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“You always say that.” She pouts.
“Okay, well, this time, I mean it.”
“Knox, you aren’t missing anything. Really,” I tell her.
“Is that so?” J.R. smirks at me only looking slightly offended.
I wink at him. “Maybe we’ll stop by later with lunch for the boys. How about that?” I suggest to Knox. J.R. only had to mention studio once to one of the other band members, and they all arrived in town the following day. It’s an addiction—this music making business.
“Works for me,” J.R. says. “Knox?”
“Fine.” She sighs. “I want to play the piano.”
“You want to do a lot of things today, don’t you?” J.R. asks her.
“I’m just bored. I want to go on the boat.” She’s being a little whinier than usual, and I chalk it up to exhaustion. We’ve been home a few weeks, but I think we’re all still adjusting.
“We’ll find something to do, Knox,” I say, beginning to get annoyed with her. “You should go, J.R. You’re going to be late.”
J.R. leans in and kisses me. “I love you.” He kisses Amia in my arms. “I love you.” And then he kisses Knox’s cheek. “I love you the most.”
Knox hides a smile. “That’s a lie.”
“No, it’s not,” J.R. argues back.
Knox blushes a little, and then she wraps her arms around his neck. “Go make music,” she says to him.
“I’ll see you at lunch.” Then he’s gone.
After he’s finished in the studio, there will be a tour. There is always a tour. Even when J.R. says there won’t be a tour, there’s a tour. Even more so, it’s summer, and that means music festival season. Music fests are worse than normal tours. It’s a lot of late nights, zero sleep, and alcohol. It’s wild, hot, and literally insane. J.R. always comes back from those looking like he’s aged a few years and smelly.
43
“J.R., we have to talk.”
I tell him this through the phone between gritted teeth because he is six hours away getting ready to perform at a music festival in New Orleans. I’ve grown to hate summer. It’s music festival season; and although he’s not officially touring, he and the band have been festival-hopping for four weeks. I doubt it’s a good time for a heart-to-heart, but I feel like this can’t wait.
“Rach, it’s not a good time right now. Can I call you back?” He’s shouting over music playing in the background. I imagine he’s had about four beers already; his long hair is probably soaked in sweat—the bandana around his head is, too; and he’s probably got the buttons of his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest to allow for a breeze.
“You should probably make it a good time,” I say, my tone flat.
I hear him sigh, obviously flustered; and then after a bit of rustling, the background noise is gone. I suppose he found somewhere quiet to go.
“All right, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” He sounds agitated.
“There is a video of you circulating the internet,” I tell him. “It’s from two nights ago in Tennessee. One of Knox’s friends showed it to her.”
I hope he knows what I’m talking about, but judging by the video I saw, there’s a good chance he won’t remember.
“I’m not following you, Rach,” he says. “Just tell me what I did wrong.”
I roll my eyes, and I push my hand through my hair. I don't really know where to start. Knox hasn’t been the same since she saw the video, and I’m not sure who I am most angry with—J.R. for acting like a teenager or Knox’s friend for showing her that video. I guess I can’t be angry at either of them. We could have done a better job of letting Knox see J.R. perform. Maybe then, she wouldn’t be so traumatized. The kid has been walking around like a zombie for the last four hours. She’ll definitely need therapy when she’s older.
I sit down at the kitchen table, reclining back in the chair. “You got a little insane, J.R. I mean, the video was pretty intense. You know I don’t care, but we have children. I’m pretty sure Knox is going to need counseling after seeing that. Plus, it cost her a friend.”
“Can you please tell me what I did?” J.R. asks impatiently. He definitely doesn’t remember.
“Where should I start?” I say back.
