Normalis me getting excited when something breaks in the pool house so that I have an excuse to go in there and check it out, whether she’s home or not, to see what new element of herself she’s added. A mug with a funny saying here. A digital picture frame featuring mostly nature images mixed with the occasional shot of her performing somewhere.
Normalis the two of us texting late into the night, trading stories of being on the road for a musician’s life, making me realize how much I miss it.
Miss it enough that I’ve started messing around with my old guitar again too.
I nod to her. “Yeah. Normal. This is normal.” This is not anywhere near normal. And I’d appreciate it if the wind would quit howling outside. “You hungry? Want me to make you something?”
“I’m fine. Thanks though.”
Yep.
Awkward as fuck.
I’d say I wish I stayed back at Beck’s place or gone back into the city with my siblings, but I like being around Aspen too much to truly wish that.
“You need more water?” I ask. “Something else to drink? Levi always wanted tea when he was writing songs.”
“Sure. Tea sounds nice. Thank you.”
Aaaawwwwkkkkwwwwaaaarrrd.
I’m the betting type, and I’m betting she’s saying yes for the sake of giving me something to do. Not because she wants tea.
“Lemon? Honey?”
“Don’t have any. Plain is fine. Thank you.”
My stomach grumbles.
She looks at it.
I pretend it didn’t happen and suppress another need to apologize for being here.
Normal days aren’t full ofI’m sorrys for me. They’re full of working on a set, calls with my agent or business manager, and being catered to by half the people I come into contact with. I use my manners because, despite my age, my mother would murder me if I didn’t. That will never change, regardless of how old I get or if she’s still living or merely haunting me. But I do recognize that I’m catered to.
Not often my stomach grumbling doesn’t result in someone handing me a sandwich.
Especially not while I’m being as quiet as possible in hunting down a teakettle and a mug.
But it’s not just about this moment.
It’s about me being stupid enough to come up here without taking into account that a couple hundred feet in elevation can be the difference between the rainstorm that the town’s likely getting, as expected, and the ice that’s pelting the cabin up here on the side of the mountain.
And then arrogant enough to wonder how she’d fare by herself if something happened like the power going out.
As though she’s not an adult and this place isn’t stocked with firewood and blankets.
“The tea’s in that black cloth bag by the fridge,” she says. “I brought plenty. Help yourself if you want some too.”
I dig into the bag and find there’s not a lot in it.
Cinnamon graham crackers. Three bananas. A bag of mandarins. Another bag of carrots. And a carton of lemon raspberry tea bags. “Is this all of your food for the week?”
“There’s more in the fridge.”
I take a peek.
One block of cheese, a pint-size container of almond milk, and a pack of chicken breasts.
