“Jesse…Jesse…” I let the drumming pick up, and his smile grows more.

  “Rarrrrrrrrr,” I let my own smile shine through, swinging my head from right to left as I create his stadium-worthy crowd of diner fans with my whispered chants. His body relaxes as his hands come up to cup my face. I bite my lip.

  “You are wonderful,” he says, closing the tight space between us, pressing his lips to mine. He takes my top lip in his and sucks lightly. I let out a small chant again that causes his mouth to smile against me. His laughter is a soft tickle on my lips.

  “I don’t deserve you, but you are wonderful,” he says.

  I grip at his shirt and rest my chin on his chest, glaring up at him like a smitten fool. He looks down and kisses me again. For this tiny moment in time, I’ve made him forget that his father exists. Now I just need to get him on that stage and through thirty minutes of performing.

  I start to walk backward and lead him with me, careful not to look at his father, even more cautious to keep Jesse’s eyes forward. His fan club helps, one girl even going so far as to reach out and snag her fingers in the belt loop of his jeans as I coax him back to the stage. I shoot her a glare but she’s oblivious to me. Everyone is oblivious to me…well, except for the mayor.

  Rag glances from me to Jesse and back, stepping in close while I find my position behind the drums.

  “He gonna be able to do this?” He nods his head to the side, over his shoulder, where Alton has found a cozy corner and a stool.

  “Hope so,” I say through a plastered-on grin.

  I’m not going to lie to Rag. Not when Jesse could go either way. For the moment, though, I have faith. He’s repositioned the mic and has swung his guitar strap around his neck. He unscrews the lid from a bottle of water nestled near my bass drum and gulps down nearly half, then sets it down before lifting his head and letting out a deep breath. His eyes meet mine and the uncertainty is still there so I blow him a kiss. It’s cheesy, and it makes him laugh and cringe a little. If this were about me trying to impress him, I would be upset by his reaction, but I’m trying to distract him so I own it—all lame-ass five seconds worth.

  He nods to me, and I clutch my sticks and move my chin with his. It’s a silent count.

  One. Two.

  One, two, three…

  His eyes close as he turns, guitar slung behind his back in that sexy way that’s meant for movie posters and pin-ups in Teen Beat. I get to be his heartbeat tonight. I’m his fuel, and I feel it in my veins the moment his lips brush against the mic and his magical words start to flow. We always planned to start with this song—the one about his dad. It doesn’t have an official title. We tried brainstorming something new to call it at rehearsal but then Jesse walked out. He said he was worried Bury Me Holy was too pretentious. It’s his song to label, and I don’t think anyone cares what it’s called anyway. They just care about the way he’s cupping the mic in his palms and spitting out lyrics so hard and fast with so much heartbreak and truth.

  I get louder. His arms let go of the mic, palms stretching out farther, then elbows bending as he holds his head and sings and speaks with so much authority. His break is coming. I’m going to make sure everyone feels it.

  I build. Rag turns to catch my eyes. We nod, and Jesse’s breath is almost out and then boom!

  It happens just like that. Jesse falls back on his heels, guitar swung around to his front, fingers finding home and sound rattling every board and brick that holds this building together. His hair is damp with sweat already, and it’s because this song—of everything we plan to play tonight—is the one that drains him. It’s why he wanted to do it first. The rest will be a “piece of cake” he said.

  He turns while he plays, and his eyes are hazed, gone to the music. Our gazes pass, but they’re more like strangers right now. It’s okay. He’s giving everything to this moment, and I know it isn’t about the gig or wanting to impress a bunch of middle-class private-school girls. It’s because this is his chance to hurt Alton. It’s more than the words he wrote—the lyrics he’s singing—though they’re damning; if anyone in here knows the link between Jesse and the old man propped up in the corner, they’ll shake their heads in shame. No, this is about being better, and bigger, than his father ever was.

  This moment right now is his way of showing where the talent really lives. Alton Barringer became famous on a one-hit piece of schlock.

  His unwanted son is an artist.

