So there I was, in the middle of the stage, alone under the spotlight, holding my guitar for dear life. “Ohio” is about history, chronicling the moment in time during Vietnam when National Guard soldiers opened fire on a campus in Ohio, murdering four students during a peaceful protest. It’s relevant, but not if you don’t want it to be. Most of our songs are fun. And sassy. And rarely ruffle feathers. Here for a good time and all. We provide it.
But lately … well. Lately I’ve been feeling like I need to do more. Provide more than an escape. It probably stems from the years I spent just out of college, teaching elementary school. And the recent news of the latest school shooting in a middle school in a small town. Kids are being threatened and murdered in their schools and I want to do something about it.
At first the crowd was stunned, I think. Some of the younger fans likely weren’t familiar with the song. But the older ones, they understood perfectly what I was trying to convey, and by the time I got to the chorus, the crowd went nuts. They were singing, chanting, screaming along with years of fear and rage and helplessness and more than a little drunkenness, and when I opened my eyes for the last verse, coming back to myself from the strange hazy plane of existence I escape to when I’m performing alone, a chill spirals up my spine and goose bumps flare on my bare arms and legs.
Fucking. Fuck. Fuck. What have I done?
* * *
The morning after the wedding, I wake up to one hell of a hangover, wicked rejection vibes, and someone licking my face.
“Ugh! Rogers! Gross!” I gather the slobbery wriggling mass of fur and puppy breath to my chest and sit up in the cozy guest bed I slept in. Then I tuck Maren’s new wirehaired pointer pup under one arm and spin to the side, dropping my feet to the thick woven rug that covers the hardwood. Rogers continues his assault on the small vee of cleavage exposed in my sleep tank as I find my way to the kitchen, where I can smell coffee brewing.
Maren’s eyes widen at my appearance and my cargo. “Rogers! Oh no! Did he wake you up? He was still curled up in my bed when I left.”
“It’s okay,” I assure her. Putting down the squirming pup, I shuffle to the coffeepot and pour myself a generous mug full, black. “Honestly, it’s the most tongue action I’ve had in years. I’ve woken up in worse situations.”
Maren’s eyes dance over her own cup. I notice she’s already dressed for work in her khaki and olive-green park ranger uniform.
“I thought you had the day off?”
She sighs. “I did. But Paul’s wife went into labor early yesterday morning and Shawn worked a double so I could go to the wedding. I offered to come in to relieve him so he can catch some sleep. Only until four. Then I’m all yours tonight before you fly out tomorrow. I thought we could go out to Potter’s?” she says. “It’s supposed to be another beautiful August day. We can sit on the pier and drink spicy margaritas.”
I give Maren a warm smile. “Of course. That’s perfect.”
“You sure? I feel bad ditching you. We get so little time together in one place anymore. I was really hoping you’d sleep the day away and hardly notice.”
“It’s not a big deal. Besides, you’re coming to Nashville in a month. That makes up for it.”
I pull out a pan and quickly scramble some eggs and fry up some seasoned potatoes for Maren while she rushes around, getting Rogers settled for the day. I offer to take him for a short run, so she leaves his leash and halter where I can find them and then scarfs down her food, gracing me with one of her famous beauty queen smiles before flying off to save the tourists from bears or whatever else she does at her post as a park ranger for the US Forest Service.
I take my time, making myself a veggie omelet and having a second cup of coffee before dressing in my running clothes and collecting Rogers to head out. Maren’s neighborhood is quiet and cute. A nice sidewalk and a bike trail wind along a small local lake. Rogers isn’t the most coordinated of runners, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm. I end up slowing to a walk pretty quickly because of his tiny legs, but I don’t mind. I started running years ago when I realized it was impossible to stay healthy on the road without some kind of exercise, and not every stop has a rocky ledge to climb （too bad, because there’s no comparison to that kind of challenge）。 The habit’s carried over and treated me well over the last decade. Running takes the edge off my anxiety.
But strolling with a really stupid-cute puppy is also fine.
I cue up some bluegrass, a band called the Infamous Stringdusters that Huck got me hooked on when I moved back to Nashville. He’s forever on the lookout for good bluegrass. Neither of us really work in that genre but we were both raised on it: he, in a very rural area of the Smokies; me, on the shores of North Carolina. My mom sang in a small bluegrass band with her sisters when I was young and still lives there with her new husband, teaching guitar and mandolin. My dad lives closer to Nashville, but I don’t see him much.
To be honest, I’m closer to Craig’s, Shelby’s, and Cam’s families than I am my own. It’s that whole “found family” thing at play in real time. Sometimes it just works out like that, I guess.
As I think about families, I pull out my phone.
LORELAI: It’s been two days! Can you tell me the gender yet?
He responds almost immediately.
HUCK: Nice try, Jones. I told you. You have to come back first.
LORELAI: You’re seriously holding this hostage? You know I could just text Arlo.
HUCK: You could try …
Which means he already swore his partner to secrecy. Damn.
HUCK: You busy right now? Melissa wants to ask your opinion on a wall or something.
LORELAI: She knows I’m not Shelby, right?
HUCK: I did explain that, yes. But she said something about your “exceptional taste.”
LORELAI: Oh well, in THAT case …
HUCK: Picture incoming.
A moment later I zoom in on a photo of a wall in his sister’s kitchen that is painted in what looks like two kinds of chalkboard paint. One somehow looks more rustic than the other, and from what I remember of her decor, it would match better.
I scroll to his name and hit call.
“Hello? Lorelai? Hold on. It’s loud here. One sec. Don’t hang up. I can’t—hell, Meliss—” I can’t help the smile pulling at my lips at the way he’s stumbling over his words. It is unusually loud over there. He must be at some family get-together or other.
I hear a door close, and it’s suddenly much quieter. “Lorelai?”
“I’m here.”
“Sorry about that. My niece got into ’Bama. We’re having a brunch celebration.”
“Hey! That’s fifty bucks to you, right?”
He chuckles low into the phone, and the sound warms me from the inside out.
“Yeah. So of course Scott’s pouting into his beer.”
“Too bad. Uncle Scottie should have paid better attention. Even I knew she was a ’Bama girl through and through.”
“How was the wedding?” he asks, and I sigh, spotting a bench and sitting down. Rogers flops over in the shady grass, exhausted. I might have to carry him home. Oh darn.
“Beautiful. Gorgeous weather, gorgeous bride, awestruck groom, all the fixings for a disgustingly perfect day,” I tease.