Perfect Tunes - Emily Gould Page 0,35
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“Shove it in my face, why don’t you!” The hissing was turning into screaming. Dylan’s father came up behind her and put a soothing hand on her forearm.
“I’m fine! I’m fine! Don’t touch me!” she shrieked at him.
“It’s almost time for us to address everyone,” he said evenly to Daisy. Laura, grateful for his interruption, murmured that she was sorry for his loss.
He nodded and smiled wryly at her, seeming anesthetized, very far away. Still, because it seemed important to have said it, Laura tried to stammer something about how much she had loved Dylan.
Without warning, Daisy grabbed Laura by the shoulders and shook her. “Loved! Loved! You don’t know what love is, you little whore! You think you loved my son? He came from my body. My body! I made him! And now he’s dead! You have no idea! No idea!”
Warm flecks of Daisy’s spit were on Laura’s cheeks. She turned away, shaking. Dylan’s father made eye contact with Laura—briefly, maybe apologetically—and led Daisy away. Laura wiped her face with a bar napkin and drank the second vodka tonic even more quickly than she had the first.
A couple of minutes later, they were on the small stage. The microphone shrieked as Dylan’s father began to speak. He thanked everyone for coming and said some things in a monotone about how Dylan had been talented and special. That his band had been important to him, and that he had been proud of his son for pursuing his dream, even though he didn’t always understand his choices. That what had happened was tragic, and an accident, and that accidents happen all the time, and no one knows why but that we have to be comfortable not knowing, and it’s just part of the great mystery of life. He didn’t mention God. Laura had a flash of something like envy; she thought of how her own family would have responded to a death like this, how they would have twisted things around until they could convince themselves that it had been the Lord’s will. Dylan’s dad seemed like a smart, reasonable guy.
She looked over at Daisy, standing beside him. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot and her wet mouth hung open like a frenzied dog’s. As scary as Daisy was, Laura sympathized with her, too. She also wanted someone to blame for Dylan’s death, because of how uncomfortable it was to blame Dylan. But the thing was, it had been Dylan’s fault. He’d been cavalier with everything—the feelings of people who cared about him, his possessions, his career, and ultimately, his life. Laura wished more than anything that she could see him again, smell his cigarette-sweat rankness as he bent down toward her to embrace her. But she also knew that he had been kind of an asshole. If he’d lived, he would have found another way to leave her that would have been just as final as this one. Of course she still loved him, though. How could she not?
Dylan’s father embraced each member of the Clips as they traded places on the stage, but Daisy pointedly did not. Callie materialized near Laura and pulled her gently by the arm as they, too, climbed onstage. They huddled with Davey, who handed Laura Dylan’s guitar. “I know you don’t want to play, but do it for him. It would mean a lot,” Davey said.
“What song are we even going to play?” Laura whispered. “It’s going to be a disaster, I’ve never sung any of these before,”
“Whatever you want. What’s the first song you ever heard him sing?”
It was the one she’d heard on the night they’d met, the one that had initially put her under his spell. She flashed on the memory of making eye contact with him outside, of the feeling she’d had of wanting to touch the skin that showed through the holes in his shirt. The skin that was now incinerated. Laura’s stomach lurched. Those drinks had been much too strong; she hadn’t eaten breakfast.
Still, she and Callie stood in front of the band as they played the opening notes. Callie started singing the doleful verse, and Laura began to harmonize with her, making the song sound less bombastic and more sad than its original version. For a minute, it seemed like everything was going to go okay, but then Laura’s stomach roiled again and she felt sweaty all over. She made eye contact with Callie, whispered “Sorry,” then ran offstage.
Outside the bar, she puked watery spatter against the