I get comfortable and look to Rag for my cue to begin. He starts to nod, and I begin to clap my sticks. Jesse’s body teems with the buildup and he jumps with his guitar, feet hitting the ground right as we all strike and sound clears away any remaining voices but Jesse’s. In one note and one breath, we have commanded the attention of five hundred people. Nobody is leaving here without falling in love with this man who is about to make love to the microphone and fill ears with magic.

  And the thief already in love with him in the back is going to have to get through me.

  Jesse didn’t want to change a thing from our last performance. It was perfect then and it will be perfect now. He asked that we bring “extra.” The electricity firing down my arms makes me believe we are. Everything suddenly feels easy, as if I’ve been playing these songs and we’ve been a band for years.

  We don’t even have a fucking name yet.

  The marquee read JESSE BARRINGER AND BAND, which I actually thought was kinda cool. Jesse said it didn’t give enough credit to the rest of us.

  We rip through the first song. Jesse’s gold—written with nothing but hate for the man sitting in a VIP section, now ready to strike his estranged son a deal. It’s so twisted, but I think it’s that bitterness that is fueling Jesse right now. There’s visceral hatred melting from his lips with every word he sings-slash-speaks. This song is so different from the rest we’ll play. It’s primal, and angry. It has people on their feet, and by the time the chorus comes around for a second pass, the entire venue is shouting with him.

  “You should have loved me!”

  Jesse’s voice breaks at the last note, and I bet most people in here think it’s all part of the performance—an act. I know that it’s just him, though, letting the weight of it all hurt. It’s him giving “extra” and bleeding on this stage for a dream he’s selling his soul to the devil for. Jealous or not, I love him for his passion.

  His eyes meet mine when he turns his back to the audience. His eyes close and his face is pained. This performance was hard—that song more than most. His eyes open and he wipes the sweat from his brow, his hair damp and falling over one eye. He moves closer to me while his guitar echoes out from the last note it held. He grabs one of the water bottles and twists the cap, drinking half of it down while women scream and whistle behind him. His form is a silhouette in the smoke and lights to them, but I get to see him for who he really is.

  Our eyes meet and I read the desperation as his chest rises and falls, trying to find a normal pattern again. There won’t be one for the thirty minutes. Hell, there may have never been a normal pattern for Jesse at all.

  I nod, and forget the cold shoulder I was so desperate to hold onto over some girl and a joint smoked in a parking lot. His lips mouth a faint “I love you,” and I kick the bass as the lights go out; we get ready to kill the next three songs in a row.

  This is the kind of place we belong. It’s the kind of spotlight Jesse deserves. Even Logan looks bigger up here. We fight through a few sound glitches, a blown mic, and an original song that just didn’t grab people the same way Jesse’s first one did. The crowd is fickle, but they always come back. I think it’s because Jesse is hard not to watch. He’s beautiful wreckage. It’s what we all are in our own strange ways.

  And as his mouth moves a breath away from the mic to close out what will likely go down as the best extra the four of us have ever given, I realize those words are exactly who we are. That’s the band name.

  Jesse’s guitar drones out the final notes of “Sweet Jane,” and I ready myself to answer for him when the producer asks who it is he’s supposed to sign to this life-changing deal.

  Beautiful Wreckage.

  We all have our own lakes.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I went home with my parents—not because it was a bar or because they were being nice letting me play here, even though the place was swimming with pot smoke, fake IDs, and dumb bar fights. I left with them because they came to see me play and it felt so good to do what I love in front of them, and I wanted to float a little longer. I wanted the ride home with two proud people who love me.

  I want us to heal the right way.

  It was midnight by the time we got home, and my parents kept me up until one thirty playing records, telling me stories about how they met in college in Oregon, how they partied just as hard as the people in that bar. I listened and they talked and it was wonderful and real with one heavy, painful omission—Ella.

  We all danced around it. I’m just as much to blame, because I only used group pronouns like us and we. I’m not sure if it was the same for them, but for me, I didn’t want my sister’s name to slow us down. We were doing so well.

  This morning, though…I’m ready to talk.

  My phone is glowing with text messages from Jesse and Sam. My best friend wants to make sure I’m okay, to talk about how hot Rag is, to find out if we were good enough to get a reality show deal. Jesse is just anxious. His texts are single words; the longest one: NOTHING YET.

  His hoodie is hanging from my doorknob, so I pull myself from bed and slip into it, finger-combing the tangles from my hair and slipping on my three-days-worn pair of jeans. They’re the perfect softness, even if they smell of smoke and weed and bar sweat.

  I call Jesse because I want to hear his voice. The last thing I heard from him last night was the end of “Sweet Jane.” I told him I was leaving with my parents and he nodded, then instantly became swallowed whole by fame and adoration.

  It barely rings when he answers.

  “You’re probably waiting for a call more important than mine,” I say, picturing him pacing, staring at his phone for a text from that producer guy.

  “There is no call more important than yours,” he says.

  Well damn. That answer was all kinds of the right thing to say.

  “Oh,” I hum.

  I chew at my thumb nail and hold my other arm around my middle, hugging myself…pretending it’s Jesse.

