“Well, don’t call Grandma or bust out the Hocus Pocus handbook just yet. I’m not getting married.”
“Ever?” She deflates. “Look, I know your generation doesn’t really believe in marriage anymore, but there are perks.”
“Not saying never.”
“Oh, thank God. I want grandkids.”
“Those I can deliver in spades,” I wink. “Married or not.”
She points her weapon of choice—a wooden spoon she used to threaten me with—at me, “That’s not even remotely fucking funny.”
“I disagree,” Dad says, walking in half-asleep in nothing but sweats. “What in the hell are you up to, Grenade?” He circles her with his arms and presses a kiss to her temple. “Or should I say burning?”
“Sorry, did I wake you with the music?”
“No, you woke me up by not being in bed,” he eyes the pots behind her. “But it seems I woke to a living nightmare.”
“You both want on my shit list today?” Mom snaps, wriggling free of him and looking between us. “Seriously? What have I ever done but love and adore the two of you?”
“I can think of a few hundred headaches,” he chides. Her eyes narrow, and he lifts his palms in surrender. “Easy, baby,” Dad says, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before grabbing a water from the fridge and eyeing the clock on the stove. “Why are you attempting to cook for the first time in a decade at midnight?”
“I’m hungry, and I cook,” she defends weakly.
Dad and I collectively bite our lips.
“I do cook. Sometimes. Occasionally. Okay, never,” she turns back to the sauce and stirs. “I’m just a little restless,” she adds with a shrug.
Dad’s lips quirk as he studies Mom carefully. I see it the second he pegs the reason for her unease.
“Babe, we talked about this. You have to be patient.”
He runs a reassuring hand down her back, her shoulders slumping forward as she softly dips her chin in response. Dad looks over at me, and I frown, unsure of what’s happening. “What?”
He gives me the pointed look that reads, ‘see what you’re doing to her?’ just as it dawns on me.
“Mom—” I start as she speaks up.
“It’s fine,” she lifts her tone in an attempt to try and hide her disappointment, her back to me to keep me from seeing it. “I understand. I didn’t let anyone read my articles early on.” She glances back at me, hurt clearly visible though she’s trying her best to hide it.
“It’s not that I don’t want you to hear it—”
“I’m a critic.”
“No, Mom, you’re The critic,” I add, and the one that matters most to me. But I don’t voice that, opting for a different part of the truth.
“I don’t want you to feel torn between your bias for me and the truth of how you really feel about it.”
“So, you want to release it to the rest of the world first?”
I give the firm dip of my chin as she studies me. “I know that hurts you, but I promise all I’m trying to do is protect us both.”
She’s never going to write about my music. We agreed on that when I decided to entertain releasing it. Even though she wrote about the Sergeants early on, that was a different lifetime ago before they became synonymous with the greats like The Rolling Stones, U2, and other classic rock bands that have a place in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. The Dead Sergeants were inducted a year and a half ago, and it was a surreal experience seeing my father and his band honored and revered that way, though they’ve been bestowed so much already.
Natalie is right, I have a legacy to live up to, and I fucking hate that aspect of it. When I sat down to record years ago, I didn’t take that into account. I just wanted to make music. So I did, with no real intent to release it. Now that I’m about to expose myself in this way, all of the bullshit I kept out of it is coming into play. My mind drifts again to the beauty who rode in my truck, seeming as confused as I was today. The longer we rode together in comfortable silence, the longer I drove, nowhere near as anxious to leave her as I was back at the bar.
Though she cornered me in the worst imaginable fucking way, nothing about her confession at the garden seemed contrived. She was far too vulnerable to have made any of that up. Though I swore to myself I would never give a single interview—no matter how well my music did—I find myself wanting to trust her with the insight as to why I won’t.