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“Fine.”

  “You’ll go?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Reed doesn’t drop my gaze. “Of course you have a choice. If you’re not feeling up for this, we could take a break.”

  His words freak me out. “From the band?”

  He nods. “We’re not here to push you, Cash. The new album is not the most important thing in the world. If you need some time off, some real time off…”

  “I don’t need time off.”

  His gaze searches my face. “Then I think the best thing we can do is go to Seattle for a few weeks and get this album worked out.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  “Good.”

  We sit in silence for a moment. I wonder if they’re dreading this as much as I am. Probably not—none of them seem to have the same problem taking directions as I do.

  “I’m hungry,” Daltrey finally says, looking over at Daisy. “You hungry?”

  She nods before looking to me. “Steaks sound good?”

  “Steak sounds great, Dais.”

  She gives me a small smile and stands, Daltrey joining her. “I’ll get the grill going.”

  “Oh, God,” Lennon mutters. “You’re grilling? We’re going to be eating hockey pucks.”

  “Come show him how it’s done, Len,” Daisy says, shooting a quick, meaningful glance at Reed. Lennon follows the two through the kitchen, leaving Reed and I alone in the room. A moment later I hear the side door swing shut.

  Reed doesn’t waste any time. “Do I need to be worried, Cash?”

  “About what? I said I would go—”

  “No. I mean you—do I need to be worried about you?”

  I stare at him blankly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He barely refrains from rolling his eyes. “You’re drinking more than you ever have, little brother. You just got arrested for a DUI. The day you get released you’re right back out there partying again.”

  “Reed—”

  “Look, I know that you enjoy your social life. It’s important to you. There’s nothing wrong with liking to party.”

  “That’s what I keep telling you assholes,” I mutter.

  “But getting carried away is another matter. And you wouldn’t be the first musician to have problems with substance abuse.”

  “I’m not a drunk, Reed. God.”

  He continues to search my face. “I just want to make sure that you know you can talk to me. If there’s something you’re having trouble with. You know that, right?”

  I nod, looking away. For as close as we all are, we’ve never been really good at the sappy brotherly stuff.

  “Okay.” He stands, grabbing my bag. “I’ll go stick this upstairs. Why don’t you go out and make sure they’re not burning the house down.”

  I watch him go, part of me wanting to call after him. I don’t even know what I would say—thank you? For being there for me and getting me back on track? Or would I curse him out for not trusting me, for acting like I need some father figure to keep me on the straight and narrow? On the other hand, maybe if I had seen any of my brothers since we turned in the demo tracks things wouldn’t have gotten so out of control.

  In the end I don’t say anything, and I don’t go out to help Daltrey, either. Instead I sit on the couch and watch the fire, finishing my beer on my own.

  Chapter Two

  Sam

  “Take that, zombie scum!”

  “No!” I cry, jabbing at the buttons on the controller. “No! You’re not going to get me—”

  Before I can finish my sentence the figure on the screen falls to the ground. “Yes!” Wyatt yells. “I told you!”

  “No fair,” I mutter, tossing the remote down. “You totally cheated.”

  “Cheated?” he cries, pushing my arm with both of his little hands. “How dare you?”

  I crack up, the way I always do when he sounds so much like an adult. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just a poor loser.”

  “It’s okay.” He grins his perfect little grin at me and my stomach swoops. God, I love him so much. “Maybe you’ll beat me some day.”

  “How’d you get so good at this game anyhow?” I ask.

  “Grandpa and I play every day.” His eyes widen, as if he’s caught himself in a mistake, and he looks over his shoulder worriedly. “Don’t tell Grandma, okay? She would be mad.”

  I make an X in the air over my chest with a finger. “Cross my heart.”

  Wyatt nods seriously and collapses back into the couch. “So. What now?”

  I lean back in imitation of his pose, bringing my face down level with his. “What do you want to do next?”

  He shrugs. “I suppose I could eat something.”

  I stifle a laugh. “You could, huh?”

