"What do I do now?" he asked, echoing the question from his dream. His own tears were beginning to flow freely; he wept for Snake, for the childhood they'd both missed out on, the dark and lonely roads they'd traveled as men, and because of the hopeless feeling that it was all just going to keep happening.
"You break the cycle," she said quietly. "You do it for Snake, because he'll never get the chance to do it, and you do it for yourself, because you are better than this. I can't watch you take chances with your life, Dylan. I won't let you turn into your father."
Dylan winced. "I don't want to be anything like him, but-"
"No buts," she said. "You don't want to be like him, so you won't be. You can make your own choices. Besides, you've got something he never had."
"What's that?" Dylan said, feeling exhausted and worn to the bone as he choked back another round of tears.
"Me, silly. I'm here for you. I always have been. And I hope that now you know that I'm not better off without you."
He allowed himself a little smile. "I don't deserve it, Melody. I don't."
"You do," she whispered. "And do you know why? It turns out that I'm in love with you."
There was a moment of silence, Dylan allowing the words to sink in. He couldn't quite believe his luck, nor did he fully understand the emotions coursing through him. A warm feeling swelled within his heart, and he recognized it as the same sort of feeling he'd had when Emma had been born. It was hope.
The words he had longed to say were on the tip of his tongue, but still, even now, he couldn't say them. Instead, he used all the strength he had to pull Melody's mouth down to his, to kiss her.
"I'm sorry I hurt you," he murmured against her lips.
"Just promise never to do it again," she replied softly, stroking his cheek with her fingers. He smiled sadly and closed his eyes. He didn't want to say anything to ruin the moment...but he knew that he couldn't make that promise to her.
15
The four of them sat around the round table in the loft, staring at Snake's empty seat. An untouched bottle of Scotch sat before them, surrounded by five shot glasses. They were dressed in better clothes than they had worn to the Grammy's. At the awards show, they'd showed up in artfully ripped jeans and T-shirts to present the image that they were above all the bullshit. Today, they had donned what Dylan's grandmother would have referred to as their ‘Sunday best': black suits, dress shoes, and conservative ties. Their publicist had warned them it was important to be respectful.
Tank tugged on the collar of his starched white shirt. "I can't believe we're really doing this."
Rip barked out a laugh. "It feels like this is just some fucked-up dream. I keep thinking I'm going to wake up."
"Well, you're not," Jesper said flatly. "This is reality. We spent years avoiding it, and now it's caught up with us."
"I'm sorry," Dylan whispered, staring down at his hands.
"We all have to share in the blame," Jesper said. "We ignored the signs and kept the party going."
"You didn't," Rip pointed out, nodding toward Jesper. "You stepped back a year ago."
"I felt like it was time to grow up," Jesper admitted. "I didn't want … "
Dylan knew exactly what his friend hadn't wanted. "You didn't want this to happen," he said, indicating the empty chair. "We can't even take a drink in his honor-all things considered, it's in bad taste."
"I'm not sure I'll ever take another drink," Tank confessed.
"I won't," Dylan said.
"Don't be so melodramatic," Rip muttered. "I know Snake had a problem, but that doesn't mean we all do."
"True," Dylan agreed. "But I actually do have a problem. I can't keep crawling into a bottle every time something bad happens. I saw what I'll become if I keep going on like that." An image of his father, shuffling around that decrepit, barren house, crossed his mind briefly.
"You guys are no fun," said Rip. He cast a glare at the empty seat. "Why'd you have to fucking die, huh?" His voice was strained, tears clogging his throat. While they had all lost a brother, Rip had known Snake the longest. Arguably, his was the heaviest burden to bear-though Dylan, with all of his guilt, could certainly give him a run for his money.
"This is wrong," Jesper said suddenly, staring around at them.
"No argument there," Dylan said, "but it's too late to back out now. We've put this one off long enough as it is." It had been nearly three weeks since Snake's death. He'd been cremated immediately following the autopsy, but the band had begged the McCreedys to postpone the actual funeral until Dylan was well enough to attend. They had only agreed after Jesper had assured them the band would cover all the costs. Dylan wondered if he and his bandmates would have bonded so well if their families hadn't all been so shitty.
"Not the funeral," Jesper said. "These suits. Snake would piss himself laughing if he saw us dressed this way."
"Yeah. Fuck respectable," Rip agreed. "Today is supposed to be about Snake, right?"
"Hell yeah," Tank crowed, slamming the tabletop with one of his huge hands. "Let's give everyone something to talk about."
"Within reason," Dylan said, shocked to suddenly find himself the lone advocate of restraint. "This is about Snake, but it's also about his family. I'm not saying we need to recite Psalms," he added hastily, when he saw the looks his bandmates were giving him. "I'd just like to find a balance between Snake's fantasy wake and the service his parents have planned."
"Snake's fantasy wake would probably involve plane tickets to Vegas," Tank snickered.
"And at least two hookers," Jesper added.
"Jesus, how did I end up the sane one?" Dylan muttered.
Jesper smiled. "You're one of the few of us with something real, D."
"Something worth holding onto," Tank added, a melancholy tone creeping into his voice.
That was all true. Melody was the best thing that had ever happened to Dylan, and he had done everything in his power to push her away. But for some reason-perhaps she was mentally ill, or a masochist-she had stayed with him every step of the way. Part of him was still convinced that she was only sticking around until the funeral was over, when he would be less likely to relapse into his old habits if she left.
Suddenly, Dylan realized what Jesper had just said. He dragged himself out of his dark thoughts and narrowed his eyes at his old friend. "Wait a minute. Aren't you supposed to have a real girlfriend, too? One you're crazy about?"
Jesper sighed. "It's complicated."
Tank chuckled. "If it's easy, it ain't love."
Dylan snorted. "That might be the wisest thing you've ever said, bro." Being with Melody was as easy as breathing, but being good enough for her was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
"Sometimes it ain't easy and it still isn't love," Jesper said regretfully. Dylan opened his mouth, but Jesper held up a hand to forestall any further discussion on the subject. "We can talk about it later. Today is Snake's day."
Dylan picked up an empty shot glass and held it aloft in a silent toast. Then he resolutely flipped it upside down and placed it back on the table. One by one, the others followed suit, until four of the five shot glasses were sitting upside down before them. They left the fifth one untouched. Snake would never have passed up the opportunity for a drink-and he surely would have been furious with them for choosing to do so-but Dylan was determined that the four remaining members of Dust and Bones would do what he couldn't.
The suits, however, were going to have to go.
**
They had debated over who would speak at the memorial. Dylan had been reluctant to take the responsibility; given the circumstances of Snake's death and his involvement in the crash, he was sure it would only create another media circus. And now that the media was finally easing up on their story, the last thing they wanted to do was draw more attention to themselves. Rip admitted that he wasn't sure if he'd be able to make it through the whole thing without losing it. That left only Tank and Jesper.
"You're always the one who cleans up our messes," Tank had told Jesper. "I'll do it this time. I'll figure out … something to do."
Jesper had refused. "This isn't a mess-this is Snake, and Snake's memorial. And I know exactly what we should do."
The four of them arrived at the funeral home dressed in well-worn blue jeans and dark, long-sleeved T-shirts. Just as they had when they'd honored Emma, they each carried something of significance to Snake. Tank had Snake's lucky guitar pick; Jesper had tied Snake's favorite bandanna around his wrist; Rip wore the silver snake ring that had somehow survived the car accident; and Dylan had a folded piece of paper in his pocket. On it was the last song that Snake had ever written. He'd come up with the lyrics during his stint in rehab, and had shared it with Dylan in their final hours together despite their drunken stupor.