Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
My wife sounds like Bex. They’re both saying the same thing, yet I don’t believe it. I can see myself sitting in the studio, waiting for the phone to ring. Everything would be scripted and I’d have to read from the page to fill the air.
“I’m a musician. Not a DJ or radio show host. I wouldn’t know what to talk about.”
“You’re an entertainer.” She reminds me. “And it sounds like if people are asking you questions, you’ll have plenty to talk about.” She steeples her fingers, much like I do when I’m contemplating the impossible. It’s nice to see I’ve either rubbed off on her or she’s mocking me. “Are you going on tour soon?”
“No.”
“When’s your next album coming out?”
I think for a minute. We don’t have anything planned. I shrug.
Josie rests her elbows on her desk. “Do you have songs written and ready to start laying tracks?”
I shake my head.
“So, someone comes along and gives you an opportunity to do something and because it’s not standing in front of thousands of people, you’re not interested?”
“There are a lot of things I could do to fill my time.”
She leans back again. “Like what? Fix the cooler? Reorganize the garage, again? Bartend? Play gigs at Ralph’s?”
I run my hands down the front of my jeans.
“Just because I don’t have a plan for a tour or new music doesn’t mean I need a radio show.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
She nods. “I’m not going to convince you to do something while you’re at home. I’m sure there are things you can do to occupy your time until you’re bored and schedule a tour.”
“I don’t schedule a tour when I’m bored.”
She eyes me. “So, you’re happy being home?”
I nod. “I’m the happiest when I’m with you. If you were on tour with me, everything would be perfect. But I’m home, you’re here. The kids are here. I’m happy.”
Josie tilts her head. “So why would you say no to the thing that keeps you grounded here, at home? Why are you saying no, without trying it?”
“Because what I do matters. The band matters. Thirty years isn’t something you walk away from because a woman flies down from New York and tells you you’d be good at talking.”
“Nobody said walk away.”
“That’s what it is. That’s what it would look like.”
Josie picks up the mug and takes a drink and sets it down.
“Okay,” she says quietly.
She puts her glasses back on and goes back to whatever’s on her laptop. She’s done talking about this and listening to the excuses I’ve come up with.
FOUR
The field lights at Beaumont High burn white against a black October sky. I can see my breath. The bleachers are half full, which is less than the old days, when this town packed every seat and stood three deep along the fence. That was before soccer skyrocketed as a sport, and before the school added volleyball. Now, there are more options when before you either played football or you didn’t.
The metal bleacher is cold through my jeans, and I’ve got my hands in my jacket pockets, shoulders pulled up against the wind that’s been cutting across the field all night. Josie spreads a blanket across my lap and puts her arm through mine.
“I didn’t think it would be this cold,” she says as she clasps her gloved hands together.
“We should pay to have boxes put in.”
“We can’t fix everything, Liam.”
She’s right. We can’t. We can try but at some point, the town needs to figure their shit out and stop overspending on repairing the same stretch of road year after year. Maybe it’s time to fire the company they hire each time, who clearly can’t do the job correctly.
I watch the sideline. Nick paces. He has a headset on, but it sits too high on his ears. He’s not listening to his coach in the box. Noah is though. He stands next to my frenemy, with his hands on his knees, and then he stands tall, only to cross his arms.
Nick and my son—they coach together now—while I sit on the bleacher freezing my ass off. They move in sync. It’s their own formation and something they created long before I returned to Beaumont. Nick calls the play. Noah leans in, says something, and points at the defensive backfield. Nick nods.
In front of us are the cheerleaders. Paige is there, with her ponytail swinging and voice carrying. During a play, the squad faces the field, encouraging the offense or defense to do their job. When the ball’s dead, they turn and face us and do their job of getting the crowd into the game.
She waves at us and of course we wave back. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Josie about Paige working at Ralph’s yet. Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about her waiting tables. I know it’s a rite of passage for most teens, but Paige has a job, and she knows I’ll give her money. Hell, she already has her own credit card.