Avery: I was certain I was going to remember that night forever. I have, but not for the reason I hoped I would.
Avery
Fall 2008
“I’m sorry, I don’t see an Avery Sloane on the schedule,” the pretty woman at the front desk of Momentum records said, without pausing to check her computer. It was the same response I’d got last time I showed up for a meeting.
The message was clear. I might’ve had talent, but I’d run out of the tentative goodwill my association to Martin had afforded me. I wasn’t willing to show my throat and give in.
That’s what Wes did, after all, paying the entry fee to chase his dream. And look at him, opening for shows in the Midwest to prepare for Fool’s Gambit’s first official tour that would start in Atlanta in just a few days.
I gave the woman a tight-lipped smile and said, “Thank you for checking. I must have the wrong address.”
The only other option I thought I had was to write something so good that no one could refuse to produce it. Naïve, but I needed to feel like I was doing something or I’d have to admit that I was wrong.
Most days, I sat outside on the porch with the sun high in the sky, scratching down hooks that bloomed into full verses. Afterfilling pages, I’d look up to see early stars starting to speckle the melting colors of sunset.
Something was usually off with the near finished lyrics, though. A word or phrase that snagged like clothes on a fence line. I knew the answer was a text away, but that meant swallowing my pride. I’d never been great at that.
I’d been working on the same song for three days. The page was illegible with jotted corrections, my fingers tired from endless attempts to bring it to life on the guitar resting next to me. Yet, I picked up the guitar and tried again.
The chords, the strumming pattern, the lyrics were all wrong. I couldn’t get anything right. Music. Wes. My Future. What was the point?
Grabbing the guitar by the neck so the metal strings dug into my fingers, I lifted it over my head and swung. If I couldn’t create something I could have the fleeting satisfaction of breaking wood, splinters flying, and the sharp twang to mark my career dying before it had the chance to start.
But the sounds never came. Hands caught the body of the guitar before it shattered against the porch.
“I doubt that will make you feel any better,” Dad said softly, slowly wrestling the guitar from my grip and setting it on the ground. He sat while I stood, still vibrating with what felt like enough energy to run a marathon.
“Did you come to lecture me?”
“Oh no. I saw an innocent guitar at risk and had to step in,” he said.
We sat there in silence for a few long moments before he asked, “Have I ever told you that I almost never wrote my first book.”
“No.”
“My parents wanted me to take over the family business. In college, I studied finance and writing. Something for them andsomething for me,” Dad started. He rarely talked about my grandparents. I’d never met them. Didn’t know their names or where they lived. Didn’t care to. If Dad didn’t talk to them, there had to be a reason. “George was pissed when I let them convince me to get my MBA. She said if I wanted to be a writer, I should just do the damn thing and write. I told her I would probably fail and screw myself over. I started the MBA and hated every minute. At night I wrote, stayed up until one in the morning. I finished the book before I finished the MBA and it never got published. And I was fine. I lived through my worst fear. The worst part? I had to tell George she was right.”
“Are you telling me what I’m scared of might not actually be that scary?”
“No I was just telling you a story, if you got something out of it that’s great.” He strummed the guitar lazily. I’d promised a few times to give him lessons, but had yet to get around to it.
“Liar.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
“But it worked, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “I’m scared I need him. Music used to be my thing, and now that he’s gone it's different. But I’m also terrified that if I don’t change and become what the music people want me to be, then I’ll be left behind and music will never be the same again. Wes promised he wouldn’t, but what if he can’t control it?”
“You know, he’s called every day.”
“To talk to George.” Wes gave daily updates, which was how I knew they were doing just fine without me.
“To ask how you are. Sometimes when you aren’t looking, I open a window and let him listen. I don’t think he’s going anywhere. I know that I moved us around a lot and didn’t give you as many opportunities as I should have to let you have close friends. But he’s the real deal.”
“And I’m going to miss his first show.”
Dad shifted, reaching into his back pocket. “Well, I was going to use this ticket to Atlanta but if you want it more, I guess you can have it.”
