Love Song(99)

“I’m making grilled cheese,” she says when she spots me. “You want one, honey?”

“Yes, please.” I plop down at the counter, smiling as I watch her flip the sandwich in the pan.

It reminds me of when Gigi and I were little. Whenever Mom was cooking, Gigi would always hurry off to watch hockey with Dad in the den while I’d sit in the kitchen chatting with Mom. Sometimes, she sang when she cooked, and I’d sing along with her, practicing harmonies. Those are some of my best memories.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been nice to you,” I blurt out as a rush of guilt seizes control of my vocal cords.

Mom turns from the stove, eyes wide. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you’re only trying to help when it comes to my music. And I’m always biting your head off about it.” I gulp down the lump obstructing my throat. “I feel bad. And I’m sorry.”

She gives me a gentle smile. “It’s all right. I get it.”

“Do you really?”

Mom slides the spatula under the grilled cheese and flips it again, browning the other side. “Of course. It feels like a hit to your pride. Reminds me of your father. He’s way too proud sometimes. But even your dad knows when to accept help.”

“It’s not that I don’t want your help—”

“I promise you, I get it. And I appreciate the apology. But for what it’s worth, the reason I try to offer my assistance—within the parameters of the rule book, of course,” she adds with a grin, “isn’t because you’re my kid. I do it because you’re so talented, Wyatt.”

I bite my lip.

“I love you and your sister equally, and the two of you are my world. But you…you’re also my soul. You feel music the same way that I do. I’ve been writing songs my entire life, just like you have.” She pauses, her voice softening. “I’ve never told you this before, but I went through a difficult time when I was a teenager. A pretty bad trauma.”

Concern tickles my stomach. I want to ask her what happened, but a part of me isn’t sure I want to know the answer.

“It took years of therapy and being kind and gentle with myself to work through it. And whenever I felt like I couldn’t bear it, I’d distract myself with music. Lose myself in songs.” She laughs. “Sometimes I hear music in my head when I’m trying to sleep.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Of course you do. Because you got it from me. And I want you to know that if I ever push you, it’s only because I want other people to experience your gift.”

“So you’re saying if I couldn’t carry a tune, you wouldn’t be pushing me like some nepo baby onto all these industry folks?”

Mom snorts. “God, no. I would’ve found a nice way to encourage you to seek a different career path.”

I believe that. Mom might be teeming with compassion, but she doesn’t allow for delusions. She’s grounded in reality.

She slides the plate across the table, and I take a bite of grilled cheese, even knowing it’s fresh off the pan. As I try to blow on the food while it’s in my mouth, she laughs and gets me a glass of water. I gulp it down, and then, because I’m a masochist, take another bite right away.

“Just wait for it to cool,” Mom chides, sputtering with laughter

“No. It’s too good. Tastes best when the cheese is still sizzling.” I chew slowly. “Hey, so… I have a few tracks I’d love to get your opinion on. I want to send them to Tobey this week.”

Her eyes light up. “Oh, I would love that. I’m dying to hear what you’ve been working on this summer.”

“I think it’s some of my best work,” I confess.

“Wow. You never compliment your own music.”

“I know, but…yeah,” I say gruffly. “This is good material. Found my inspiration, I guess.”

Her name is Blake.

I keep that part to myself, though.





All the parents go into town that night, leaving the boathouse empty for the Golden Boys to party in. My social battery is in desperate need of recharging, so I beg off and stay in the main house. My sister decides to stay in too, which puts a damper on my plans to lure Blake upstairs and screw her until she can’t see straight.

Instead, the three of us end up puzzling together in the dining room.

“Whoa, you guys got so much done just the two of you,” Gigi remarks. She admires the puzzle, which is about three-quarters filled in. “How much time did you spend on this?”

“We did a little bit every night,” Blake says. “I did most of the sky because this asshole is apparently black-blind.”

Gigi grins. “What the hell is black-blind?”

“When you can’t tell the difference between shades of black.”

“Because there’s only one shade of black!” I say in protest. “It’s called black.” I snatch two pieces out of the box. “See this? This is black. And see this one? It’s also black.”

“That second one is clearly five shades lighter,” a haughty Blake replies. “It’s closer to charcoal. Dumbass.”

My jaw drops. “You know, I didn’t try to shame you when you couldn’t tell the difference between the center of the moon and the swan neck.”