  People have gotten to their feet, the row of girls all at the edge of the stage with their hands in the air. Our sound and his words have moved people, and I’m sure the people who live in this community thought they were just coming out for a fun evening of free family entertainment. But they’re getting schooled in the heartbreak of dysfunction.

  “Lithium. Selenium. Opium. Consortium. Sanitorium. White coats and chains and needles take away the pain. It’s a loathsome box of court docs, chock-full of actuals and realities, not the fantasies you peddle to the media to get your name in print for people to remember that one day long ago you mattered. But you didn’t really, just fake shit and feelings that you learned to copy when you needed money from people you should have loved. You should have loved me.”

  The sound breaks away. It’s just as we rehearsed. Jesse’s breath is powerful. It’s visible in his sweat-soaked body and chest that heaves to come back for one last kill. I kick it hard, arms pounding, toms building sound until I’m literally touching every drum with speed. It’s a barrage of sound and bullets. It’s about as far as we can get from a Christmas song, but the reason for the gig was just that—a reason. We’ll get to their snowflakes and warm fuzzies. Right now, we have a heart to pierce.

  “You should have loved me.” Jesse’s voice rasps out the tag one final time, our sound dying out in a buzz of electricity. The people under the age of twenty scream and shout for more. Most of the other people in the diner look like they’ve witnessed a crime. It’s as it should be, all kinda perfect.

  I look at Alton so Jesse doesn’t have to, and when he moves right into the next song, a poppy cover from the latest Lotus hit, I’m relieved that he doesn’t get sucked into his dad’s aura. It would be so easy. I’ve never met the man, and I’m glued to him. The thing that strikes me isn’t the fact that he’s still here. He’s never been the kind of guy to shy away when people lay his baggage out for judgment. His collapse was epically public, and there are things that have been on front pages of tabloids about him that would turn ninety-nine-point-nine percent of people into hermits for life. Alton just shows up on talk shows to own up to them.

  What gets me is the fact that he’s smiling. It isn’t fake, or there to show his son that he didn’t break him. I’m not sure the man is capable of being broken. I think he’s the reason the phrase “I’m rubber and you’re glue” was created. Alton Barringer is smiling because he’s proud. He’s smiling because he sees something, because Jesse did something tonight. He showed his true colors and his talent, and it is so very real.

  And he wants to exploit it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The nervous energy in the house has a scent to it—it’s burnt brisket and green beans.

  Jesse’s mom, Amanda, has not stopped moving around her kitchen since I arrived. Dinner, it seems, is a big deal to be invited to. Jesse said they haven’t had a real family dinner in maybe a year, but his mom had the day off and wanted to “meet the girl he’s been spending time with.”

  His sister is showing off. It’s sweet. She keeps holding out one of her earbuds to me every few minutes to hear another song on her playlist. That’s how my generation seeks approval—by accepting one another’s taste in music. AmberLynn’s is exactly as it should be. Lots of girl-power infused song after song. She seems to like P!nk quite a bit. Jesse made fun of it, but I shut him down.

  “P!nk is such a great female role model, and she weaves important positive messages in her songs, and she lives this unapologetic life and doesn’t subscribe to being like or looking like everybody else,” I said.

  Jesse conceded to my argument, and when he went back to helping his baby brother Conner put together a LEGO warship, AmberLynn and I high-fived.

  The food smells done, but Amanda is trying to make the table look just right. I’m doing my best to stay out of the way. I offered to help three times, and the last time I spoke up she seemed really edgy. I think she just wants the space to figure it out on her own.

  Jesse’s sister hands me her phone and earbuds to listen to another song. I don’t recognize this one, so I listen for several long seconds. The beat is solid—unique, too. I smile at her and bob my head.

  “This is pretty tight. I like it,” I say, handing her earbuds back to her. She grins proudly.

  “Thanks. It’s my friend’s demo. She’s trying to get on one of those shows where famous people vote for you and coach you to become a superstar. She wrote it,” she says, her smile falling a little.

  “Wow. That’s impressive. Is she in your grade?” I ask.

  AmberLynn nods and rolls her cord around her phone.

