“I can...” He appears distracted, his attention on the shut garage ahead of us.
“Hey, are you okay?” I search for what he might be looking at, maybe hidden in the shadows, but I don’t see anything.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” His gaze finds mine and he blinks dazedly. “I was just thinking about some stuff I have to do tonight.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” I swing my legs over the edge of the seat to hop out of the truck.
He shakes his head then forces a stiff smile. “I’ll go take care of the trees and then head over to your house in about a half an hour.”
I suppress a sigh, jump out of the truck, and close the door. Giving a quick wave to Ayden, I round the fence between our driveways and enter the warmth of my home.
My dad is in the kitchen when I walk in. He has a notebook in his hand, intently reading one of the pages as he nibbles on a cookie. His blond hair is sticking up, and he looks stressed out.
“Yo, Daddy-O.” I slam the door with an excessive amount of force to scare him.
He jumps and drops the cookie on the floor. “Jesus Christ, Lyric.” He shakes off his jumpiness and scoops up the cookie from the hardwood floor. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“That’s what I was going for.” I unzip my jacket and grab a cookie off the plate in the middle of the table. “Nice hair by the way. Did you just get out of bed? Or were you going for that bedhead/fauxhawk look all the cool kids are wearing nowadays?”
He places his palm on the top of his head, flattening his hair down. “Is it really that bad?” When I nod, he puffs out a frazzled exhale. “I was just going through some things for work, and I guess I took my stress out on my hair.” He pulls out a chair and sits down at the table.
I rest my arms on the back of a chair and lean over the table to get a glimpse of what’s on the pages. “Anything I can help with?”
He fans through the pages then rakes his fingers through his hair, making the ends stand right back up and solving the culprit of the bedhead/fauxhawk look. “Nah, it’s just club stuff I’m trying to figure out.”
“Like what?”
His brows elevate. “You really want to hear about my business problems?”
I stuff the rest of the cookie into my mouth. “That all depends on if it has to do with the music business side of it.”
“It does.” He seems hesitant to embellish.
I drop down in the chair across from him. “Then lay it on me. I’m all ears.”
“Okay, but you have to promise me one thing,” he says with reluctance. “That you won’t mention your band at all during the conversation.”
“My lips are sealed.” I drag my fingers across my lips, pretending to zip them up.
His mouth is set in a firm frown, as if the last thing he wants to do is discuss whatever he’s stressing about. “It’s about one of the bands I had lined up for the opening.” He waits for me to go back on my word and react, and I almost do, but forcefully smash my lips together, instead. “The lineup’s pretty cool, but one of the opening bands backed out at the last second, so my big plan to carry it out all day isn’t going to be possible. I mean, I still have a lot of good ones lined up.” He reads over a scribbled list of band names. “I just wanted seven total.” He flips the page, muttering nonsense, while I struggle not to put my two cents in. “It really isn’t a big deal, except that it is since the flyer and advertisement said there’d be seven bands.”
I raise my hand in the air like I’m in grade school.
“And it’s too late notice to find someone else. The opening is less than three weeks,” he carries on, ignoring my raised hand. “I’m already in the lineup, and I’ll be way too busy making sure things run smoothly to try to take on two sets.”
I bounce up and down in my chair, waving my hand in front of his face. “Hello? Can’t you see my hand?”
“I can.” He closes the notebook. “And I know what you’re going to say. The answer is no, though.”
My shoulders slump as I plant my ass back in the chair. “No to what?” I fake pout. “You haven’t even heard what I’m going to say.”
“But I already know what you’re going to say.”
“How so?”
“Because we share the same musical DNA, and twenty-five years ago, if I’d been sitting in your spot, I’d have asked the same question you want to ask right now.”
I jut out my lip. “You’re cruel.”
“No, I’m being a good father.” He shoves his notebook aside and rests his elbows on the table. “There’s no way I’m going to let my seventeen-year-old daughter and her band play at a club with a bunch of hardcore rock bands.”
“FYI, I’m almost eighteen.” I cross my arms and slump back in the chair. “You haven’t even heard us play yet. Maybe we’re as good as those hardcore rock bands.”
“It’s not that I doubt your ability, Lyric. I’ve heard you play and sing behind closed doors. You’re fucking talented.” I start to beam. “But…” he adds, and I frown—there’s always a but— “it takes a lot of prep time to play onstage. And I’m not just talking about practice time, but mental prepping.”
Aw, my parents and their concern for my mental stability. The worry seems to be expanding, too, ever since Ayden went into his depressive state, as if they believe we’re so in sync I’ll shut down with him.
I narrow my eyes, getting defensive. “Hey, we’re ready. More than ready. We fucking rock.”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure I’m ready for you to grow up that fast yet.” He scoots the chair away from the table to stand up. “The environment at these things … it’s intense.”
“You played when you were my age,” I argue. “Maybe not at clubs, but I’ve heard the stories about the parties you and Mom went to back in the day.”
He gapes at me. “When did you hear stories?”
I rise from my chair. “Every time you, Mom, Uncle Ethan, and Aunt Lila get drunk, you sit in the living room and reminisce about the good old days. And you’re really loud drunks.” I snatch up another cookie and stride for the doorway.