Ben turns and walks away as she covers her eyes with a free hand and says, “I may have overindulged that night. I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”
Before I can console her further, Ever draws my attention back to him when he says, “Hi, Sophie.” He offers his hand that’s every bit as big as Jesse’s but has a different effect on me. Because when his long fingers wrap around mine, I almost moan. I’m not shaking anymore; I’m vibrating.
“Hi.” As soon as the word is out of my mouth, I want to kick myself. You already said hi, dumbass. My brain is scrambled, and it’s like some sort of six degrees of separation shit is going on, but the orgasm version: this man, his hand, my hand, my clit. It’s all connected, and I feel like it’s written all over my face how many times I’ve come thinking about him.
Our hands are suspended between us unmoving. I’m making this weird, I know I am. His thumb sweeps against my wrist like he did the first time we met, and he says, “Hi,” again. It’s when he winks, and his smile widens that I realize we did this last time, repeated ourselves, and he remembers too.
I shake my head and can’t help smiling while my cheeks blaze with heat.
The spell is broken when Hannah asks, “Can you help me with lighting, Sophie? I want to film some interviews on stage with the guys before this place starts filling up.”
“Sure,” I say, watching her make her way toward the stage where several hard-sided cases are lined up.
I release Ever’s hand and, as I walk away, he calls out, “Ben’s right. We’re all happy you’re here, Sophie.”
Ever and Jesseare sitting on two barstools, side-stage. Hannah is across from them hidden behind a camera and a ring light. I’m on the floor in front of the stage, trying to blend in while I capture still shots of it all. It’s not loud in here yet because it’s still early, so I can hear their conversation. The contrast between the two brothers is stark. They couldn’t be more different and not just their looks. Ever is quiet, while Jesse’s all energy to the point that he can’t sit still.
“I want to dig right into the origin story of Thicker Than Water,” Hannah says. “You’re blood. Brothers. Clever name. Where did your mutual love of music come from?”
They look at each other like they’re comparing notes, and then Jesse asks, “Mom, right?”
Ever nods his agreement.
Jesse continues, “I don’t remember a day I didn’t hear her sing, especially when we were young. One summer when I was about ten, so Ever,” he looks at him, as if to verify his math is correct, “you must’ve been seven, right?”
Ever nods again, and it’s sweet how patient he is, content to let his hyperactive brother take the lead.
Jesse picks up the thread. “We lived in the middle of nowhere Louisiana. And when I say nowhere, I mean no-fucking-where. There couldn’t have been fifty people in a fifty-mile radius. The attic apartment Mom rented didn’t have A/C, and it would get so damn hot inside. She’d put a few dollars’ worth of gas in her old Corolla, and we’d drive backroads with the windows rolled down just to get out of the house and cool off. We’d sing along to the radio until the car was on fumes, and then we’d go home. Remember that, Ev?”
He’s a good storyteller. I’m watching them through the screen on my camera, and it’s not hard to imagine this being on film eventually. The audience will eat them up.
“Yeah. That was a good summer. Probably my favorite summer as a kid.”
Jesse nods, but as I zoom in, his eyes look far away. “Calm before the storm,” he mutters.
I glance up to catch a glimpse of Ever’s face. He sees his brother sinking and is there to rescue. “That’s the same summer she bought Dolly and started teaching us how to play guitar.”
Jesse squints like he’s searching his memory. “Was it that summer?”
Ever nods. “Yeah.”
Watching them sort through shared family memories makes me think of Lola. It’s amazing how differently we remember the same situations from our childhoods. Different person, different lens.
“Shit, I’d forgotten that.” Jesse’s smile returns and is slight, but wistful.
Hannah asks, “What was Dolly? A dog?”
Ever jumps in when Jesse doesn’t answer. “Sorry. No, it’s an acoustic guitar Mom bought at a pawn shop. It’s the same one I’ll play tonight. She’s nothing fancy, but she’s reliable.”
“And she named it Dolly?” Hannah probes.
Jesse looks at Hannah and shakes his head. “You have no idea how deep Mom’s love for Dolly Parton runs. She’s always wanted to be like her—singer, songwriter, big heart, big hair. You name it, she thinks Dolly does it best.”
Hannah laughs a little. “She’s not wrong.”
Jesse cocks his head in his brother’s direction and asks curiously, “Does she still have that velvet painting of Dolly?”
“She’ll probably be buried with it. It’s hanging on the dining room wall between your graduation photo and the macaroni art Willie Nelson I made her in third grade.”
