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“You only want to be married because it’s what you think you’re supposed to do. The next logical step in your life. You make these rules for yourself, and they are so confining, Bren. Can’t you see that? No one is making the rules for you. You get to make them yourself.” She pauses then adds, “So fucking change them.”
I laugh. It’s not quite as black and white as that.
“I want it all, Mom. And I want it with her. I want the wedding, the marriage, the kids.” I swirl my hand in the air around us. “The vacation home in the country. That’s the life I want for myself and my family.”
“So have all that minus the wedding. Why are you being so uncompromising about this? What are you afraid of?”
“Something Sofia said.”
Mom stays quiet while I form words.
“She said she wants us to be together because we choose to every day, not because we have no way out.” I pause to take a deep breath. “I guess I feel like without the marriage, she’ll want to leave at the first sight of someone better. And at the end of the day, I want what you and Dad have. That’s the bottom line. Something everlasting. Reassurance. Comfort. Knowing it’s for life.”
“Brenner, I could leave your father tomorrow if I wanted to. Or he me, for that matter.” My eyes snap to her, and she nods. “Our marriage certificate is no reassurance of that. Divorce wouldn’t be all that difficult for us if that’s what we really wanted.”
“Please don’t tell me you are separating. I don’t think I can handle it right now.”
“No,” she laughs. “That’s not what I’m saying. Marriage is no guarantee of forever. Love is.”
I let that thought sink in. I do love her. And she loved me back. I wonder if she does still.
“Besides,” Mom says. “If it were today, I’m not sure I’d marry your father—”
“What?” I gasp.
“It’s all so terribly archaic, don’t you think?” she asks. “We’re not chattel.”
“Mom, I can honestly say you would love Sofia. Two peas in a pod. Seriously.” I shake my head.
Mom sets her empty glass on the table and hands me one of the pieces of paper. “This one’s good,” she says, looking down at the song.
I smile at her. “Thanks, Mom.”
“This has got to stop, Bren. I thought you’d lost over a year of your life, but I see you’ve been working, so that’s good. But I need you to move on. It’s up to you if that’s with Sofia or without, but whatever you decide, you will take this week”—she runs a hand through my long beard and tugs on it—“shave this god-awful thing, call Roger, and set up some recording sessions. Work on your next album. Take it slow and make it good. But start seeing people again. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And get a housekeeper for this place.”
I wince. “I will, Mom. I promise.”
“And you’ll think about what I said?”
I nod and watch her leave. I sit in the kitchen alone for an hour thinking about what she said. She’s fucking right. Why is she always fucking right? It’s so annoying.
I run upstairs to shave my beard. I’m looking at myself in the mirror, watching my transformation back to my former self, and I know one thing for certain. I’m going to get Sofia back.
But first, the album. She needs to know I never stopped thinking about her, and I need to apologize. I will record and dedicate the album to her and let that be my apology.
* * *
Months later,we’re all in the studio listening to the mastered cut of the last song. Fritz is like a little kid at Christmas. Karl is smug as fuck, as if this album were a given, and even Adrian has surprised us all by cracking a smile.
The album is good.
I told them I’d agree to record so long as we don’t tour. Not for a while. As soon as the album releases, operation Get Sofia Back commences.
“Since we’re not touring, why not start writing music for the next one? We have enough songs for at least five albums,” Fritz says. Roger’s eyes sparkle with greed.