  “I missed you last night,” he says.

  I smile to myself because that, too, is nice to hear. He wasn’t good company last night, though. He was high, and stressed, and angry and happy all at once. He was a dangerous cocktail.

  “Sorry. I wanted the time with my parents,” I say.

  He breathes. It takes him a while to speak again.

  “I’m glad they came.” While that might be true, I don’t think it’s what he wants to say. I haven’t said the things I really want to either—not all of them, at least.

  “I’m so proud of you, Jesse.” That’s what he needs to hear right now. Not questions about some girl that might even be a figment of my imagination, or about if he’s really sure this—a deal that touches his father so closely—is a good idea.

  “Thanks…” his voice lingers.

  I don’t want to be the one to hang up, so I hold on to the quiet connection with him for as long as I can. Finally, he says goodbye.

  “I promise I’ll call as soon as I hear anything. I’ll be with Rag most of the day, but if you’re around later…maybe we could…”

  “Yes,” I cut in.

  He chuckles.

  “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

  “Yes to whatever it is. It’s just yes,” I giggle. I curl into myself, feeling the giddiness of being a flirty, crushing girl. I like this feeling so much more than the jealous one.

  “All right, so I’ll come find you to help me nail tiles on the roof later then. About five, sound good?” He baits me and I simmer on his words for a beat before calling him out.

  “Bullshit,” I say.

  “You said whatever it is,” he laughs.

  “I guess if you want to waste your time with me on roofing nails, Jesse Barringer, that’s your prerogative. But I was thinking about maybe getting naked. So…I guess I’ll borrow my dad’s work gloves and…”

  “Wait, wait…” He’s regretting this joke, and I love it.

  “Nope, too late. No more naked for you,” I say, knowing full well that I will be naked tonight, and he will be inside of me. If there is a way for us to be alone, we are going to have sex. I want him too much now that I’ve had a taste.

  He groans, but I know he’s playing. He knows I’m his.

  “See you at five,” I say.

  I end the call, and hold my phone gripped in my hand and against my chest. My body feels flush and every nerve that comes alive from his touch is begging for it now. I spend the next few minutes thinking about him, about the way he looks singing my favorite song, his smell, his body and skin.

  The only thing that keeps me from rushing out my door to stop him from spending his day with his cousin is the quiet rap on my door.

  “Come in,” I clear my throat, feeling caught in my fantasy.

  My mom steps inside, tentatively.

  “Dad go to work?” I kinda wish it was him I got to talk to first. Things with him have always been easier. I think about the note from Dr. Lowell, though. Maybe fate set this morning up for me.

  Mom nods and works her way in, sitting at the edge of my bed, wearing the same timid suit of armor I am.

  “I was thinking of making a small road trip, down to San Diego.” Her eyes flit from her lap up to me. I feel a sinking and twisting sensation wrangle hold of my insides.

  San Diego was old home.

  “I haven’t read the book yet,” I say.

  She nods.

  “It’s okay. It’s yours for as long as you want it, to do with whatever you need.” She smiles faintly—worriedly.

  My eyes go to the place I know the book is tucked. I moved it back there this morning when I woke up. While I slept, I put it under my bed. I want to keep it close; I just can’t seem to really read it yet. I’m afraid I know the story it tells.

  “I’ll come with you, though.” My stomach drops. This is a commitment to something. This will be a step I can’t backtrack on.

  My mom tips her head up and her eyes look as surprised as my own. Maybe she was expecting me to let us off the hook. We’ve let each other off for most of my life. Time to hold on.

  “Okay. We’ll leave after you shower, if that works for you?”

  I nod.

  She leaves my room and heads immediately for her own, closing the door. I grab a clean pair of underwear and bra and lock myself in my bathroom. I turn the water on the second I get inside, and with the sound of the water to hide my sobs, I cry out every single breath I have to give.

  The first hour of our trip was pretty awkward. The radio wasn’t cooperating much, giving us commercials and repeats of the same four pop songs. We filled the time with classic rock for most of the hour, the only station that comes in really clear outside Orson. The closer we get to L.A., the more options we get.

  I texted Jesse that I might be later than five. He sent a frowny face. I left it at that since he didn’t have any news for me.

  I don’t remember much of my life in Southern California. Sometimes, Dad slips and talks about how much he misses it down there. It was expensive, or so I’ve picked up, and from the small bits Mom has let slip out, they both worked just to be able to stay there and never really got to live.

  I know why we’re going there today. It isn’t to see my old house. It’s not about jarring more memories out of nooks in my brain. It’s about saying goodbye and looking at the place where my sister rests with more mature eyes. It’s about closure for my mother, and on many levels, for me.

  “Do you think we would have been close?” I grow courage with every mile, and this, the what ifs, seemed like a good place to start.

  My mom is quiet for a while, her face stoic. I’m not sure if she’s going to answer or just pretend she never heard me. I probably won’t push it if she decides the quiet is better. She doesn’t, though; eventually, she begins to talk.

  “You and Ella used to play hide-and-seek for hours and hours. It was your favorite game. I don’t think your sister liked it as much as you, but she did it to make you happy.” My mom smiles at the memory. I like that it’s a good one for her. I wish I could remember it.

