Raveling You(5)

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.



“Lyric, please don’t be upset,” he pleads. “This has nothing to do with your ability.”



“Of course it doesn’t.” I pop a chunk of the cookie into my mouth and raise my chin in confidence. “You’ve never really heard me sing. And I mean really sing. Because, if you did, you’d be overlooking your overprotective father thing you’ve got going on right now and let me own your opening.”



He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. I’ve struck him speechless, which was exactly what I was hoping for, even though I’m totally being overconfident. Our band doesn’t even have a name, at least one we all agree on, and we haven’t played anywhere other than inside the four walls of Sage’s garage. But confidence can carry you a long way. Believe in yourself, and other people will, too. At least, I’m hoping that’s where this conversation goes.



“And P.S.,” I add, “a fantabulous Christmas tree is waiting in the back of Uncle Ethan’s truck for you.”



I walk out of the kitchen, leaving my father to stew in his thoughts, and go upstairs to take a shower. Afterward, I blow-dry my long, blonde hair straight, apply some kohl eyeliner, and then tug on a pair of black torn jeans and a red shirt. It’s nearing eight o’clock by the time I finish getting ready.



I glance out the window at Ayden’s bedroom. The lights are on, with the curtains shut. He’s kept them consistently closed for the last week, and I often wonder if he’s hiding something behind them. I could be overanalyzing his distant behavior, but I don’t know... There have been moments since his brother died when he’ll suddenly announce he has to go home, even if we’re in the middle of a movie or at band practice. He always goes into his bedroom and locks the door; at least, that’s what I heard Aunt Lila whispering to my mother the other day.



“I’m getting worried,” she said while they were unloading Christmas presents from the car, “about what he’s doing in there. Like, maybe drugs.”



They didn’t know I was listening from the garage, but I stepped out and gave them my input. “He’s not on drugs. You guys are overreacting. He probably just needs his space.” I didn’t bother mentioning that Ayden and I technically get high on secondhand smoke every other night at band practice since Sage insists he plays better when the garage is being hotboxed.



As I’m gazing out the window, I suddenly notice something odd on the sidewalk below. A middle-aged bald guy with a beer gut and a gnarly looking scar on his jawline is walking his dog. He pauses in front of the Gregorys’ home and stares at the house. He could easily be gawking at the freshly hung twinkling lights and decorations, but his attention lingers on Ayden’s bedroom window for far too long in my opinion. Then the man scurries away, tugging his dog along with him.



I make a mental note to mention the guy to my mother when I see her later tonight. I’m sure he is just some random dude being a gawker. But, with how worried everyone’s been lately and with the police telling Lila to keep a closer eye on Ayden, it feels imperative to at least bring it up.



After the guy vanishes, I turn from the window and collect my phone from my dresser to text Ayden.



Me: U about ready to get this funfest on the road?



Ayden: Yeah, I’ll be over in like ten. I’m in the middle of something.



Even though we’re already running late, I don’t push him to hurry his butt up. I slip on my leather jacket, tuck my phone into the pocket, and pop in my earbuds. I crank up a little “For You, And Your Denial” by Yellowcard and flop down on my bed with my notebook I jot lyrics in.



Despite how collected I am around Ayden, my composure crumbles and splatters across the pages the moment I pick up a pen. Penning lyrics has become my outlet and my sanctuary, a time when I feel okay not being so cheery and smiley.