  “Yeah. I mean, if you’re hungry.”

  “Let’s go, kiddo.”

  He jumps up from the couch and runs ahead of me to the kitchen. I do my best not to look at the clock on the microwave as I join him at the refrigerator, not wanting to think about how late it’s getting. How little time we have left.

  “What do you want to eat?” I ask, peering over his shoulder into the fridge.

  “Is that for pizza?” he asks hopefully, pointing at a package of English muffins.

  “It sure is. I got it just for you.”

  “Yes!”

  “Grab it,” I instruct. “And the cheese. The white kind.”

  As he pulls the items from the fridge, I walk around the kitchen, grabbing a cookie sheet, utensils, a jar of sauce, and a can of pineapple from the cabinets.

  “Hands out,” I tell him when he brings the ingredients to the table, shooting a glob of hand sanitizer on his open palms. “Rub together.”

  “This is my favorite,” he says happily, taking the English muffin I offer and tearing it in half.

  “That’s why I made sure I had it for you.”

  “You always have the best food here for me. Grandma never lets me make little pizzas.”

  “Grandma wants to make sure you’re healthy.”

  “I know.” He’s quiet for a moment, spreading sauce carefully with the spoon on his English muffin. When he speaks again his voice has a practiced, casual note to it. “Sometimes I wish I could stay here more.”

  My heart immediately clenches with some strange mixture of joy and pain. “I wish that sometimes, too, kiddo.”

  He looks up at me, those gorgeous brown eyes wide in his face. “Then why can’t I? You’re my mom. Aren’t kids supposed to live with their moms?”

  “Wyatt, we’ve talked about this—”

  “My friend Peter lives with his mom,” he interrupts. “And my friend Emerson. And Riley from Girl Meets World, on TV, she lives with her mom and her dad.”

  Again my heart clenches, harder this time. “A lot of kids live with their moms,” I tell him, struggling to keep my voice steady. “And some kids live with their dads. And some kids live with their grandparents. Like you.” He looks back at his muffin, hiding a frown. “We’ve talked about this buddy.”

  He sighs long and loud. “I know. Grandma and Grandpa could take care of me better because you were sick when I was born.” He sounds like he’s reciting lines and I wonder how many times he’s heard this, both from me and from Bruce and Alice. “I’m lucky to have so many people to love me.”

  “That’s right.” I know he’s heard that one a million times—it’s always been my favorite refrain when the subject comes up, not just for his peace of mind but for mine as well. I open the bag of mozzarella and hand it to him. “Very lucky.”

  “But you’re not sick now, Mom,” he says. “So why can’t I stay with you?”

  “Because you live with your grandparents,” I tell him. “That’s where all of your things are—your nice room and your toys and your cat.”

  “Bobba Fett could move here,” he suggests, sounding hopeful.

  I sigh. How on earth am I supposed to argue with him? It feels physically impossible to try to convince him that
he’s better off somewhere else.

  “Think about how sad that would make Grandma, though.” Somehow I’m managing to keep my voice bright when all I want to do is grab him and hold him tight and keep him here, with me, forever. I reach out and rumple his hair. “To lose Bobba Fett, I mean.”

  He smiles. “She would miss me, too!”

  I study his face. “I mean, I guess she might. Sometimes. But she would really miss that cat. I think that’s the real problem here.”

  He laughs. “She would miss me more!”

  “If you say so.”

  Luckily, that seems to have gotten his mind off the subject of moving in here. Instead he tells me stories about his cat, who he drafts into service every time he needs a sidekick fighting zombies, or beating the Sith lords. Poor old Bobba Fett, I think to myself, trying not to let my mind wander to how amazing it would be to watch him play his little games every day. To not hear about his life in a series of recaps and catch up sessions. To experience it.

  By the time we get the English muffin pizzas into the oven, my head is pounding, a classic symptom of trying to fight off the anxiety that is battling in my chest. You can’t break down when he’s here, I tell myself.

