ibling sucked.
“Man, give him a shot,” Guillermo was saying when she turned around again. “We all screw up. And how shitty is it to judge him based on his sister? Uncool, Dave.”
“I know it sounds bad.” Dave sounded tortured. “I don’t want to be that guy. I’m just trying to be practical. I swear I’m not trying to be an asshole.”
“How are either of us supposed to prove anything to you if you don’t give us a chance?” Emme breathed in like she did before a song, channeling her frustration out on the exhale, imagining it spinning off into the distance like a sustained note. “I promise I won’t seduce the new bass player. I’ll make him promise his sister won’t cause problems for us. If we fuck it up …”
“I’ll leave the tour.” Dave looked her straight in the eyes. “I’m serious, Emily. I’m willing to give y’all the chance, but if you fuck it up, I’m done.”
Emme nodded. “That’s your choice. So we’re decided?”
Tom didn’t drive straight home. He detoured to the park nearest his house, parked his car, and walked for a while as the sky stained orange, then purple. He sat on a bench, watching two fat pigeons fight over a discarded coffee cup, and smoked nearly half a pack of cigarettes until his nervous energy had been replaced by a nicotine hum. Going home would mean facing Katie; it would mean telling Katie that he planned to leave, and then who would she call when she needed money, a ride, a trip to the emergency room? Going on tour would mean managing his business from the road, checking in with his managers and his staff regularly and letting go of the tight hold he’d kept on the bar since his father died.
But god, he wanted to make music again, and he wanted to make music with Emme. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so good; maybe when he was twelve years old and J.R. had asked him to sit in with him on a set.
Inside his pocket, his cell phone buzzed again. It could be Katie, needing rescue. Or it could be Emme, with good news. He told himself his hands were trembling from nicotine overload and not desperation as he pulled his phone from his pocket.
YOU’RE IN, the message read.
How fucking long had it been, since he’d been part of anything? Since his life had looked like something other than just a repeat of his father’s days, without the warm numbness of alcohol to ease it along? Since he’d had a chance to feel optimistic—hell, to feel anything other than a sense of perpetual duty?
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything just for himself. Maybe back before J.R. died. Certainly long before his father had died. Maybe not even then.
He slid his phone back into his jacket. Funny how those two words made everything feel just a little bit lighter.