You'd Be Mine(51)

The end of their flaming family tree

There’s always a casualty

And, God, I hate myself for

Wishing

And lyin’

And thinking that maybe

You’d want to be mine



I still the vibrating strings with my palm and open my eyes, not at all surprised to feel the damp on my cheeks. Songwriting’s always a soul search for me. Often, I don’t know how I even feel about something until the words are on the page.

This time, though, there’s no mistaking how I feel. My pathetic heart couldn’t be clearer on the issue of Jefferson. This song is a confession and a condemnation in one; regretting something that was over before it even began. But I know, I know, it would have been big. It would have been real and true and sappy as hell. We would have been a love story for the ages. Just like my mom and dad. He would become my all-consuming addiction, and in return, I would be his final ruin.

Part of me doesn’t care.

I see the future play out, but even still, my imagination has other plans. She sees a time when Jefferson is clean and whole, and I am unafraid and out of my parents’ tragic shadow. And who knows, maybe that would be us one day … but maybe it wouldn’t.

I would be a first-class idiot to jeopardize everything right now because of maybe. Maybe we’d blow up like a house fire and take everyone we love down with us. As if hearing my thoughts, the heavy studio door opens, and Kacey and Jason step in, closing it behind them.

“One track,” my cousin says, her eyes red-rimmed. “It’s laid down in one. Don’t you dare change a thing. If you want, I can layer some strings over it later.”

I glance at the one-way glass of the booth, and Jason shakes his head. “I sent the sounds guys out for coffee.”

I snicker. “And they listened?”

He lifts a shoulder and regards me with a serious expression. “Annie, was that … I mean, when did you write that?”

I drag my thumb along the beveled scroll on my guitar, watching its progress. “Oh. Bits here and there. Why?”

I catch Jason shooting a pleading look to Kacey. She presses her lips together. “I’ll be blunt. Is it about our headliner?”

“Why?” I repeat.

That seems to confirm it for Kacey, who glances nervously at the one-way glass. “Are you going to incorporate it into the show?”

I’m shaking my head before she even gets the words out. “No way. It’s too new.”

My cousin nods her dark head, her hair falling to dance just at her bare shoulders. “You really should play it for him.”

“I don’t think so. Not now. He won’t understand.”

Jason makes an exasperated noise, shooting another pointed look at Kacey. “I’m going to find the coffee.”

As the door closes behind him, Kacey leans back against the step next to me, stretching out her legs next to mine.

“I think he might understand more than you think.”

“Fine.” I huff out an impatient breath. “He’d understand. Doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. I’ll break him, and he’ll break me. We’re way too volatile.”

“You’re barely eighteen, Annie. What on earth do you know about volatile?”

“I was raised on volatile.”

Kacey blinks. “Fine.”

“This isn’t like a movie, Kace. This is real life. He’s really grieving over his brother. He’s really got a drinking problem. He’s really into hiding both of those things by sleeping with lots of women around the country, including his ex. He really just got himself arrested for battery. I’m really a mess of a girl who can’t even close her eyes without seeing her parents’ dead bodies and can’t kiss a boy without thinking she’s going to kill him. That’s real life,” I say. “That’s volatile.”

“You still see their bodies, Anne? I didn’t know that.”

“Every single night.”

“It’s easy to forget all that when you watch you two onstage,” Kacey says quietly.

A harsh chuckle erupts in the back of my throat. “Don’t I know it.”

“Do you think you might already be in love with him?”

The word chokes in my throat, so instead, I nod once, slowly.

Kacey wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me in. “Well, hell.”

I tilt my head onto her shoulder. Hell about sums it up.



* * *



That night, we perform at Fenway under the lights. It’s the quintessential summer concert experience. I heard last weekend Sir Paul McCartney filled this stadium, and it gives me the worst case of jitters I’ve had all summer. Boston is stifling. Midnineties at dusk and only the barest tease of a breeze off the coast. We’re inland quite a way, though, so it feels more like a vacuum onstage. I’ve talked wardrobe into letting me wear a loose-fitting, white cotton sundress with my dark brown Tony Lamas, which I promptly kick off once onstage.

I throw my carefully styled curls up in a topknot as I greet the crowd. As has been typical most of the summer, the seats are filled, even for us. Or maybe not just even. I suppose at this point, I can confidently say these people aren’t here by accident. This crowd came early for us.

“Whew!” I start. “Y’all, it’s hot out here! You folks don’t mind my bare toes, right?” I point down to my painted toenails and the crowd cheers. “We’re all friends here. You just go right ahead and take off yours if you want. I won’t tell a soul,” I promise, making a little cross over my heart.