Renee is less confident. Her gaze drops to the side. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about work, actually.”
A prickle of interest climbs up my arms. Is this it? After an entire summer of keeping her job at the Blomquist under wraps, is this what unravels the lie? I chance a look toward Renee, and she’s looking back at me, eyes the color of worn denim. A pulse, then she pulls away.
“Gin, could we drive back to the city together?” Renee asks. “I think we should talk.”
Something leaps inside me. She’s really going to do it, isn’t she? And then, as always seems to be the case lately, theconversation shifts back toward a plan. Who is driving which car, and who do I trust to take the truck? Logistics. It always circles back to logistics, and while I may have run the whiteboard, I yield all ringleading to Renee now that we’re here.
“Our professional event planner in residence!” Chrissy sings out. “Awfully nice of the Blomquist to lend you out for the week.”
And I know that Renee and I aren’t really talking right now. I know that I should bite my tongue and not risk another glance in her direction. But I remember that quick, gentle pressure on my shoulder before she climbed out of the truck. How long did she think that over, I wonder? Was it an accident? Was it an impulse? If she could go back, would she do it again? My brain whirs away from me, but as we rotate through our group goodbyes, I do what feels right. I return the favor—one gentle squeeze of Renee’s shoulder just before she walks out the door.
Twenty-four
Mom’s hair and relationship status aren’t the only major changes in the last eight months. In the morning, I slink downstairs just in time to catch her mid–quad stretch, warming up for her morning run. I’m partially asleep, but I try to make a face that’s encouraging instead of completely shocked. The array of vitamins lined up on the counter are a second surprise. Losing Dad seems to have inspired some healthy changes in both of us.
Unfortunately, those changes don’t inspire much in the way of breakfast. The fridge looks like it was stocked by a distracted wellness influencer—I don’t mind that it’s healthy and protein packed; it’s just that it doesn’t make sense. We have a bag of baby carrots, a block of tofu, lean ground turkey, two apples, organic ketchup, an avocado, low-fat cream cheese, and two flavors of high-fiber bagels. I pop a blueberry bagel into the toaster and put on a pot of coffee, then sit down to eat. A floorboard whines upstairs, then the thud of shuffling footfalls just before Kurt ambles in with a sleepy wave. He scratches his belly through a paint-splattered T-shirt, yawning and assessing the contents of the fridge. “Shit, was I high when I went grocery shopping last night?”
“I don’t know.” I quirk one brow. “Were you?”
Kurt’s laugh is like a barstool dragged across a dive bar. It sounds to me like a summer bedtime—Mom tricking me into brushing my teeth while I could still hear the band having fun downstairs without me.
“I wasn’t high,” Kurt assures me. His voice suddenly turns serious. “I’m about a year sober, actually.”
I set down my bagel, clapping the crumbs off my hands. “Like, completely sober?”
“No weed, no pills, no booze.” He pops one of each type of bagel in the four-slot toaster. “It’s been good. I feel ten years younger. Which, you know…” He coughs. “Makes me seventeen.”
I’m not sure of Kurt’s exact age, but he can’t have more than a year or two on Dad. His beard is indisputably gray, but the silver strands on his head are mixed in with chestnut-brown ones. One prominent wrinkle runs across the middle of his forehead, an inevitable side effect of his concentrated drumming face.
“Were those things a problem for you before?” I ask. “Weed, pills, booze?”
Kurt adjusts his glasses, eyes clouding over with a stormy memory. “I never saw a musician without some type of problem with something.”
My chin dips, skeptical. “C’mon. Really? Not even one?”
Kurt slowly shakes his head and looks around like he’s watching the room fill with ghosts. “We’ve all got vices. I’ve seen a lot of shit.” He grunts and scratches his head, lips tilted up.
The toaster pops, and I stop myself just shy of telling Kurt where to find the plates. He knows this place as well or better than I do. For a while, the only sound between us is the scratch of the butter knife against a toasted bagel face.
Then Kurt pulls out a chair and sits down next to me. “Yourmom said you’ve been sober about three times as long as I have.” He bites into a bagel, and his bushy gray-black eyebrows lift, offering me the floor.
“No weed, no pills, no booze,” I echo.
He nods, impressed. “And you’re how old? Twenty-eight?”
“Twenty-nine,” I correct him.
“Well, congrats.” Kurt tips an invisible hat. “You’re twenty years ahead of every other musician I know.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I’m not guessing.” Kurt’s expression is serious again. It’s not quite the concentrated drumming face, but there’s an intensity in his eyes that I can’t turn away from, a pinch of worry hanging in the dents between his wiry brows. “I don’t wanna get preachy with you, kid,” he says. “But I’ve been in this business for thirty-some years, played shows with a thousand different people, and not one of ’em was as talented or as good of a man as Ricky Pierce.”
My throat constricts.He was a good man, wasn’t he?
“But,” Kurt goes on, “he sure had his demons, and those get tougher to evict if you let ’em stick around. I guess what I’m saying is…you’re a lot like your dad, kiddo, but you’re smart like your mom. Keep using that brain she gave you. It’ll getcha quite a bit further than your dad got to go.”
We don’t say much for the rest of breakfast. I feel like I’ve just received a prophecy, like Kurt read my palm. But this isn’t woo-woo. It’s genetics.