  We eat our little pizzas on the couch and Wyatt tells me about his soccer team and his friends in first grade and all the other little details of his life that I should be well aware of as his mother. I try to focus on him, try not to think about the dwindling time, try not to look at that clock, counting down the minutes until seven o’clock.

  At six forty-five the buzzer sounds and it’s all I can do not to curse out loud. He’s fifteen minutes early and I’m not ready. I’m never ready.

  “Can I press it?” Wyatt asks hopefully, and I nod in the direction of the buzzer. He runs to it happily, pressing the button to buzz his grandfather in. A moment later there’s a knock on the door and Wyatt throws it open.

  “Hi, Grandpa!”

  “Buddy!” Bruce says happily, ruffling his hair. “I think you grew since I dropped you off.”

  Wyatt laughs. “It’s just been a day, Grandpa.”

  “I think he’s right, kiddo,” I agree, joining them at the door. “You’re definitely taller.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You guys are ridiculous.” But I notice he stands up straighter, his chest puffed out. My heart throbs painfully. He’s such a funny little kid.

  “So what kind of trouble did you get up to?” Bruce asks seriously. “Let me guess—knocked over a couple banks?”

  “Grandpa,” Wyatt says, giggling. He loves them, I think, not sure if I’m trying to make myself feel better or worse. They’re wonderful together.

  “No banks,” I say, my voice sounding falsely cheery in my own ears. “We did hot-wire a few cars, but we thought we should return them.”

  Wyatt giggles harder. “We did not.”

  “No?” I screw up my face in concentration. “What’d we do then?”

  “We went to the park and played soccer! And we played Killer Zombies Three. And we went to the library.”

  “Oh, you’re right. It must have been a different little kid that helped me hot-wire the cars.”

  Wyatt rolls his eyes at me and for just a moment he looks so much like Doug that it takes my breath away. Bruce catches my eye and I know he saw it, too. He gives me a sad smile, reaching over to put his arm around my shoulder. “I take it you had a nice day?”

  “The nicest,” I tell him, leaning in a little bit.

  He kisses the top of my head. “Good.” He releases me and turns back to Wyatt. “Better get your things together, buddy. We need to get a good night’s sleep tonight, you know. It’s a big day tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? We’re going to the zoo.”

  “We are?” Wyatt looks like Christmas has just come early. “In Seattle?”

  “Of course. Where else are we going to see a Komodo dragon?”

  “Yes! Thank you, Grandpa!”

  Bruce laughs. “You’re welcome. Now go get your things.”

  Wyatt scurries off to find his backpack and I gesture back towards the kitchen. “You want something to drink, Bruce?”

  “No thanks, sweetie. I should get him home. It’s bath night.”

  I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. So many little reminders that I’m not the caregiver here. I didn’t know about the zoo trip. I don’t know the bath schedule. In a few moments they’ll be gone, back to their normal life. A life in which I only play a peripheral role.

  “You okay?”

  I smile weakly at Bruce. “Sure.”

  “He can be a little tiring, huh?”

  I bristle, not wanting him to think that my mood has anything to do with an inability to care for Wyatt. “No, actually. Just thinking about how quiet it gets when he goes.”

  Bruce gives me a sympathetic look. Wondering if maybe this might be an in, I take a deep breath.

  “He asked if he could stay, you know.”

  His eyebrows dart down. “He did?”

  I nod, fiddling with my shirt and looking away, hoping to come across as casual—if I can somehow manage to keep the desperation out of my voice. “I’d love to have him around more. Maybe we could talk about doing an overnight next month.”

  Bruce is quiet for a long moment and I can’t bring myself to look at his face. “I’m not sure, Samantha. Do you really think you’re ready for that?”

  My eyes snap up as a wave of anger courses through me. How is it possible that he hasn’t noticed how far I’ve come? He must notice the flash in my eyes, because he quickly continues. “Sweetheart, Alice and I are so proud of you. You know that. Right? And Doug would be proud, too.” His voice grows heavy at the mention of his son and I suddenly regret bringing this up at all. “We just don’t want you to get overwhelmed, Sam. Introducing too many changes, too fast—that could set you back. And that would be a real shame.”

