“I’m older than you.”
“By less than a minute.” Guilt continues to swirl inside me, so I try to change the subject. “When are you and BIL showing up in Tahoe?”
“July, same as everybody else. We can only stay a week, though.”
“Fuck that. You need to stay longer. I’ve barely seen you this year.” I know she’s busy with her agenting career, but I miss her.
“Ryder has to go back to Dallas for sure, but I’ll see if I can swing a second week and work remotely. Don’t worry. You’ll have Mom and Dad and the Logans all up in your personal space for the full month of August. Which will give you plenty of time to apologize toMom,” she says sweetly.
“I have nothing to apologize for. Mom knows the rules. She doesn’t help unless I ask for help.”
“Oh, and you can help Dad when he shows up,” Gigi says. “He wants to set up a recording studio for Mom in the basement. He’s planning on getting started when he’s there.”
“Why does she need a Tahoe studio? Do they want to move here full-time?”
“I think they plan to spend the winter. Makes it easier if Mom has a place to record.”
I hurry my sister off the phone before she can start lecturing me again, then speed back to the house. When I walk into the great room, I find Blake sprawled on the couch, her laptop on her stomach.
“How’s the research going?”
“Slow,” she says without looking up. She taps a few keys. “I’m sending another email to the records office. They keep ignoring my information request for Darlie’s death certificate. If it even exists.”
“What do you want to do for dinner?”
“Nothing. I’m going out with Annaliese.”
I can’t stop the rush of relief. After staying up all night talking, I think we’re in need of some space. So while Blake goes upstairs to get ready, I grill myself a steak and throw a baked potato on the barbecue, then eat dinner alone on the deck.
Blake pops her head out to say she won’t be late because Annaliese has to work early, then leaves me to enjoy my solitude. I will say, leaving Nashville was a solid decision. The change of scenery has rejuvenated me.
The change of scenery or the muse?taunts the annoying voice in my head.
“Fuck off,” I tell the voice. Out loud. Which is never a goodsign. Usually once I start talking to myself, it means I’m nearing the delirium point of the insomnia cycle. Might be time to crack open a few beers.
I grab an IPA from the fridge and carry it outside, but the alcohol doesn’t stop the thoughts of Blake from surfacing. Why is she so damn easy to talk to? I told her things last night that I’ve never shared with anyone else. Like how a part of me is envious of the connection my dad and Gigi have. It’s a bond I know he and I can never have, and that hurts sometimes.
I love my dad, but his brain is all hockey all the time, whereas my brain, as I told Blake, is chaos. It’s music. It’s incoherent thoughts and snippets of inspiration. It’s melodies, ones that speak through me, and others I can hear so clearly in my head only to never be able to recreate with any instrument. It’s so loud inside my head, louder than someone like my dad, who has a one-track mind, can ever understand.
Hasn’t been that loud lately… that voice points out.
No, I realize, gulping. My head’s been quieter these past couple weeks with Blake here. You’d think all our bickering and arguing would create more tension and stress, more noise, but it’s had the opposite effect.
Blake isn’t even gone two hours, home before ten. I’m lying on the couch when she returns, but rather than go up to bed, she plants herself in the dining room to work on the puzzle. Usually we puzzle together, but I’m trying hard to maintain this space bubble right now, so I stay on the couch, scrolling on my phone. But my gaze keeps unwittingly drifting toward the dining table, where Blake is scrutinizing a puzzle piece like it offers the meaning of life.
“What are you?” she mumbles, because she always talks to herself when she puzzles. “Are you sky? Or are you water? What in tarnationareyou?”
I choke down a laugh, then get up to grab another beer from the fridge.
“That’s your third beer in an hour,” she remarks, and I don’t miss the disapproval in her eyes.
I suddenly remember what happened the last time I tried to conquer insomnia by getting loaded, and I find myself putting the beer back on the shelf.
“I think I’ll turn in,” I say without meeting her gaze.
I’m halfway to the stairs when her voice stops me.
“It was just talking.”
