Just like that, the bunker becomes a party.
We eat gumbo and po’ boys around the coffee table and take turns playing the most ridiculous video game I’ve ever seen. We drink wine and sweet tea and then wine again, because…why not? Makena, Elly, and Mimi brought things to sleep over in my other guest room, so no one has to drive.
Honestly, by the time Mimi starts yawning around nine p.m., I’ve decided adult sleepovers—with bonus Mimi, of course—are too much fun to be reserved for times of trial. We need to get one of these on the books at least once or twice a year.
I’m about to head upstairs with Elly to show her where Mimi can brush her teeth so she’s ready to be carried straight to bedif she falls asleep watching the next movie, when Beatrice comes downstairs, fresh from her shower.
She’s in pajamas, her damp hair coiled atop her head, and her guitar in hand. Her eyes are shining, but not with fear or sadness or even rage.
She looks…inspired, determined. Like a woman with a plan, a fact she proves as she announces to the room at large, “I just booked studio space for Thursday afternoon. Two of Blue’s musician friends are going to meet me there to play drums and lead rhythm guitar, and I’m going to record a song. My first solo song ever!”
Makena breaks into applause first, joined quickly by the rest of us, but Beatrice shushes us with a blushing wave. “Thank you, but I don’t need applause. I was just hoping I could play it for you guys. I want the people I love to be the first to hear it. Because you’re the best.”
Nix nods, setting his wine down on the coffee table. “Yeah, Bea. Please. It would be an honor.”
“A complete honor,” I agree.
Makena and Elly murmur their agreement as Mimi whispers, “I’m so excited. I’ve never been the first person to hear a new song before!”
“Me, either, bean,” Elly says, laughing as she pulls Mimi into her lap, kissing her cheek. “I’m so glad I get to do it with you.”
My throat tightens, and my eyes begin to sting. I’m already emotional—there’s too much sweet, good love in this room not to be—and then Bea perches on the arm of the sofa and begins to play.
First, a low, dissonant chord that hangs in the air. Then a sweeter one that echoes through secret places in my bones. Then she begins to pluck the strings, coaxing a bittersweet melody from her guitar that has me fighting a full-fledged sob fest from the start. Which is strange, I guess. This isn’t a “woe is me” trackat all. It’s a clear-eyed, dignified lament for all the things loved and lost. It’s swampy and dark, like the bayou at midnight, but beautiful.
She doesn’t name him once through the entire song.
She doesn’t have to.
She sings about all the little betrayals from the cradle to the grave, yet he’s somehow there in every line. The one ugly constant, the avatar for the boot we’ve all felt crushing our necks at one point or another.
It’s vicious. Precise. The musical equivalent of burning a house down while standing on the lawn and lighting a cigarette. When she hits the bridge, her voice swells, raw and powerful, filling the living room with a declaration of independence so pure it feels holy.
When she’s done, for a moment, no one speaks.
No one breathes.
Then Nix sniffs and rises from his chair, wrapping her and the guitar in a big hug, while Makena snaps her fingers. Mimi announces it’s “the best song ever,” and Elly softly whispers, “Amen.”
“I love it, Beatrice,” I say, when she emerges from Nix’s arms. “It’s perfect, babe. Completely perfect.”
“Not yet,” she says shyly. “I need harmony. Especially on the bridge. A lower register, I think. Someone who sounds like Stevie Nicks, maybe…”
I blink, so stunned all I can do is shake my head for a moment before I rasp, “What? No way.”
“Yes way,” Beatrice says. “Come sing with me?”
I meet her steady gaze, this warrior artist determined to tell her own story, and nod.
Yes, I’ll sing with her.
I’ll sing with her and be proud as hell to help her burn it all down.
Twenty-Three
NIX
I’m never going to get enough of her.
