“Been aging in dog years since the moment he was born.”
“Worth it, though, right?”
Walker’s gaze goes to his son playing happily outside. “Every second.”
He might be a jerk, but damn, does he love his kid.
I grew up wondering what it would feel like to have a father who looked at me like that. Like I was the best thing that ever happened to him. Like I was worth every hard second.
Jonah will never have to wonder.
I don't want to like Walker Rhodes. But I like him for that.
“You look all right for someone aging in dog years,” I say.
He tilts his head. “Do I?”
“Like a spry, young-at-heart, old dog. Wouldn’t put you a day over forty-two.”
Now I get the familiar glower. “I’m thirty six, thank you very fucking much. How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty four.”
“Hmm,” is all he says. Then after a moment, he adds, “Tell me more about this job you’ve got lined up after the summer.”
“I’ll be teaching English to eighth graders in New York City. It’s an arts magnet school, so the kids that are there are really passionate. They actually want to be there, which make teaching that much more rewarding. And the pay and benefits are great. Honestly, it’s a dream job.”
“New York City, huh? Big change for a small town girl. Won’t you miss Marble Falls?”
“Of course.”
“Then why not find something here?”
“I tried. It’s a small town. The opportunities aren’t the same. Not all of us can work out of our home recording studio.”
I didn’t mean to let that slip. So far we’ve been avoiding the eight-hundred-pound-gorilla of his fame, and both of us seem to like it that way.
But the way he looks up sharply at me then, I guess that conversation is happening now.
“You know my music?” he asks.
Only every album, including the B-sides and covers.
I busy myself with cracking eggs so I don’t have to meet his eyes.
“Who doesn’t?” I deflect.
He grunts. “You hear the last album?”
“Sure.”
“What did you think? I’d tell you be honest with me, but I don’t think I need to say that toyou.”
I pause. Artists are sensitive people in general. Walker might be an asshole, but a person capable of writing the lyrics he does must be a sensitive soul somewhere deep down.
It’s a long enough silence for him to say, like he’s bracing himself, “Come on, copperhead. Don’t hide your fangs. Give me both barrels.”
He seems weirdly vulnerable right now. So I choose my words carefully. Honestly, but carefully.
