Unraveling You 02 Raveling You (2 page)

“Sure. An art show sounds good.” He offers me a small, grateful smile. “But only because you said pretty please.”

“Awesome.” I shove the door open all the way, and a chilly breeze gusts inside the cab. “I’m going to go tell my dad to come get the tree. Then I’m going to take a shower. I smell like pine needles and greasy burgers, not a great combo.” I pause before I jump out. “Are you driving tonight or am I?”

“I can...” He appears distracted, his attention on the shut garage ahead of us.

“Hey, are you okay?” I search for what he might be looking at, maybe hidden in the shadows, but I don’t see anything.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” His gaze finds mine and he blinks dazedly. “I was just thinking about some stuff I have to do tonight.”

“Anything you want to talk about?” I swing my legs over the edge of the seat to hop out of the truck.

He shakes his head then forces a stiff smile. “I’ll go take care of the trees and then head over to your house in about a half an hour.”

I suppress a sigh, jump out of the truck, and close the door. Giving a quick wave to Ayden, I round the fence between our driveways and enter the warmth of my home.

My dad is in the kitchen when I walk in. He has a notebook in his hand, intently reading one of the pages as he nibbles on a cookie. His blond hair is sticking up, and he looks stressed out.

“Yo, Daddy-O.” I slam the door with an excessive amount of force to scare him.

He jumps and drops the cookie on the floor. “Jesus Christ, Lyric.” He shakes off his jumpiness and scoops up the cookie from the hardwood floor. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“That’s what I was going for.” I unzip my jacket and grab a cookie off the plate in the middle of the table. “Nice hair by the way. Did you just get out of bed? Or were you going for that bedhead/fauxhawk look all the cool kids are wearing nowadays?”

He places his palm on the top of his head, flattening his hair down. “Is it really that bad?” When I nod, he puffs out a frazzled exhale. “I was just going through some things for work, and I guess I took my stress out on my hair.” He pulls out a chair and sits down at the table.

I rest my arms on the back of a chair and lean over the table to get a glimpse of what’s on the pages. “Anything I can help with?”

He fans through the pages then rakes his fingers through his hair, making the ends stand right back up and solving the culprit of the bedhead/fauxhawk look. “Nah, it’s just club stuff I’m trying to figure out.”

“Like what?”

His brows elevate. “You really want to hear about my business problems?”

I stuff the rest of the cookie into my mouth. “That all depends on if it has to do with the music business side of it.”

“It does.” He seems hesitant to embellish.

I drop down in the chair across from him. “Then lay it on me. I’m all ears.”

“Okay, but you have to promise me one thing,” he says with reluctance. “That you won’t mention your band at all during the conversation.”

“My lips are sealed.” I drag my fingers across my lips, pretending to zip them up.

His mouth is set in a firm frown, as if the last thing he wants to do is discuss whatever he’s stressing about. “It’s about one of the bands I had lined up for the opening.” He waits for me to go back on my word and react, and I almost do, but forcefully smash my lips together, instead. “The lineup’s pretty cool, but one of the opening bands backed out at the last second, so my big plan to carry it out all day isn’t going to be possible. I mean, I still have a lot of good ones lined up.” He reads over a scribbled list of band names. “I just wanted seven total.” He flips the page, muttering nonsense, while I struggle not to put my two cents in. “It really isn’t a big deal, except that it is since the flyer and advertisement said there’d be seven bands.”

I raise my hand in the air like I’m in grade school.

“And it’s too late notice to find someone else. The opening is less than three weeks,” he carries on, ignoring my raised hand. “I’m already in the lineup, and I’ll be way too busy making sure things run smoothly to try to take on two sets.”

I bounce up and down in my chair, waving my hand in front of his face. “Hello? Can’t you see my hand?”

“I can.” He closes the notebook. “And I know what you’re going to say. The answer is no, though.”

My shoulders slump as I plant my ass back in the chair. “No to what?” I fake pout. “You haven’t even heard what I’m going to say.”

“But I already know what you’re going to say.”

“How so?”

“Because we share the same musical DNA, and twenty-five years ago, if I’d been sitting in your spot, I’d have asked the same question you want to ask right now.”

I jut out my lip. “You’re cruel.”

“No, I’m being a good father.” He shoves his notebook aside and rests his elbows on the table. “There’s no way I’m going to let my seventeen-year-old daughter and her band play at a club with a bunch of hardcore rock bands.”

“FYI, I’m almost eighteen.” I cross my arms and slump back in the chair. “You haven’t even heard us play yet. Maybe we’re as good as those hardcore rock bands.”

“It’s not that I doubt your ability, Lyric. I’ve heard you play and sing behind closed doors. You’re fucking talented.” I start to beam. “But…” he adds, and I frown—there’s always a but— “it takes a lot of prep time to play onstage. And I’m not just talking about practice time, but mental prepping.”

Aw, my parents and their concern for my mental stability. The worry seems to be expanding, too, ever since Ayden went into his depressive state, as if they believe we’re so in sync I’ll shut down with him.

I narrow my eyes, getting defensive. “Hey, we’re ready. More than ready. We fucking rock.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure I’m ready for you to grow up that fast yet.” He scoots the chair away from the table to stand up. “The environment at these things … it’s intense.”

