Learning to call him Dad was hard for me, so now I use the word as often as I can. I don’t want to wake up one day too afraid to say it again. The way my parents’ faces light up when I call them Dad—that’s what I hold onto. That’s what gives me the strenght to keep trying.
He sighs. “Everything okay, honey-bee?” he asks, ruffling his carrot-colored hair.
I nod, swallowing my meds. “It’s okay.”
He doesn’t sound convinced. “Vincent, you know you can talk to me about anything. You’re my best boy, remember?”
I shrug, putting the pills away. “I know, Dad. It’s just... I don’t know, I—”
His hand rests on my shoulder, warm and steady. “You’re just sad, right?” he asks gently, like we’ve had this conversation a hundred times before. We have.
I nod. He pulls me into a hug, and I let myself sink into his arms. I’m so tired of fighting the need for my father’s embrace.
“You won’t be sad forever, Vincent. You know that, right?” he whispers, kissing my hair.
I sigh against his shirt. “It’s okay, Dad—”
“No, listen to me,” he interrupts softly. “You won’t be sad forever. Someday you’ll be happy. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday. I promise you that. You’re a Cooper, and all Coopers get their happy endings. Someday you’ll be the happiest man in the world, I swear. Just like when we used to chase away the monsters under your bed and sleep beside you, or when we’d cook together listening to the Beatles. It’s okay to be sad, honey-bee. We’ll fight it together. Your daddy’s here.”
I sigh, then slowly pull back. “It’s okay, Dad. I’m just a little tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
I didn't. I slept from the moment I stepped into my room yesterday afternoon until he came to wake me up this morning.
I should stop sleeping so much, but between the meds knocking me out and my mood, I can't keep my eyes open.
I plug my phone into the car radio and play one playlist out of the many in my Spotify profile. I love creating playlists. I create one for every moment, but I never put titles because I never know what to write. I usually name them by hitting a random dot or letter just so I can save them in the library.
The only playlists full of emoji and symbols are the ones Nova created for me that I never delete.
In fact, I actually pressed play on one of hers now. My dad hums the chorus of Liz Phair's "Why Can't I" while I drum my fingers against the car door and move my leg to the music.
I really think I’ll play this song tonight during the concert because I haven't done it in a long time. I might even play it for the children at school. I’m sure they would enjoy it.
I still remember the day Nova showed up at my house early in the morning after discovering this song during one of her many sleepless nights. We were seventeen years old, it was a Saturday morning, and it was pouring rain outside. My parents were still asleep and she had entered through the kitchen door thanks to the keys hidden behind the plant.
I remember well when she woke me up only because she wanted me to listen to the wonderful new song she had discovered while watching"13 going on 30"the night before.
She dragged me down the stairs because that wonderful thunderstorm was too good to waste and forced me to dance with her in the rain while we were listening to the song. I admit that I have a special connection to this song and the memory to which it’s attached.
I think I love all music without differentiating. Every musical instrument fascinates me. All sounds can be music and everyone can make music.
My middle school music club teacher taught me that no one is born out of tune and anyone can sing or play an instrument. According to him, the difference between a player or a musician is that the former will only play or decide to sing to achieve a positive result, to achieve the goal. A musician, on the other hand, doesn’t know what it means to achieve a goal through music.
He plays only because he couldn’t breathe without music. He does it because he feels the flow of music in his veins, because music evokes memories.
A musician's heart beats in rhythm with the instrument of his choice.
According to him, it’s not the musician who chooses the instrument but the instrument chooses its musician.
I think he’s right because there’s nothing that makes me feel more free than when I play the guitar. I love playing any kind of instrument that is put in front of me, but what I feel when I pick up an acoustic or electric guitar cannot be explained in words. It’s something bigger than me. It’s as if it speaks to me. As if the instrument communicates with me, as if the song and its meaning settle in me and never want to leave me again.
From an early age, music was the only thing that could understand my emotions and convey them in words because I was never good at expressing my feelings. I was never good at explain myself in words and I learned to do that through music. Sometimes a melody can say a lot more than a thousand words. You just have to pay attention to the details.
My father's phone starts ringing and I stop the song so he can talk without background noise.
He accepts the call by connecting the phone to the radio so he can drive. I lean better against the back of my seat and decide to respond to the message Max wrote me last night. I met Max Radley when I was fifteen years old. We were sophomores in high school and both of us had seen the flyer hanging on the bulletin board in the secretary's office in which Tom Owens was looking for new members for his band. Tom was a junior and an idiot, but he had a band and both Max and I wanted to play, so we auditioned and joined the band.
Between Max and me there was nothing but competition for the role of lead guitarist at first.
