Where his father’s energy practically jumps from the portrait, his mother seems very calm. The phrase “opposites attract” pops into mind when you look at them.
On the other end of the huge fireplace mantel is a framed, handwritten note, and notes like that seem too personal to share with strangers, yet it’s displayed, so I step closer to read it.
Forever Four,
I want to find the damn kid who was picked on because he wasn’t cool enough to hang. The one who, instead of banging the cheer captain, went home and finger-fucked his guitar or banged his drums like he wanted to bang the football captain’s girl.
I want the kid who went to bed every goddamn night with headphones on, listening to his favorite songs to escape the reality of an abusive or absent father.
I want the girl who wasn’t good enough to hang with the “it” crowd, who dove into the piano, letting her fingers tickle the ivory while she created perfection, because she is fucking good enough.
I want the guy dressed in all black to have his voice and the notes he belts out to be his ultimate orgasm.
I want the people who were told they couldn’t be shit to live and breathe something other than a twisted-up blunt. I want their high to be the notes, the melodies, the beats, the songs that live inside them. I want them to be who they are and be seen. Not who some stuffy-ass production company suit told them they were.
I want to be the one to help them find who they are before they walk onto a stage where someone tells them they can’t.
I wanna show them they can.
X
… and so we did,
Irish
“He’s passionate.”
I startle when I hear Patrick’s voice coming from upstairs. Then I look up and nod.
He gestures for me to come up then disappears down the hallway upstairs without giving me a chance to say no.
I shrug off the blanket, no longer freezing but still chilled, and look for a place to set it down. I don’t want to ruin the wood, or the leather furniture, so I decide on the granite countertop that divides the living room area and the kitchen that seriously looks like it came out of one of those magazines that Mom used to flip through.
A kitchen that I would love to learn to cook in.
I physically step back, as if to separate from the thought, feeling a tinge of guilt, because I wasn’t raised to want material things. But now that all seems like a lie.
Upstairs, I follow the sound of music. I hear tambourine mixed in and smile sadly at a memory of my last life. I follow the sound as the chorus begins. “Ophelia.”
Inside a massive room, with whites and grays, and another fireplace, with another huge TV hung over it, I almost feel like I’m intruding even more so than I am … until I see trophies on floating shelves on one wall and guitars, so many guitars, hanging on another.
“You play an instrument?”
Again, he startles me, which is absolutely ridiculous since I know he’s in here.
I shake my head as I walk over to the trophies—baseball and talent contests.
“Are you going to play baseball?” I ask, looking at the team picture beside each baseball trophy, easily picking him out. He’s a head taller, slightly broader, and smiling.
“Nah, Amias and Justice are. Max wants to join the surf team, so I’m gonna do that with him.”
“Join band?” I ask, eliciting a chuckle.
I look back at him, and he shrugs, rolls his eyes, and fights not to give off an arrogant smirk.
He finally says, “Nah, I’m good. You on any teams or in any clubs?”
“Yeah.” I turn toward him. “Team Bean.”
He scrubs his hand over his face, and I assume he thinks he’s hiding the grin.
“You do know a bean is not a part of a woman’s—”
“I’m aware.” He nods behind him. “There are clothes in there, and a bath, if you want to warm up. Just be careful; the water may be too hot.”
“I’ve been bathing alone since I was four, I think I understand how to control the temperature.”
He pushes off the wall and grins as he walks toward the door. “Good. Get warmed up, and then you and I are going to destroy some struffoli and maybe bust out the mostacciolo.”
“Stru what?” I ask.
He calls over her shoulder, “Trust me, Savannah; it’s good shit.”