I turn back to him. “You didn’t tell me how Ted and Linda reacted when you told them about the land.”
Naz bought a plot of land about forty-five minutes outside the city, with enough acreage that he can build a house for himself and another for his grandparents, all far apart enough that they won’t feel like they live on a compound.
“Ah, you know how they are,” he says, shrugging.
His grandparents weren’t thrilled about him skipping college for music. Even now, they act like they’re disappointed he didn’t go into academia like them and his dad, despite being a literal superstar with platinum records and a bank account to show it.
“What have they been up to?”
“Running their nonprofit, writing a book, doing the academic power couple thing, making the rounds speaking at various conferences and universities.”
“That reminds me, I know they aren’t my biggest fans, but what’s the likelihood they’d answer some questions about starting a nonprofit for my mom?”
My mom has been doing a lot of research and has almost everything she needs to get started on opening an after-school program for underprivileged kids and kids with single parents. She won’t accept a penny from me, other than allowing me to move her into a nicer condo than the shithole apartments we lived in when I was growing up, and that was only because I agreed to call itmycondo that she takes care of while I’m gone. I stay there whenever I’m in town. If the time ever comes that my life and schedule are more settled, I’ll get my own place, but I really don’t need one. We’re rarely in one place long enough to warrant putting down roots.
I opened a bank account for her so she could quit working, but of course she never touches it. She did go down to one job since she didn’t have rent and utilities to pay for anymore, and the dentist she works for as a receptionist is really nice. If she’s happy, I’m happy. I kind of love that she wants to funnel all the money I refuse to take back into a program to help kids get access to music, art, and sports programs after school.
“Definitely. They’d be all about it.” Naz nods, serious for a second. “I love that she’s doing that, and kinda in your honor, too. You would have been a mess without music stuff after school.”
“Correction,” I say, stretching out like a cat. “Iwasa total mess. Just… with choir and band as a soundtrack.”
I lean my chair back like I’m going to take a nap while Naz pulls a book out. Eventually, I drift off to sleep, wondering how these next few weeks are going to go.
Being home is weirder than I expected, but good. It’s given me a lot of perspective, and the timing couldn’t have been better. I don’t think I realized just how bad my mental health had gotten in the last couple of months. Another week or two on the road might have broken me.
I’ve checked in with my therapist, done yoga, gone for long walks with my mom. I’ve even found a good balance of staying busy without overloading my mind by doing physical labor.
After talking to Naz’s grandparents, my mom got the idea to look at older historical properties in the city instead of a commercial space. They’d been discussing how rough it’s gotten living in the city, how more kids are being left to their own devices or can’t afford extracurricular activities. A large part of the problem is that the city is slowly but surely becoming gentrified. Older properties are being bought up by developers, the buildings bulldozed and replaced with overpriced townhomes and apartments. By buying up one of these properties herself, she could not only restore a piece of Raleigh history and prevent the problem from getting worse, but it’ll give the program headquarters a homey feel.
It just so happened that there was a perfect house up for sale–a large three-story brick home with a wrap-around porch. It’s a fixer-upper, but it’s got good bones, and a lot of the work is stuff we can do ourselves.
So every day, I haul my ass out of bed and get to work sanding floors, scraping paint, carrying boxes of tile until my arms feel like noodles. It’s honest work, grounding in a way I didn’trealize I needed. I thought if I slowed down, the silence would become too loud in my head. It’s a kind of noise that eats at me until I want to crawl out of my skin, almost as bad as the overstimulation of having too much going on. And I waver back and forth like a ping-pong ball.
Having a task like this, one with a goal in front of us, has been the perfect compromise. I stay busy but not overwhelmed. The exertion helps me sleep, and it’s strangely relaxing. I’ve become comforted by the scrape of sandpaper, the hiss of a paint roller, the creak of old wood being coaxed into life again.
At night, I crash hard, the exhaustion washing away the restless hum that usually keeps me awake. For the first time in years, I’m sleeping soundly without pills or booze.
Two weeks have passed before I know it.
Today I’m heading out with Naz to a house party at an old friend’s home. It’s going to be a low-key affair with a small group of people that knew us beforeLest Is Mooreand still seeusrather than the famous rockstars we’ve become. No one is going to bombard us with questions, beg to take pictures, or ask for autographs. I’m not a celebrity around them. I’m just the flighty choir geek that smoked a lot of pot. It’s comforting, even if I’m not entirely sure I want to be around people.
Naz honks from the curb and yells out the window when I drag my feet. “Careful, Moore, if you keep this hermit thing up, you’ll grow a beard, disappear into the woods, and the album we just wrote will never see the light of day.”
I flip him off and climb in. “Unlikely.”
“You’re right. You’re twenty-five and still can’t grow facial hair.”
“Shut it.”
We end up having a great time. It’s nice to catch up with old friends, eat barbecue, and just hang out. I even end up reconnecting with a guy I hooked up with a few times back in high school. After some flirting and suggestive glances, I run into him coming out of the bathroom, and I back him into a dark corner of the hallway. We make out for a while, passing the candy I was sucking on back and forth, and I’m into it. It’s the first time another person has gotten my dick up in a while.
Maybe this is what I needed? Something uncomplicated. Marc is familiar and safe, so it’s easier with him. He’s in this for the same thing I am and has no expectations from me afterwards. I’m hard, he’s hard, and I seriously consider moving this into a more private location.
But when I disconnect my lips from his, I get distracted by a light outside and pull away. My mind reels with familiarity, and I blink back flashes of memory. Whatever desire had flickered sputters out. I crunch down on the candy and flex my fingers.
It’ll never be that good again, I think, looking out at the firepit that someone started in the backyard. Flames lick the air, bending and twisting, pulling me backwards in time. Fire always reminds me of my past. Of that night. Fire, and a light breeze. The ocean. A beam of moonlight in a dark room.
My chest tightens. I mumble an excuse and walk away before I unravel completely.
