You'd Be Mine(62)

Pops squeezes impossibly harder and the pain sharpens, and I feel something inside of me wake up. I can grasp on to the ache. It’s tangible and real. Grounding.

“You are still those things, boy. Just because my Cora died doesn’t mean I’m not a father. Just because your family is gone doesn’t mean that you are. Your identity is tied to who they made you into, not who they were. The way I see it, you can honor them by becoming the best possible version of who you are meant to be, or you can wither away to nothing with no one to remember you.”

“Hell.”

“Yes.” He releases my shoulder and points to the music still grasped in my fingers. “No one but the best possible version of you is worthy of my granddaughter, so you’d better figure that out.”

“I’m not—”

He waves a hand over his shoulder. “Sure you aren’t.”

I stretch the headset over my ears and tuck the iPod into my pocket before climbing onto the tractor’s deck and settling down into the molded yellow seat. When I turn to check, Annie’s grandfather has already lumbered halfway back to the house. I watch him head up the front porch steps before I tug the iPod back out. Apparently, Annie’s already cued it up for me. I scroll to the first song and let it play.

It’s twangy and sweet over the low rumble of the mower. I circle the drive and cut a clear swath across the perimeter of yard acreage. It takes me two and a half songs before I notice the trend in the playlist she’s chosen for me. Redemption. Grace. Forgiveness.

I almost laugh. That’s such an Annie thing to do. She’s not going to hit me over the head with her beliefs. Instead, she slyly hands me music. It’s our common ground, our language. Music.

A small part of me feels rebellious and wants to switch it off to spite her. That same part of me that threw back the pills and washed them down with a bottle of hard liquor. The part that hates Danny for getting himself blown up and who embarrassed a beautiful girl in front of thousands because of petty jealousy.

I turn it up instead. My hands steer the powerful mower up, down, and across in tight rows through the rippling green grass. I don’t have to think about it. They know what to do. Muscle memory. As soon as I could reach the pedals, I’ve been mowing. My shoulders ease, and I swipe at the sweat beading at my hairline. I readjust my ball cap, letting the breeze cool my damp scalp for a second before replacing it once more.

Down back and up again. Repeat.

The lyrics start to penetrate my thoughts, and I let them. In the back of my mind, I recall numerous conversations I had with my granddad and brother over the years. Even Fitz, though he’s not the most openly devout person. I’ve fought long and hard to not need anything or anyone in my life. Life is loss. Love is loss. You can’t tell me any different. Eat, drink, and be merry until you die from it all. What’s the point of living if you aren’t enjoying every moment to the fullest?

But am I enjoying it? Never mind to the fullest, just flat-out enjoying my life? Am I ever drunk enough to forget my demons? The pills, those fucking pills. Was I enjoying life on the pills? What about when I’m onstage? Does performing give me the thrill it used to?

I think long and hard. Fans screaming, girls hanging on my every word, my bank account swelling unreasonably for a not-quite-nineteen-year-old. Maybe if I sang my own songs … but the look of pure derision on Lora’s face in my memories chases that thought away.

Not even then, really. Because what is it all for? Who is it for?

I don’t know if I’m ready to change. I know Fitz thought I was playing when I said I wanted help with my drinking. But I wasn’t. Not really. I don’t know where to go from here, and honestly, it’s all sort of embarrassing. Why is it the majority of the world’s population can get their shit together and I can’t?

Or maybe they can’t. Maybe they’re all pretending. But I know that’s not 100 percent true. Annie has it together. Sure, she’s damaged from her parents’ deaths, but more than that, she’s whole. Dented but filled. Bruised but carrying on.

I’m not carrying on. I’m treading water but slowly sinking. My breaths fast and furious, panicked and straining against the swelling waves.

I finish my rounds and end up at the border of the property, marked by a small fishing pond. There’s a rickety dock covered in moss from disuse. A row of weeping willows shades the eastern rim. I turn off the mower and, leaving the iPod behind, hop down to the freshly mowed ground. I make my way to the water’s edge and sit, unlacing my heavy leather boots. Then I strip off my shorts, specked in grass clippings. Next, I tug my shirt over my head, removing my cap with it.

Without overthinking it, I step into the water. The mud squishes under my toes, filling the spaces under and around my arches. I continue to my knees and waist. The water is warm but cooler than the hot sun, so I still feel goose bumps lift over my exposed skin. The pond is murky but not turbid, and there’s a bubbling water feature on one end of the reservoir to keep the water fresh.

I inhale several long breaths, moving my arms back and forth, allowing the surface to ripple around and over me. I take another step, this one bringing me to my neck. There’s a flutter of movement near my knee, curious fish darting around me.

I’m overwhelmed. Loss of family, loss of direction, the look on Annie’s face when I betrayed her. It’s as though I’ve forgotten who I’m supposed to be. What I want to be.