  “I tried writing some stuff…like Jesse does. I suck, though.” Her eyes flit up to me briefly then fall back to her hands. She exhales, and I get it. She’s surrounded by musical talent and feels the pressure of competition.

  “Your brother told me you were really good on the ice,” I say, pulling from my memory of when he told me she was at her ice skating lesson.

  Her gaze snaps up to mine, a flicker of light in her eyes and curve to her lips.

  “I’m in training,” she says proudly.

  “Wow,” I say with wider eyes.

  She nods and unravels her phone again, this time opening up her photos app to show me pictures and short video clips of her doing spins and axels. She managed to land a single, and I compliment her form.

  “You skate?” There’s hope in her eyes. I wonder if she’s made any friends since they moved here… It’s harder on a girl—being new. I swear it is.

  “I used to,” I say, handing her phone back. “I wasn’t very good. I wanted to go to the Olympics though.”

  She lights up. I knew this was one of her fantasies too. She doesn’t need to hear how hard it is, or how late she’s starting in the game. She just needs to share her goal with someone and celebrate it.

  “Me, too!” She beams.

  “Well,” I say, standing and pushing in my stool near the counter. “I hope you make it. I’d love to sit in the stands and watch you perform.”

  “Okay,” she says, more energy to her words than I’ve heard since I arrived.

  Jesse swoops around me, close enough for our hips to brush into one another purposefully.

  “Dinner is served,” he says, over his shoulder.

  He’s wearing his Bowie T-shirt with a hole torn in the right sleeve and black joggers that hug his hips and push up on his calves. His hair flops in all directions, and he blows it from his eyes every few seconds. I showed up in a dress. My mom insisted I wear one out of respect, but I’m the only person in this house wearing shoes. I think I missed the mark a little. At least it’s not a very formal dress—an oversized men’s shirt, actually, with a tie for a belt and my yellow chucks over my black tights.

  “Mom? Can I say grace?” Conner lisps as he pulls his heavy chair away from their dining table. Nothing in this room matches. It’s a pieced-together set, and Jesse gave me the most comfortable chair—the one with arms and padding.

  “Have at it, kid,” Amanda says.

  We all pull our seats away and awkwardly join hands around the table. We don’t do this at our house, so I’m sure my fingers are twitching nervously. I know my palms are sweating, especially the one holding Jesse’s mom’s hand.

  “Dear God, thank you for our food—except the green beans because we don’t have a dog, so I have to eat them. My brother’s girlfriend has a dog. Maybe we could get a dog, like her dog, or bigger because her dog is really small. It’s yappy. That’s what Mom says.”

  “Amen,” Amanda cuts in. She lets go of my hand abruptly and clears her throat as she starts feverishly cutting at the brisket.

  “My dad doesn’t really like our dog either…for what it’s worth,” I say, glancing sideways at Jesse’s mom. She stops cutting, laying the fork and knife down quickly and immediately dropping her forehead to the table.

  “I’m sure it’s a really cute dog. I work nights, and sometimes I say things when I’m grumpy that apparently young ears hear.” She lifts her head, her blonde hair spilling around her face, framing it with her blunt curls.

  “She is cute, but her barking is incessant. If it’s ever driving you nuts, feel free to knock on the front window. She gets scared easily, and she’ll spend two hours hiding under the sofa.

  Amanda smirks at me and picks up the knife and fork again with a nod.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  My chest eases with the breath I was holding. I want this woman to like me. It’s this need of acceptance I have, and I’m not sure why it’s so strong, but it is. She cuts a few slices of meat and offers them to me first. I take them, along with the scoop of beans that comes next, and busy myself with salt and pepper and butter—all things Jesse pushes toward me, hinting that I’ll need them.

  “You guys do family dinners at your house, Arizona?” She questions me while she serves her family.

  “Not a lot. If anything, we do breakfast. There’s not a lot of crossover with our schedules,” I say.

  “Her parents own that mailbox place over on Main…Zoom,” Jesse says, almost proud of this fact.

