You'd Be Mine(60)

I’m not my mom, she’d said. Which can only mean she saw me as Robbie.

The realization is a knife to my chest. I stumble over to the windowsill, missing the seat and sliding down the wall to the floor. I bury my face in my shaking hands and tug on the ends of my greasy hair until it hurts.

All this time, without even meaning to, I’ve seen Annie as my salvation. My light at the end of this fucked-up tunnel. Her name would save my reputation. Her passion would inspire my music.

Her love would fix me.

And all this time, she’s seen me as her downfall. Her inevitable conclusion. I would break her, and she was going to let me.

Or we could have been like that. But we won’t be because now I know. I’m going to do what Robbie didn’t. I’m cutting her off at the start. She can’t be my sun. We’d never survive that. I crawl to my feet and stand, feeling resolute. Tomorrow is day one of the rest of my life.

And the rest of hers.



* * *



I wake up the next morning, the sun already high in the sky. The house is quiet again, and I cringe, wondering how late it is. I’ve been so rude. My granddad would tan my hide if he could see me.

I throw on some shorts and a T-shirt and slip down the creaky wooden stairs for some coffee. I find a fresh pot brewing. Annie’s grandmother putters in behind me, followed by Annie. I want to continue out the door. My late-night resolve is being tested early, and being in the same room with her—sharing the same air—feels like a violation. But it’s too late; they’ve already seen me.

Annie walks past me in silence to the cupboard and pulls out two mugs, lifting the carafe and pouring dual steaming cups, passing me one.

“Thank you,” I mutter, taking a long draw. I’m twitchy and uncomfortable, caught somewhere between sheepish and hurt. For all my earlier bravado, the thought of separating myself from this girl feels like amputation, and I’m innately selfish.

She smiles, close-lipped. I’m not the only one in pain. I think of our last show and the disgusting way I treated her. My spine stiffens. Annie takes a sip of her own coffee and moves to the table. I follow, feeling awkward.

“I didn’t mean to sleep so late,” I say. “I thought I set my alarm.”

Annie waves me off, passing a covered wooden bowl of something that smells like freshly baked muffins. Blueberry. “You did. I asked Fitz to turn it off. He and Kacey left early with Jason this morning. I stayed behind to help Gran, so we thought we’d let you sleep in.” Before I can open my mouth to protest, Annie continues, “Nope. That’s why you’re here, Jefferson. So you can rest up. So we all can. Touring is grueling work. A week of sleeping in will do us all good.”

I can’t look at her right now, can’t face her for being so understanding, so I turn my gaze out the open window. I need to get away from this place.

“Maybe I can help around the farm. I grew up doing farmwork. How can I help?”

Annie’s grandma shakes her head at the sink. “It’s not a working farm, Jefferson.” My throat grows thick at the sound of my real name coming from her lips. This woman who has watched this story all play out before but still allows me a spot at her table. “Hasn’t been for years. You might wanna check down at Carla’s, about quarter of a mile down the road. But they hire on summer workers every year to help them with planting. I doubt they could use you.”

“What about the mowing, Gran?” Annie turns to me, and this time I have to look at her. Her face is luminous in the soft natural light. Across her nose are a spattering of freckles. Her curls are all gathered up on top of her head, leaving her long neck bare. “My pop usually mows, but he could use the week off, I bet.”

I nod, liking the idea. A few days sweating on a tractor sounds good.

And so I mow. Up one row and down another. I talk to myself. I talk to Danny. I curse at God. I sing.

I think about my brother. A lot. I talk to him about his daughter. I imagine his disappointment in me for not knowing more about her. It’s so real at times, I can feel him alongside me.

I remember going camping when I was ten. Danny was fourteen, and Fitz was there between, a tagalong as always. My granddad took us to the Smokies for two whole weeks. We wandered until we got lost, but my granddad always found us. He’d light these giant fires every night, and we’d roast hot dogs on sticks we’d gathered that day. We’d poke at the flames so much our clothes were speckled with burn holes.

My granddad would talk to us about everything under the sun, and on those nights, we were a captive audience. He’d tell us about a loving God and how to treat women like queens and how to carve little figurines out of sticks.

He’d speak in parables and ghost stories and old mountain tales.

Sometimes, he’d pass me his guitar and ask me to play. I could barely write my cursive letters, but I was born strumming strings. Fitz would pull out his fiddle, and we’d play for the stars. The sky was an inky blue, and the wind smelled sweet as heaven whirling through the tall pines.

If I close my eyes, I can still see the crackling sparks twist and flicker in the funnel of dark smoke creeping to the treetops. I can hear my granddad’s sloping baritone. I can see Fitz and Danny, heads bent together in the firelight, snickering like two peas in a pod.

It was the happiest time of my entire life.