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“All righty then.”
He pulled away from the curb, leaving Mom standing until she faded from our view, and the ride began in silence while I cursed her for mentioning that woman.
Lennon.
In the two weeks since I'd last seen her, after finishing the final song to complete what would be our next studio album, I had successfully kept my mind from drifting too far in her direction. Other than the brief blip of memory every now and then when my guard was down, I’d started to believe I was finally on the path toward forgetting she even existed. Just like every other woman I'd been with.
But I’d also forgotten I'd made the mistake of telling my parents I was seeing her, and Mom could never let the possibility of a love life or grandchildren go that easily.
After stopping at a gas station and filling the tank, Dad climbed into the car and began to drive away when he said, “So, are you excited to record a new album?”
I nodded, reaching over to scan through the radio stations. “It'll be nice to get back in the studio, yeah.”
“Will probably make things feel a little more normal again, huh?”
Pursing my lips as I jabbed at the buttons, I thought about that word—normal. My normal had changed the moment I spun out during a rainstorm. Ever since, I had tried to grasp on to some semblance of the past, to feel like my old self again, all while knowing it would never be.
The old me had died in that accident. He’d had two legs. He’d had more confidence in his little toe than I could scrap together in my entire body. That guy could sleep with a different woman every night for two weeks straight, and never once would he grow attached.
That guy was gone.
“I don't even know what normal is anymore, Dad,” I muttered, settling on the tail end of Lord Huron's “The Night We Met.”
He pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. “You'll figure it out, Dylan,” he replied, his voice full of empathy. “One way or another, you’ll figure it out.”
“And what if I don’t?” I challenged, turning my glare and tightened jaw toward the window.
“Ah, but see, I don’t think you’ll have a choice in the matter,” he went on, speaking like a wise man. “One day, you’re just gonna wake up and realize everything’s good, everything’snormal—whatever the hell that means. And whether you make the conscious decision to let it happen or not, it’s just gonna happen. Because that’s life, Dylan. But if I know you the way I think I do, you’ll let it. You’ll figure it out.”
***
Greyson Clarke-Morrison lived in a farmhouse that would’ve made the Waltons jealous.
The place was three stories tall with a full, finished basement, complete with a music studio. His yard was equal parts garden, pool, and play area for his twin daughters, and the two-car garage had been converted into a guesthouse for when the group of us came to stay.
It was an experience to be there, and the fact that his husband, Zach, cooked like a gourmet chef was a definite perk.
They could open up a solid B & B and make a killing.
If the music thing didn’t work out, I mean.
“Can I get you’s anything?” Zach asked Dave, Simon, and me, all of us roasting marshmallows on a night that would’ve been too cold if it wasn’t for the roaring fire we sat around. “Somethin’ to drink?”
We collectively shook our heads. These guys had already gone above and beyond by opening their home for the night. If any of us needed a glass of water, we could get it ourselves.
“No, thanks, man,” I replied, speaking for us all. “We’re good.”
“You sure?” he asked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder toward the house. “’Cause, yo, I just brewed up a batch of my old man’s famous iced tea, if you’re at all interested. It’s fuckin’ amazing.”
After growing up, working at Greyson’s in-laws’ restaurant, the man had opened his own in town, maintained this sprawling house, and managed to raise two little girls. Where he found the energy to brew any iced tea at all blew my mind when I couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs these days without getting winded.
“Thanks,” I said with a grateful smile. “I’ll get some in—”
“Dylan, man, just let him feel useful,” Greyson grumbled, coming down the brick path to the built-in stone pit. He took a seat in one of the Adirondack chairs and kicked his feet up. “He’ll just keep asking if you don’t.”
With a glance at Zach, still waiting expectantly, I said, “You know what? On second thought, I think I will take some of that iced tea.”
“Yeah, same here,” Simon said, lifting his hand, as Dave chimed in, “Me too.”
