Phil the second he got off. Probably right after Phil kicked me out. Did Phil guess he would show? Has my dad been coming in a lot lately? I need to have another talk with my boss. He’s protecting me again.
“Why aren’t you home with your wife and kids?”
“I’m with my kid,” he says easily. Like he’s not breaking my heart. “Who is it?”
The light changes, and I slam on the accelerator with a bit too much force, slamming us both back in our seats. He curses under his breath and clutches his bag tighter.
“Jimmy Eat World. ‘The Middle.’ Came on to the emocore scene in the late ’90s. Their best song is ‘Hear You Me.’”
“That’s not a fact,” he says.
“Actually. It is. After Grandma Carsewell died, I played it until your CD disintegrated.”
“I always wondered what happened to it.” He’s quiet as I turn in to the upper-middle-class neighborhood he and Jane call home. It’s full of townhomes, the really nice kind. With high association fees and home security systems.
“Clearly, the student deejay is feeling their grunge tonight. Pearl Jam, ‘Daughter,’” I say as I put the car into park in his drive. Sometimes the radio game really gets to the heart of the matter. Marcus sits, staring at his hands as the opening strings of the electric guitar confirm my answer.
“Don’t think I’m too drunk to notice what you’re implying.”
“Oh, please. This is your game, Marcus. You taught me this trick.”
“If you’re going to wield lyrics that way, you’d better know what you’re talking about.”
“And if you’re gonna start lecturing me on music or life, you’d better know what you’re talking about. It’s the name of the song. That’s it. You taught me facts. Just facts. Know the facts. I know them. Thanks. Your job is done here.”
Marcus doesn’t bother saying thanks for the ride. He opens the car door, staggers up his front stoop and into his house without a glance back at me.
Which is for the best. That fucker doesn’t get to see me cry. I know “Daughter” isn’t about me. It’s about a child with a learning disability whose parents beat her for struggling. The story is awful, and I can’t relate to it. But sometimes it’s the feeling of a song you relate to. Marcus doesn’t understand that kind of nuance. He doesn’t get feelings. If he did, maybe we wouldn’t be in this place. His knowing I’m his kid and my not ever getting to feel like it.
17
LUKE
“The world would like you to believe that love is like an Ed Sheeran song. All bare feet in the grass, kissing in the dark, growing old together,” I say into my mic. “But it’s not. I mean. Look at Eddie. The man barely has it together, from the look of it. He’s a poor man’s Rupert Grint who gets revenge on his exes with breakup anthems worthy of TSwift.”
Cullen stares at me, his eyes wide. He opens his mouth to respond but shakes his head. Finally, he says, “Poor man’s Rupert Grint? I think the lad does better than that. What does Rupert have, millions of pounds and an ice cream truck to his name? I’m pretty sure Ed Sheeran has a lady in every district. Perhaps a fella, too, if he’s into that kind of thing, which I sincerely hope he is.”
“He’s married, but that’s not the point.”
“Allegedly,” he scoffs.
“The point is, love’s not like any of that. It’s not some prefabricated song meant for weddings, and it’s not a lay in every city. It’s deeper than that, and I resent the implication that males, regardless of their preferences, aren’t capable of being aware of the difference.”
Cullen leans back in his seat, pulling his mic to him. “So, you’re saying the flowers and the candles and the Hallmark holidays and fancy expensive restaurants aren’t romantic?”
“No, I mean, yeah. Okay. Those can be romantic,” I say, frustrated. “I guess I’m saying it’s not the actions themselves so much as the intention. Just because good ole Eddie sings those sappy songs and looks like he hasn’t showered, everyone thinks he’s so bloody sincere. But he’s not.”
“Okay. I’ll bite. What does make real, sincere love?”
I scrub my hand down my face, thinking. It’s not a hard question. It’s all there, boiling beneath the surface like one of my songs. “Love is … it’s bringing an umbrella when rain is forecasted, but, like, not for you.” I think of our parents. “It’s serenading someone off-key in the kitchen