Love Song(98)

Hurt shadows his eyes. “Why not? Because you’re a year older than me?”

“No, I don’t care about that. I care about our friendship. You’re one of my best friends. I would never want to lose that.”

“Hooking up doesn’t mean we’d lose it.”

“Hooking up always means you lose it.”

My own words suddenly echo in my head, evoking a pang of concern. Because if that sentiment is true, what if getting involved with Wyatt just cursed us to a lifetime of awkwardness? Our families will always be friends. That means he’ll always be in my life, for better or worse.

Which is an even better reason not to add Beau into the mix.





Chapter 36


WYATT





MY DAD IS ONE OF the best people I know. I think that’s why the idea of disappointing him has always filled me with crippling anxiety. My whole life, I tried so hard to love hockey the way he loves hockey, but it’s just not it for me. Never has been. And that has created a disconnect between us.

The worst part? I’m good at hockey. Naturally athletic. If I sucked, at least Dad would’ve been relieved I wasn’t out there embarrassing myself on the ice. Unfortunately, I’m talented enough that if I’d put in the work, I probably could’ve gone pro. I played in high school mostly just to make him happy.

But music is what called to me. By the end of tenth grade, I finally told him I was quitting the team. And because he’s a good dad, he didn’t freak out. Didn’t try to talk me out of it. He simply said I needed to follow my own path. I should’ve taken that as proof he supported me, but there was always—and still is—that niggling doubt. That fear I’ve let him down. It’s in the back of my mind nearly every time we’re together.

This morning, we’re working out in the basement gym, Dad spotting me as I lie on the weight bench, lifting heavier than I usually do.

“Damn,” he says with a whistle. “Didn’t realize you were going so hard this summer.”

“I mean, there’s not much else to do.”

My summer routine has been pretty consistent. Write music, swim, nap, work out, fuck Blake. Repeat.

“Thanks for watching out for Blake while you’ve been here,” he says as he sets the bar back on the rack.

I sit up and roll out my shoulders. “Wasn’t much of a chore. She’s great.”

“When are you heading back to Nashville? Still aiming for the end of the summer.?”

“I think so. But maybe not Nashville. That producer, Tobey Dodson, works out of a New York studio, and he’s back in town in September.”

“How are you for money?”

I rise from the bench and walk over to the shelf of towels that Houseman Henry comes every few days to launder and replenish. I swipe one and mop up the sweat on my neck.

“I still have a lot left in the trust,” I assure him. “Plus the money I make gigging and the cash I’ve saved from all those construction jobs. To be honest, I’ve barely touched my trust.”

“That’s good. Getting paid for gigs means you’re a real musician.” Dad winks at me, but I don’t miss the spark of pride in his gray eyes.

“Yeah. And I make a decent amount on streams and the videos I upload using my ad account.”

“Well, if you need any help from me and your mom, just let us know.”

I nod, but I don’t plan on asking for help any time soon. I’m turning twenty-five in two months. I shouldn’t be accepting handouts from my parents anymore. But I appreciate the offer. Not everybody has a safety net like I do, and I would never take that for granted.

We’re done in the gym, but before I can go to the stairs, Dad says, “Hold up. I want to show you something.”

We bypass the screening room and game area toward what used to be a huge storage room. Now it’s a gaping space, all the contents moved out.

“This is where I want to set up your mom’s studio. I was hoping you could help me out with it. Pick out equipment and whatever else she needs.” He looks sheepish. “I could build you a hockey arena with my eyes closed and fill the locker room with everything you’ll ever need, but this isn’t my forte.”

What I love about my dad is that he’s not some blustering macho man who pretends he can do everything. He’s able to be humble. Probably because he grew up with a parent who didn’t know the meaning of the word. I never liked my grandfather. The rare times we saw him, he came off as phony. Manipulative. I’m reminded of what Blake said about Isaac being shiny. That was Phil Graham too. Shiny on the surface, and then you look closer to find he’s all scratched up.

“Sure, I can help.” I wrinkle my forehead. “But wouldn’t it make more sense to just ask Mom what she wants?”

“I would if it wasn’t a birthday surprise,” he says with a grin. “She has no clue what I’m up to. I recruited Houseman Henry to empty out this space. He’s been moving boxes all summer into the boathouse storage room, a bit at a time.”

“All summer? How have we not seen him even once?”

“He’s like the wind,” Dad says solemnly.

“For real.”

We spend the next ten minutes walking through the room, going over the logistics of installing a music studio. Later, Dad goes off to drink beers with his friends, and I wander into the kitchen, where I find my mom at the stove.