“You played when you were my age,” I argue. “Maybe not at clubs, but I’ve heard the stories about the parties you and Mom went to back in the day.”

He gapes at me. “When did you hear stories?”

I rise from my chair. “Every time you, Mom, Uncle Ethan, and Aunt Lila get drunk, you sit in the living room and reminisce about the good old days. And you’re really loud drunks.” I snatch up another cookie and stride for the doorway.

“Lyric, please don’t be upset,” he pleads. “This has nothing to do with your ability.”

“Of course it doesn’t.” I pop a chunk of the cookie into my mouth and raise my chin in confidence. “You’ve never really heard me sing. And I mean
really
sing. Because, if you did, you’d be overlooking your overprotective father thing you’ve got going on right now and let me own your opening.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. I’ve struck him speechless, which was exactly what I was hoping for, even though I’m totally being overconfident. Our band doesn’t even have a name, at least one we all agree on, and we haven’t played anywhere other than inside the four walls of Sage’s garage. But confidence can carry you a long way. Believe in yourself, and other people will, too. At least, I’m hoping that’s where this conversation goes.

“And P.S.,” I add, “a fantabulous Christmas tree is waiting in the back of Uncle Ethan’s truck for you.”

I walk out of the kitchen, leaving my father to stew in his thoughts, and go upstairs to take a shower. Afterward, I blow-dry my long, blonde hair straight, apply some kohl eyeliner, and then tug on a pair of black torn jeans and a red shirt. It’s nearing eight o’clock by the time I finish getting ready.

I glance out the window at Ayden’s bedroom. The lights are on, with the curtains shut. He’s kept them consistently closed for the last week, and I often wonder if he’s hiding something behind them. I could be overanalyzing his distant behavior, but I don’t know... There have been moments since his brother died when he’ll suddenly announce he has to go home, even if we’re in the middle of a movie or at band practice. He always goes into his bedroom and locks the door; at least, that’s what I heard Aunt Lila whispering to my mother the other day.

“I’m getting worried,” she said while they were unloading Christmas presents from the car, “about what he’s doing in there. Like, maybe drugs.”

They didn’t know I was listening from the garage, but I stepped out and gave them my input. “He’s not on drugs. You guys are overreacting. He probably just needs his space.” I didn’t bother mentioning that Ayden and I technically get high on secondhand smoke every other night at band practice since Sage insists he plays better when the garage is being hotboxed.

As I’m gazing out the window, I suddenly notice something odd on the sidewalk below. A middle-aged bald guy with a beer gut and a gnarly looking scar on his jawline is walking his dog. He pauses in front of the Gregorys’ home and stares at the house. He could easily be gawking at the freshly hung twinkling lights and decorations, but his attention lingers on Ayden’s bedroom window for far too long in my opinion. Then the man scurries away, tugging his dog along with him.

I make a mental note to mention the guy to my mother when I see her later tonight. I’m sure he is just some random dude being a gawker. But, with how worried everyone’s been lately and with the police telling Lila to keep a closer eye on Ayden, it feels imperative to at least bring it up.

After the guy vanishes, I turn from the window and collect my phone from my dresser to text Ayden.

Me: U about ready to get this funfest on the road?

Ayden: Yeah, I’ll be over in like ten. I’m in the middle of something.

Even though we’re already running late, I don’t push him to hurry his butt up. I slip on my leather jacket, tuck my phone into the pocket, and pop in my earbuds. I crank up a little “For You, And Your Denial” by Yellowcard and flop down on my bed with my notebook I jot lyrics in.

Despite how collected I am around Ayden, my composure crumbles and splatters across the pages the moment I pick up a pen. Penning lyrics has become my outlet and my sanctuary, a time when I feel okay not being so cheery and smiley.

Can you hear me crying?

Silent agony that will completely vanish.

A scorch in my heart,

Singeing into embers.

My veins char to ash.

Hardly a flicker of fire left

To ignite life into me again.

Eventually the cold settles

Through my skin into my bones.

The embers drown with mourning,

Stealing the last breath of air.

And that silent cry dies,

Takes its final breath of air,

Caves to the chill.

Nothing is left, left, left.

Fading, withering, dying.

I pull the pen away. Okay, maybe my parents do need to worry about my mind.

I scratch my head as I reread my gloomy and slightly morbid lyrics. I don’t know why, but I kind of like them.

Feeling satisfied, I tuck my notebook away then turn to the window again to check on Ayden. His bedroom light is off, so he has to be heading over. Down in driveway, Uncle Ethan and my dad are sawing off the bottom of a tree. Kale and Fiona, Uncle Ethan and Aunt Lila’s other adopted children, are with them, gathering the stray tree branches and carrying them inside the Gregorys’ home to make wreaths like they do every year.

Ayden is nowhere in sight.

Me: Dude, where are you at?

He doesn’t respond.

About a minute later, I spot him hurrying up the sidewalk from the direction of the main road with the hood pulled over his head. Instead of cutting across the front lawn, he hunkers down behind the neighbor’s fence then climbs over it into his side of the yard. With his back pressed against his house, he inches toward the front door like a ninja, clearly trying to go unnoticed. But why? And where was he for the last ten minutes or so?