“And that’s the problem,” I say. “Because sometimes, people laugh. It’s funny—ha ha, Alice says what everyone else is thinking. And then other times, I’m annoying or I’m rude. Like when we were dress shopping and I kept blurting stuff out and pissing you off.”
Renee purses her lips and opens them with a pop. “I…may have been a bit hard on you,” she admits. “I was mad that you had offered me a ride and then slept through my calls and—”
“And I still feel awful,” I interrupt.
“But,” Renee cuts back in. “I slept through my alarms in Palm Springs, so I suppose it happens to the best of us.”
“I’d still be happy to pay you back for that Uber,” I remind her.
“And I’d still be happy to pay you back for the expenses youcovered in Palm Springs,” she counters. “Also the napkins. Maybe we should work out a system for who’s paying for what on this shopping list?”
“Maybe,” I murmur, but I know once we get to the counter, I’ll be quick on the draw to put my credit card down. Dad’s drinking budget might have put a sizable dent in my inheritance, but Renee worries about money in a way I never have, and it’s worth the expense just to keep that worrying to a minimum. For her and for me.
On the hunt for water glasses, Renee and I sort through shelf after freshly cluttered shelf, but it’s a minefield of vases—some tall, some squat, all plain and likely left over from gifted floral arrangements. I must’ve donated a dozen just like these after Dad passed. I turn over a squat square vase in my hands, wondering if it could somehow be one of mine—if we shared an apartment at one point, this vase and I. My chest hollows and slowly refills with pressure, familiar and unwelcome. That’s the funny thing about grief. You run into her everywhere, even in thrift-store aisles. I’m mentally slipping into inky black quicksand when whatever tune is playing through the store speakers fades into the start of a new song. A guitar strums its bright, twangy opening chords, and my chest lifts. It feels like a welcome visitor.
“Do you know this song?” I tilt my chin toward the sound.
Renee shakes her head. “I didn’t even realize there was music playing.”
We’re quiet for a few bars, and my insides tense as the first verse sets in. “Willin’ ” by Little Feat.
“I was named after this song,” I whisper. I press a finger to my lips, then point up toward the speakers on the lyric about “Dallas Alice.” Renee hears it, and her eyes crinkle, but she doesn’t say anything. She just listens—both to me and the music. “Dad alwayscalled me that,” I tell her. “Dallas Alice. Even though neither of us had any connection to Texas. But this was his lullaby for me. Well, this and all the songs offSongs for Alice.”
A small smile plays across Renee’s lips. “I love that.”
“It’s also like…” I scratch my neck. “Maybe it’s not the best lullaby. It’s a song about long-haul truck drivers doing drugs to make it through a shift.”
She shrugs. “That’s what most music is about, though. Right?”
“Drugs?” I ask skeptically.
“Making it through.”
Renee holds my gaze with a gentle intensity, and I feel like I might fall if she drops it, like the floor will split open and swallow us both. As the second chorus kicks in, Renee hooks her pinkie around mine, like a link in a chain, and I feel rooted by something larger and stronger than I’ve felt in a very long time. A sense of belonging. We stand, interlocked, just as still as any two dusty figurines on the shelf, until the last chord rings out and my eyes well up with tears. Not happy tears but not sad ones either. I don’t really know what this feeling is, but Renee doesn’t let me feel it alone. She doesn’t let go, not even when the next song starts. Not even when an employee swings by to ask if we need any help.
“We’re okay, thanks,” Renee says in a voice so sweet I could crumble. But I think she’s right. We’re okay. With her, I’m okay.
Dad—how did you know you were falling for Mom?
Love,
Your Dallas Alice
Fifteen
Chicago starts to shrink as we inch toward the Cold Sweat concert, the posters slowly closing in on my block. They spread through the city like a rash, plastered on the old brick building near my bus stop, and when I board the bus, the ads are on there, too. Texts trickle in from old acquaintances, asking if I’m playing the show or if I’m planning to attend or, more commonly, if I can score them free tickets. I wonder why I ever gave out my phone number. I wonder where these messages were when my dad died.
On a particularly hot Monday morning, Aidan requests my help for setup in studio B. He posts up in the control room, instructing via intercom while I scuttle around the studio testing mics and swapping cables. I’ve learned so much as a studio assistant, but I look forward to when I’m in Aidan’s shoes, the one with the vision. When he comes on the intercom with a “Hey, Alice,” I turn to make sure I haven’t crossed any literal wires. Instead, Aidan’s brows are raised behind the glass, sincerity written into the grooves of his forehead.
“I think you should go to the Cold Sweat show.”
It’s like my spine has been surgically replaced with an icicle.Two weeks have passed since Cold Sweat’s studio session, and he’d yet to mention it, so I’d thought I was in the clear. “What?”
The look on Aidan’s face is so careful and earnest, I would hardly recognize him if not for that damn sweatshirt. He holds down the intercom and addresses me through the speakers on high.
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” Aidan starts. “You’re damn good at this, Alice. You’re going places as an engineer. But your old band is going places, too. The lead singer…Solas, right?”
I nod, my pulse thudding just at the sound of his name. Solas Callaghan, an enormous redheaded gargoyle of a man, once cocaptain of Cold Sweat, now front and center without me. We weren’t cut out to share the spotlight—I was drunk and unpredictable. Solas was domineering and constantly cheating on his girlfriend. It wasn’t a good look for any of us—but more sustainable in the long run for him, apparently.