  I want to tell him that he’s wrong. That I’m fine now, that there’s no going back to where I was before. That I could handle any kind of changes if it meant more time with Wyatt. But his words bring back a flash of myself, the way I had been. The way I still got sometimes, when the quiet got too loud. A wave of shame, as familiar to me as my own reflection, washes over me.

  Maybe he’s right.

  Wyatt skids back into the room, shoving his new library book into the bag. “Ready!”

  “Alright, kiddo.” I kneel down so I’m at his eye level. “I’ll see you next weekend, okay?”

  He nods, slinging his arms around my neck. I breathe in the smell of him—fresh cut grass and baby shampoo. Sometimes I dream of that smell.

  He releases me all too soon, eager to get home and fall asleep so his zoo trip comes faster. Bruce hugs me, telling me that he’ll drop Wyatt off at the same time next week.

  “Sounds good.” The false cheer is gone from my voice, but neither of them seem to notice. They’re out the door already, talking about the animals that they’ll see in the morning. I watch until they turn the corner, out of sight.

  “Can we get a funnel cake?” Wyatt asks hopefully, his voice fading away.

  “We’ll have to ask Grandma.”

  Then they’re gone, the hallway silent. I stand in the open doorway for a long moment, not wanting to go back inside. I hadn’t been lying to Bruce about my dreading the quiet—I know from bitter experience just how still my apartment is when Wyatt leaves. It’s like he sucks all the sound and warmth from the space when he goes, leaving it a faded, silent shell of my normal home.

  Home. I sigh as I finally shut the door, looking around the empty space. How can it be home when my son doesn’t live here?

  ***

  Two hours later and I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. The silence is pressing down on me like a physical weight, and no amount of television or radio, both of which are blaring, can make a dent in it. I have homework to do but there’s no way I can concentrate. It’s impossible not to go over the day,
over and over again, remembering every little smile, every joke.

  Finally I give up, reaching for my phone. Penny’s number is the second on my speed dial and she picks up after three rings. “Sam my love, my life. How’s it hanging, sister?”

  “I’m bored,” I tell her, careful to sound cheerful. I know she’ll object if I tell her the real reason I’m calling. “Let’s go out.”

  “I don’t know, babe. I have work in the morning.”

  “Penny. Give me a break. You know you’re going to put on your cutest dress and get your ass over here. It’s fruitless to pretend otherwise. So let’s cut out all the back and forth and just say yes.”

  She laughs. “Fine. I’ll be there in ten.”

  A wave of relief crashes into me. “See you then.”

  I feel better as soon as I hang up the phone. The silence is less deafening now that I have something to do. I run around my room, pulling on a dress and a pair of high black boots. In anticipation of my day with a high-strung eight year old I had stuck my hair up in a ponytail this morning and it’s hopelessly kinky now, so I arrange it in a high bun at the top of my head. By the time I’m finishing up with my makeup, Penny is knocking on my door, letting herself in before I can make it to the living room.

  “God, Sam,” she mutters, slamming her hands over her ears. “Are you going deaf or something?”

  “Sorry.” I hit the power button on the TV and the sound in the room decreases by half.

  “I don’t know how you do that,” she says, shaking her head. “Watch TV with the radio on.”

  I don’t bother to tell her that I wasn’t watching TV at all, that I just needed the noise. She wouldn’t understand, and I can’t blame her. Even when I try to justify it to myself I sound like a crazy person.

  “So what’s the plan?” she asks, following me back to my room. She plops on my bed, her mini skirt riding up, as I grab my mascara wand to finish my eye makeup.

  “I don’t know. There are so many options to choose from.”

  She nods seriously against my pillow. “I know. Do we want the down home flair of Jimmy’s? Or the chic modernity of Cue Ball?”

  I point the wand at her cowboy boot clad feet. “Get your dusty boots off my bed.”

  “Sam, why must you always diss on my boots?”