  “Yeah, real entrepreneurs,” I joke.

  I’m the only one that laughs.

  I look back down at my food and pick at the best-looking parts, pushing the rest around my plate. I notice AmberLynn starts to do the same thing. Before long, Conner has formed his dinner into a smiley face on his plate. Jesse’s mom cleans hers then puts her utensils down and folds her hands, resting her chin on her knuckles and nodding to her youngest son’s creation.

  “Don’t come whining to me tonight when you’re starving. That’s perfectly good food you’ve just turned into arts and crafts.” She shoots her child a wry smile. He’s too young to understand her sarcasm.

  “To be fair, Mom, it isn’t quite perfectly good.” Jesse swirls his last bite of meat around his plate and stuffs it in his mouth, chewing with his lips barely closed and exaggerating how hard it is to work his jaw.

  “Jesse Andrew Barringer, I believe you know how to work a stove,” his mom fires back, throwing her wadded-up napkin at him. He starts to laugh through his full mouth, then stands finally and steps behind her, wrapping his long arms around her thin frame and hugging her from behind. He presses his lips to the top of her head, and the show of affection sinks deep in my core.

  “I love you, Mom.” He means it. I mean it when I say it to my parents, too, but for whatever reason, witnessing these two have a simple moment makes me feel like something in my world is missing.

  Jesse stays on his feet, and as his brother and sister finish their plates, or at least come close, he takes them to the sink to rinse for the dishwasher. I carry my own in, but he beats me to the chance to clean up after his mom. He’s so sweet to her. I instantly think of a younger him standing up for her.

  “They say a girl should take note of the way a boy treats his mom,” I say to him as I drop my plate into the sink for him to rinse.

  “Oh yeah? And do I pass this test?” He chuckles, as if he’s expecting me to say he fails.

  I loop my arm through his and squeeze it.

  “With flying colors,” I say, kissing his bicep.

  “You never said how the show went last night,” his mom has crept in behind us and we both jump a little with surprise. She catches our flinch and laughs. “Relax. I’ve seen teenagers hold hands and kiss before. I have three kids, ya know.”

  Jesse scrunches his eyes closed and mouths “gross.”

  “Well? How did it go? Did you kill? Did you play that song you said Arizona just makes better?” His mom’s compliment was said to embarrass her son, but I’m the one who’s blushing. Jesse’s lips pucker in an attempt to hold back his smile.

  “Yeah, we played it. And yeah, it killed,” he says, flitting his eyes to me. “And yes, you made that song way better.”

  I squint at him, still feeling the heat.

  “I know I do,” I say. It helps break the attention.

  “Oh, I like her,” his mom says. She pulls out a coffee maker from the corner of their counter and begins to fill it with water and grounds. She cocks an eyebrow to me, asking if I want a cup, but I shake my head. I don’t love coffee.

  “You better not. We see Dr. Lowell tomorrow morning, and he’s already on both of our asses about the amount of caffeine I let you have and your sleep deprivation,” she says, making enough for one large cup.

  “It’s fine,” Jesse says, agreeing with her and smiling with tightly closed lips.

  His mom pats her son’s cheek then leaves the room while her coffee percolates. I try to piece together the full picture based on what she said and her son’s reaction, but when I can’t, I just come out and ask. We’re well past the point of me being afraid to say things to him. He’s seen me naked.

  “Are you sick?”

  Jesse shakes with a short laugh as he shuts the dishwasher door and presses a few buttons.

  “No,” he says with crinkled eyes and a dimpled smile. “Well…” He looks off to the side and folds his arms over his chest, crossing his ankles and leaning against the counter behind him. “Actually, I guess so, but it’s not really sick. No sicker than the rest of the fucking world, I guess. I have a lot of…”

  He taps his fingertips on his right hand against the side of his head.

  “Headaches?” I know what he means, but I suddenly feel like I’m prying.

  “No, mental health issues. I’m a lot like my dad, without the cocaine addiction.” His mouth ticks up with a pathetic and short laugh.

  I try to respond quickly, to show support, but my words come out wrong.