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“Daddy, I want you to teach me how to play guitar. Teach me to sing, too,” Knox says as she sits across from us at the kitchen table. Her request seems to come out of nowhere, and it brings our dinner to a halt.
Spaghetti hangs from my fork in suspense as silence surrounds us. I stare at her, trying to figure out if I heard her correctly. I’m sure I did, and I realize that maybe we’ll never tame this musical monster inside of her. J.R. gazes back at Knox, too, but he has a smile on his face. He’s proud; meanwhile, my mind flashes forward twenty years into the future. Knox has a spiked, purple mohawk; she’s wearing a skirt that’s too short and heels that are too tall; and she’s doing a backbend over the piano bench flashing innocent bystanders in the process. J.R. was right. I do have an active imagination.
I know that J.R. and I decided that we would let our children grow up to be whatever they wanted to be. That’s easier said than done. I did nothing to discourage this path Knox is paving for herself, of course. I named her Knox Rose, for crying out loud. If that isn’t an album cover waiting to happen, I don’t know what is. Besides, J.R. makes the rock band life look normal. It’s not normal, but to Knox, it is. She’s going to grow up to be in a rock band, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
“I can teach you these things,” J.R. says. “Well, at least the guitar. Only way to learn to sing is to sing.”
“You play piano so well, Knox,” I say. “Why do you want to play guitar, too?” Normal parents would encourage such talent. I’ve never been known to be normal, though.
“I want to be like Daddy when I grow up. Have my own band. Travel the country. It looks fun.” She beams with an undeniable confidence. It’s a confidence that I can’t destroy no matter how badly I want to.
I drop my eyes to my plate and poke at the spaghetti with my fork. I’m trying not to let her know that this projected path scares the shit out of me. Band life looks like fun, but there’s so much more to life than fun. Right?
“It’s a lot of work, Knox,” J.R. says. “It’s not always fun.”
“You looked like you were having fun in the video I saw of you,” Knox points out.
That damn video. Damn the internet.
“I was having fun then, but think about the work I put into getting there. All of the hours in the studio, away from you,” J.R. says.
“Why do you do it then?” she asks.
I’m sure I’ve asked that question a million times, but I know the answer. He has to. He has to write, sing, create. An artist who cannot express themselves cannot breathe. Creation is necessary to their existence. It’s vital. It’s like water. It’s like food. It’s like air. It’s what gives them life.
“It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,” J.R. answers her simply.
Knox looks a little disappointed by his response. I’m not sure what kind of answer she was looking for. She looks up at him with her big, blue eyes. “I like playing music. It makes me happy.”
“Do what makes you happy, Knox. The world will tell you differently, but the value of life is determined by its happiness. I don’t want to reach the end of my life and find that I’m filled with regret. I don’t want that for you either.”
I know that J.R. isn’t wrong. Yes, I would like to see Knox take a different path. She could be a teacher, a writer, or maybe even a doctor. However, all I’ve ever wanted is for her to be happy, and if music makes her happy, then so be it.
“I want to sing. I want to create music. Just like you,” Knox says.
“Then do it,” J.R. replies with a smile. “I’ll teach you.”
Knox smiles wide. She’s satisfied, and I can see her scheming her next steps behind those blue eyes of hers. I glance at Amia. I wonder which path she’ll take in life. Will she want to have a rock band, too? I sure hope not. One of these kids needs to be more like me, but then there’s probably not much fun in that.
Later that night, J.R. climbs into bed next to me, turning off the lamp as he does. He pulls the covers over our heads, and I feel his lips against my bare stomach, chest, and neck. He kisses my lips, and I move my hand through his hair. We don’t say anything. We just lie there together, our lips connected, moving slowly at some unheard beat.
The air beneath the blanket is warm. His hands move across my skin so effortlessly, and I feel chills run down my spine. He pushes my shirt over my head, and then he slides my shorts off, too. I do the same to him, and then we’re lying beneath the covers together with nothing between us. It’s his skin against mine, and mine against his.
“I love you,” I hear myself whisper to him.
J.R.’s lips come back to mine, and he whispers against them. “I love you.”
I take his face in my hands, pulling him closer to me. I pull him as close as I can get him, and everything inside of me wants him to mold into my body.
We’ve made love more times than I can count, but for me, each time is different. Better than the last. It’s personal, and it’s fulfilling. It’s the way I think real, true love was designed to be.
There’s no question mark. There is no daydreaming of someone else to fill this spot. It’s exactly the way it should be. It’s fate. It’s security. It’s assurance. It’s knowing that out of all the people in the world, we found our way to each other. Not once, but twice. There was no amount of time, or distance, or problems, or situations that could keep us from finding each other again.
Fate doesn’t stop when we lose our way. It has a way of guiding our steps until we find our way back to where we’re supposed to be.
We all lose our way at one point or another. Bad decisions, influences, trauma. Whatever it is that knocks us off our course, there’s always a way back.
How did a boy from Tennessee and a girl from Georgia find each other in a place like The Handlebar in the Upstate of South Carolina? How did our paths cross at the exact same time? What are the odds? We aren’t in control of our lives, no matter how much we believe we are. Our steps are laid out before we’re born, and we follow them unknowingly. Even when we misstep, there’s another step that puts us back on course.
