“Nah, it’s all good. I’m on the road already.” Like our mom, he knows nothing about my music career. As far as he’sconcerned, I’ve been living in this van like a nomad, taking jobs as they come and exploring the country.
“Listen, I need you in Dallas by Friday. Can you—” Loud barking in the background interrupts him. “Noodle,stand down, little woman. It’s not a home invasion. It’s DoorDash,” he says, before he shifts back to me. “I’m staying with a friend, and his roommate’s sausage dog is a psychopath.”
I can’t help but laugh, and it feels good. “That’s a lot of bark for a little dog.”
After a muffled, “Thanks. Have a good one,” to the delivery person, he says, “Noodle could disembowel a grizzly bear. She’s a fucking wolverine. Anyway, back to business. I have a job for us, but we need to get started right away.”
“Is it legal?” I’m joking. Kind of. With Jess it never hurts to ask.
“It’s legit. Once in a lifetime-type shit. You remember my buddy from high school, Ben?”
“The one you used to play open mic nights in Amarillo with?”
During his junior and senior years, he lived with his dad and granny in Texas. He used to send me videos of the two of them at dive bars. They covered old outlaw country songs. The music wasn’t loud or heavy enough for my taste, but Ben was a decent guitar player, my brother has forever been the life of the party, and they sang harmony well.
“Yeah, the little dude.” It sounds like a taunt.
“Piss off, Yeti.” It’s quiet, but the drawn-out drawl makes me think it must be Ben.
I never met him, but I do remember their height difference in the videos being excessive. My brother is tall like me, but Ben didn’t reach his armpit.
“Long story short,” he huffs a laugh at the unintended pun and then continues, “Ben and I lost track of each other for a decade, but last month I stumbled into a bar in Germanyand who’s up on stage, but this guy. He’s been recording and touring for years, and, like a dumbass, I had no idea. So, we exchange numbers and start talking, and he tells me about this documentary his girlfriend is gonna film to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of his debut album. He’s driving cross country and playing some of the same bars he did on that first tour.”
“That’s a great idea,” I say, and I mean it. Good for him. Ten years is a lifetime to survive in this industry.
“Right?” Jess sounds excited, and that makes me nervous. “That’s where we come in. He needs an opening act.”
I pull over on the shoulder and slam the van into park. “What the fuck, Jess?” I whisper. My pulse is jackhammering.
“I know, I know.Calm down. You froze up in middle school during Battle of the Bands, but, hell…that was, what…twelve, thirteen years ago? You’re not a kid anymore. I’m sure the stage fright passed.”
With a helluva lot of effort, it did pass. I’ve played Europe’s biggest festivals and sold-out stadiums around the world; performance anxiety isn’t the issue. Resting my forehead against the steering wheel, I focus on breathing. I just need a break.
“Ev?” he questions, because I’ve been quiet so long. When I don’t respond, he continues with his sales pitch. “All you have to do is sit on a stool and play a few songs on your acoustic.”
Sighing, I ask, “What are you gonna do?”
“What I do best, sing and look pretty.” It’s such a Jesse answer that part of me wants to laugh, despite the stress. “I even thought of the perfect band name, Thicker Than Water. Get it? We’re blood. And blood is…”
“…Thicker than water. I get it.” It’s clever. And I know it wasn’t supposed to feel like a guilt rock, but it does. Lately, I feel guilty about everything. My resolve hardens. “I can’t do it.” I don’t know if I’m talking to him or to me. I’m not sure what I need out of life right now, but this isn’t it.
My brother is the most persistent person I know, so it’s not surprising when he doesn’t take no for an answer. “Ev, when are the two of us gonna get the chance to hang out together for two months?”
We haven’t spent two months in the same place since we were teenagers.
He continues, undeterred, “It’s a few warm-up gigs and then fourteen stops on Ben’s tour. Crowds will be around a hundred, and let’s face it, they’ll be there for Ben. We’ll be background noise while the crowd gets drunk. We don’t have to be perfect, just entertaining. You know, you get a little bourbon in me, and I can handle that easy.”
He’s extroverted; he doesn’t need liquid courage. What he’s describing is a far cry from a months-long arena tour plagued with a grueling schedule, security issues, NDA breaches, and ever-changing and unrealistic expectations. I could do this in my sleep if I wanted to. But I don’t. Music feels like a lover who fucked me. Literally and then figuratively. Blind lust that burned so bright I was engulfed in the flames before I realized, too late, it was a pyre, and I was a sacrifice.
His voice softens, and the Jesse who’s usually locked away deep inside peeks out. “Emily left me in December. The divorce was final last month.”
The gut punch I feel on his behalf is real. “Shit. Why didn’t you tell me?” They’ve been married for three years. I haven’t seen many solid relationships in my life, but I thought theirs was. He adored her.
“Telling someone you failed at the only thing you ever thought you got right is harder than you’d think, little brother.”
I swallow hard, because he’s right. “Yeah, I get that.” Better than you know.
“I started seeing a therapist. That’s a sentence I never thought would come out of my mouth,” he adds under hisbreath. “It’s helped. She sees through my bullshit. She thinks this opportunity with Ben is a good next step for me. It gives me purpose and surrounds me with people who care about me and who will support me. I need you, Ev.” When his voice breaks on that final sentence, it nearly breaks me.
