious.
“Before I tell you my name, please hear me out without hanging up. Please. Milah sent me.” I hope that will keep her on the line.
“Milah? What do you want?” she asks quietly.
“I think I know how to help you, Natalia. I know a way to keep you safe and make sure the man who’s hurting you will never, ever make you cry again.”
25
The Blues Are Always The Roots (Callie)
I never expected to be back in Chicago again so soon.
I haven’t wanted to even think about Chicago, when everything about it is now tethered to the worst heartbreak of my life.
But when Dad said his big comeback show was coming together in record time...
How could I miss out?
I just didn’t expect to get roped into being part of it.
Sitting on a stool in his basement studio, I focus on tuning the guitar he’s loaned me.
I’m like a fish out of water. I haven’t played much since high school, but the fingers never forget.
It’s not hard to remember the chords to Dad’s breakout hit, “Four Times in Love.”
It was the first rock song I memorized when I was a kid. I should be able to accompany him, at least, adjusting the song from a rock power ballad to a harmonized duet for acoustic guitar.
If I don’t start stammering on stage, I think bitterly.
Ugh.
I'm lucky modulating notes requires a different set of vocal skills, and I can usually keep my stutter under control. It hasn’t shamed me too much the last few days, either.
Throwing myself into helping Dad prep and soothing his own concert jitters has helped get my life back together. It feels like maybe, somehow, I can pick up and move on.
I can still have some semblance of me.
But my mind loves to wander.
Like right now.
With Dad playing counter-harmony to the chords I’m strumming, I know where I am—back with Roland and Barrett Osprey.
Sitting next to his brother, playing the piano together, singing the words Barry taught me, and looking up at Roland watching me with wonder in his eyes.
Like I was really something.
Something big and precious and beautiful enough to mend his broken world.
There’s a tiny, annoyed part of me that wonders if there really was more than a flicker between us.
He chased me across the country to New Orleans, didn’t he?
Roland’s not the kind of man who wastes that much effort on a silly fling...
...would he?
No. Nope.
That’s where I stop. Because if I carry on, I’ll start moping and wishing and what-if-ing instead of focusing on my life, rebuilding my career from ashes.
“Callie.”
I blink, lifting my head.
Oops. I accidentally stopped singing, and now Dad’s watching me with that concerned look that’s so disconcerting now that it’s so clear-eyed and penetrating.
Dad’s present again, sober and sharp. That means he’s a little more observant than I’d like him to be sometimes.
And right now, it’s like he’s reading my mind as he says, “Zoning out over that asshole again, huh?”
I wince.
“No. Maybe. Yes. Dad, it’s a process.”
“I’m well aware,” he says dryly. “Do you need a frigging twelve-step program for that media man?”
A quick, startled laugh slips out of me.
“I might. Going cold turkey isn’t working.”
Although I’ve been doing pretty well with no contact.
I haven’t peeked at the Chicago Tea website even once.
Mainly because I don’t want to know if he rode the bandwagon for the traffic and leaned into his own sordid reputation. Knowing Roland, he could twist the story into a new pitch to his next wave of sponsors.
“Ah—ah, you’re getting that faraway look again, young lady. Come on back,” Dad says. “That dude’s a snake. Not worth a penny in your head. Worse, he’s a damn desperado. Pathetic. That stunt he pulled...it’s all shit for ratings, I’ll bet. If he really meant it, he’d tell you to your face.”
I blink. “Tell me what?”
Dad pulls the weirdest expression—this sort of cartoonish face-twist like a burglar who just got caught in a bank vault. He ducks his head and clears his throat loudly, suddenly oh-so-focused on his guitar.
“Nothin’. Not a thing.”
I open my mouth.
Then shut it again so hard my teeth click.
Nah. Better not to ask.
I don’t want to know.
Only...I totally do.
But I’m going to hold out. Stay strong.
I’m thinking about Dad, right now.
He was strong enough to break his addiction to a substance wrecking his life.