  “I remember her clothes,” I say, looking away from my mom and forward to the miles and miles of road flanked by golden grass and California’s unrelenting sun.

  My mom shakes with a quiet laugh, adjusting the position of her hands and relaxing more into her seat.

  “I think if she were still here, you would steal from each other’s closets.” Her smile arcs even more. She’s sharing ifs, and that’s a big deal.

  “I wonder what she would think of ripped jeans and midi shirts,” I say, tugging my own down a little to cover my bellybutton. It rises right back up.

  “Ella was more into bows and ruffles,” she says with a crooked smile.

  “So was I when I was six,” I respond.

  My mom arches a brow then tilts her head in acknowledgement.

  “Fair point,” she says.

  I pull at the bottom of my shirt again and look at my pale tummy. I have a few freckles but other than that, I’m ghostly white.

  “Can I pierce my belly button?” I poke my finger in the dent in my tummy and prepare for the hard and fast “no.”

  “You’re eighteen soon,” she says.

  I arch my brow this time and wait for her to take that back. She doesn’t.

  “Hmmm, okay,” I say, running my finger over the skin lightly and truly imagining one there. I always kinda wanted one. Sam has one and I like the way it looks.

  “I think Ella would have had one,” my mom breaks in. I don’t react immediately, so she fills in what she thinks is my question. “A belly-button ring, or a piercing or tattoo—I think Ella would be into that.”

  That idea surprises me because I don’t think she would have. I don’t have anything to base this conclusion on either, just blurs of our time together before I turned six. Ella always seemed not to want to sit still for things like that. She didn’t even have her ears pierced.

  I remember that day.

  I sit up a little and my mom notices, shifting to glance at me.

  “I remember something!” I smile at the memory. It’s a good one.

  “Goldies, right?” The mention of the name of the small jewelry store where my sister and I went to have our ears pierced literally zaps me back a decade. I can see it all—hear and feel, too.

  “Yes! She wasn’t afraid, but just kept wiggling in the chair and I wasn’t really going to have my ears pierced, but I decided to do it to show her so maybe she’d sit still and get hers done. Then when I had the studs in she just said she liked them better on me…and then we…”

  “Went for ice cream!” My mom finishes my memory, but I say the words along with her.

  “Yes!” I celebrate.

  I sit back and smile at the whole piece of my past that now sits catalogued in my mind. I feel so satisfied; yet, the want for more missing pieces actually aches in my bones.

  “Tell me more,” I say after a long pause.

  I know that’s why my mom gave me the book. It’s easier for her to just let me take it all in on my own; she doesn’t have to relive everything that way. But selfishly, I think I need her to walk the path with me.

  “Please,” my voice breaks. I’ve swung from excited to deeply broken in the matter of four miles on the highway.

  My mom mashes her lips, biting the inside of her cheek while her eyes drift out on the empty lanes ahead. Eventually, she swallows hard and parts her lips. They quiver as if she’s freezing cold.

  “About three weeks after Ella left us, in your first therapy session, you started telling the story the way we’ve all just come to accept it,” she begins. I force myself to look at her and take it in. No more running away. No more telling other stories.

  “When you jumped into the lake, it was the first time you had ever done anything like that. You had been distant all day—quiet. It was summer, and your uncle thought maybe a little adventure with him and your sister would bring you out of it. Nobody thought anything like what happened would happen. Of course…I know that, knew that then.”

  The tears are welling in her eyes. I let them fill mine too, feeling the slow line being drawn down my right cheek. I blow out, needing to rid myself of stale breath. I wish I could find a way to replace the taste in my mouth. It’s sour, a sickness.

  “For months, we had you in fairly intensive PTSD therapy. We had people coming to the house; we had you in studies at the university, meeting with the best psychologists in the country. But the more we tried to force the real story on you, the more I thought that maybe there wasn’t any harm letting you build an illusion. It was really my decision. Don’t be upset with your dad. I convinced him to try; so, if you are angry with anyone…be angry with me. HATE me, okay?”

  “I could never hate you,” I say quickly, reaching for her wrist. I grab it as she holds the wheel and I scoot a few inches closer just to be near her, to show her that I’m ready for this.

  “The more we quit forcing the real story, the happier you were. Nightmares started to go away, and you slept well—waking up in the morning with a smile. It never left you completely. You worry…you worry more than most people. And sometimes you would let it in and it would just take up room inside your chest and suffocate you. You missed a lot of school in second grade, and I was afraid we were regressing. I was afraid I had ruined you. I lost both of my daughters.”

  My mom chokes on her tears. I unbuckle and move even closer to her and beg her to pull to the side of the road. She does, the car jerking into the brush and dirt and stopping with a puff of dust. I hug her the moment the car is stopped, and she clings to my arm.

  “I’m okay,” I say. I almost mean it. I mean it enough.

  “You’re not, and I’m so sorry…”

  “But I am.” I won’t let the truth hit her again. She’s lived it once. She played a part in my illusion for me. She never really got to grieve the right way, because of me. I have to be okay.

  She nods against my shoulder, sniffling.