“Yes, thank you.”
He gives me a quick kiss, and leaves the room once more. This time he returns with an acoustic guitar and looks at me, softly saying, “Thank you for coming over.” Then he sits on the couch and holds his pic against the strings, strumming the first few notes of one of my favorite songs.
I put away my plate and step in front of my canvas, using his melodies and inspiration to paint as he plays.
For hours, we exist in our own artistic worlds, not speaking to each other, even though we’re steps away. I even manage to start a new sketch as the first draft of my panting dries, all without talking to him or looking his way.
After he’s played through all the songs from the album of one of our shared bands, I set down my pencil and walk over to the couch, sitting right next to him.
His fingers stop strumming and the music comes to an abrupt end. “What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you keep surprising me,” I say. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I really think you’re short-selling your reputation and talents at school. Maybe if you kept your shirt on more and kept your abs to yourself, I would’ve taken you a lot more seriously before.”
He smiles at that.
“You’re now making better grades than me, and you also play the guitar really well. Why aren’t you in Jazz band? They win awards all the time.”
“A football player in the Jazz band. Yeah, okay. I can think of about twenty reasons why that won’t be happening senior year.”
“You care about what people think? Why?”
“No, and at the moment, I only care about what one particular person thinks.”
“Which person?”
He doesn’t get a chance to answer. At that moment, his dad walks through the front door.
The spitting image of Dean, his salt and pepper colored hair shows under the bright lighting, and he presses his lips into a firm line. He slowly looks between the two of us and throws his keys onto the counter.
“I thought you were going to Michael Easton’s party, Dean,” he says.
“I changed my mind.”
His dad crosses his arms, and the mood in the room begins to shift immediately. There’s now a palpable tension in the air, a tension so thick, I feel like I could cut it with a knife.
“The whole team and coaching staff are there right now discussing the upcoming game.” He glares at Dean. “And four hours ago, did you not call and tell me that you were on your way there?”
“Did you catch the part where I said, I. Changed. My. Mind?”
“So, you lied to me?”
“I didn’t lie.” Dean sets his guitar down and I can feel anger radiating off of him. “I just didn’t update you.”
“You’re starting to get worse and worse about that.” His father clenches his jaw. “You’re still a fucking teenager living under my fucking roof, and you still have to follow my goddamn rules, whether you like it or not.”
I look away from them both, wishing I could somehow disappear.
“Are you done pretending to be a parent now?” Dean stands up. “Don’t you have more women to fuck in the hotel up the street? Aren’t there more boosters you need to steal money from, in exchange for lies that I’ll be going to their programs?”
“What did you just fucking say to me, boy?”
“You heard me.” Dean’s jaw in clenched, too. “I didn’t stutter.”
“Get the fuck out of my house. Go somewhere far where I won’t have to look at you tonight.”
“Gladly.” He grabs my hand and pulls me up with his guitar, leading me back toward the garage.
“And don’t come back through my doors until you’re ready to talk to me like I’m the adult and you’re the goddamn child!”
“I guess you’ll be waiting,” Dean says as he slams the door.
We get into his car and he speeds off at eighty miles an hour, whipping down a winding back-road that seems to lead to nowhere. I don’t dare say anything while he drives like this. I just grab his hand behind the gearshift and squeeze it so he knows he’s not driving alone.
It takes an hour before I start to see signs of civilization again—rental car companies, pay per day parking lots, and then I see signs for the airport.
Finally slowing down, Dean pulls the car under an overpass.
“Come on,” he says, unbuckling my seatbelt. He gets out of the car and lays back against the hood, motioning for me to do the same.
“I’ll be sure to bring you your canvas this week,” he says as a plane takes off above us. “I should’ve grabbed that, too...”