We Have Till Monday

I’d checked out the map of the festival online and was looking forward to exploring several of the nearly four hundred vendors.

Maybe I could even get a decent slice of pizza around here.

There was something about sunshine and the strong smell of barbecue that always brightened my mood.

Before I reached the gates, I finished my smoke and texted Nicky to let him know I was ready to eat my body weight in meat.

It was still early enough that I didn’t have to wait in line to get in, and I handed over the ticket August had set aside for me and was given a rubber wristband. I’d just show it at the entrance of each serving area, and I could pick up my goodie bag at the exit before I left today.

Before we got in our trucks earlier, August had mentioned that his flagship restaurant here in Nashville had donated promotional Parmesan knives to the VIP attendants that I would want to get my hands on. I didn’t even know Parmesan required its own knife, but I loved cheese, and I wouldn’t mind a special knife to slice it with.

In the wide entrance, I accepted a pamphlet from someone with “Volunteer” on her tee, and it turned out to be the map I’d already looked at online. But this was good. When Nicky and I brought Nonna and Pop to food festivals back home, Nonna always wanted a list at hand so she could circle the vendors she intended to visit.

“Fuck yeah,” I murmured to myself, scanning the map. Soon as the cooking class was over, I was gonna start with Texas Row. An entire section of the festival dedicated to food from the Lone Star State.

I wasn’t sure I should venture into the area called New York, New York, though. There were vendors selling Italian food—among the cuisines from other cultures, to represent the melting pot I’d grown up in—but unless the vendors actually came from New York, I was skeptical.

I’d seen what pizza from California looked like. Fuckin’ white sauce…

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I quickly checked my watch to make sure I wasn’t late. Still good on time, thankfully. I was to report to Clara Pierce on platform two, row fourteen, in twenty minutes. I assumed August was already there.

Having expected a response from Nicky, I was a little surprised to see my latest-added contact had texted me.

Camden.

Hi, Sir. I checked the festival website and wonder if you can get me some mini donuts from Pearl’s on row 17 before you come home? I don’t wanna bother Daddy when he’s working. Otherwise I would have messaged him instead, sorry. Hugs and kisses.

This kid was putting my ticker in a fucking vise.

I responded right away.

You can text me whenever, ragazzo. Of course I’ll pick up some donuts for you. Let me know if there’s anything else you want.

He should be here. It didn’t feel right that he had to stay home just because he was regressing. It was a huge festival. Maybe he could stay away from August’s spot during his events, but mannaggia, why couldn’t I pick up Camden after the cooking class? We could steer clear of row fourteen.

Camden’s reply consisted of approximately a dozen emojis, ranging from heart-eyes and wide smiles to hearts and a princess crown. Then an all-caps “THANK YOU, SIR” popped up.

I chuckled to myself and pocketed my phone. I might as well make my way over to the event.

Chapter 9

Washed by the Water - II

“What’re you doing?” I chuckled, out of breath, and side-eyed Nicky.

He was arguing with the strap on his guitar, that’s what he was doing.

Nicky replied in his own mic. “I wanted to change this damn—fuck! There. Finally.”

The crowd was thoroughly amused, and it sparked an idea. If there was one thing Nicky and I loved, preferably up on my rooftop terrace on a warm summer night, it was a nice, long jamming session.

I improvised a teasing, playful lick to get his attention, and he smirked lazily and raised a brow.

Let’s go, little brother.

I bobbed my head to the beat and advanced, easing into an unhurried solo where I plucked, strummed, and tinkered. Letting the music set the course. Or my thoughts, maybe. How I felt. And given that we were in the South… Nothing fit better than an ode to the musicians I’d grown up idolizing, starting with B.B. King.

For the next couple minutes, Nicky and I unclenched and let go of the setlist. One solo set off another. Our guitars spoke to each other, and we moved closer to each other and got lost in the rhythm.

Luiz and Chris improvised alongside us.

Nicky made his guitar wail for a beat, and I responded by taking us from bluesy notes to a funk-like tempo that got Luiz going.