“Nothing, Mac. I’m just happy I came for a visit. Now, show me these songs you’ve been working on.”
I reach for the music stand behind me and set it in front of him, pointing out the rhythm guitar section on “Roots and Sky.” He leans in, reading the notes intently as he ghosts a few strings, getting the feel of it.
“Uh-huh. Yep. I see it.”
“You have no idea how happy that makes me,” Mac deadpans.
Neither of us rises to the bait, so she lets out another very dramatic, put-upon sigh, then counts the beat.
Comfortable with the song, she and I play and harmonize. Gene isn’t a slouch, and after a couple of sloppy chords, he picks up the rhythm. We’d been adding his part in electronically, but having the live guitar adds a warmth I didn’t know was missing.
After the last chord rings out, Gene sets the guitar on its stand and goes quiet for a moment. Mac and I exchange a nervous glance. Just because it sounds good to me doesn’t mean the money guy will agree.
“Hot damn, Mac. This song is going to hang out at the top of the chart for weeks. And that bridge? I can see a thousand gay kids making TikToks on that sound alone.”
“TikTok? Really?” she says, her face sour.
“Yes. Really. Don’t discount it just because you don’t understand it,” he says, unimpressed by her pouting. “It’s the same with your recovery. Just because you don’t think you need to take it easy doesn’t mean you’re right.”
“I’m taking it seriously, Gene. Look how far I’ve come. It’s not like I’m working twelve hours straight. Sometimes I go into town. Sometimes I take a nap. Sometimes I go on a hike. I’m doing really, really well.”
I wrinkle my brow, sending Mac a look.
“What?” she asks, dead set on her disgruntled attitude.
“Where are you hiking and with whom?” I ask, knowing I’m not going to like the answer.
She shifts her jaw to the side, rubbing the back of her head. “Er, around here. In the foothills.”
“How are you getting to the foothills?”
“Uhhh…your ATV?”
Gene takes over for me, which is good because I’m about to lose it.
“I’m sorry, can you clarify for me that you’ve beendriving—which, correct me if I’m wrong, you’re not cleared to do—andhikingin the foothills…byyourself?”
“Yes?”
“Mm. And do you have so much as an Apple watch or Find My Phone turned on?”
“I don’t like being tracked.”
Gene starts to go in, but I cut him off, ticked to high heaven.
“Is it because when either the stroke or the bears get you, you want a picked-over bloated corpse for us to find, or…”
Mac drops her hands to her sides and her head back. “Oh. My. Goooodddd. Y’all are a bunch of mother hens. I amfine. I have been fine for weeks. My speech is clear, my voice is nearly back to a hundred percent, my guitar playing, while not perfect, is pretty damn good on the slower songs, and things are improving.”
Gene squares up. “Mackenzie Loveless Nash, if you don’t take your recovery seriously, and I mean right this instant, I will pull you from every upcoming project for the next two years.”
“You can’t do that! I’m on a roll! I feel fantastic, better than I have in years, and it’s because of the music and the fresh air, and—when she’s not being an absolute pain in my ass—this goddamn shrew right here!”
My mouth drops open. “Are you fucking pointing at me?”
“Yes! You’ve changed my goddamned life, but you aren’t my mother!”
“I’m not trying to be your mother, you asshole! I’m trying to love you, even though I know you’re going to leave me here. The least you could fucking do is not get yourself killed with this lunacy in the short time you have left!”
