9. Iggy

CHAPTER 9

Iggy

T he days drag into weeks of Marley and me avoiding each other. I even forced Kaye to get me a bus of my own. The idea of being confined in a small space with him had my skin itching. Kaye tried to ask questions, but after I told her I really didn't want to be imprisoned for homicide, she backed off and gave me her bus. I don't think it was a hardship for her since she shacked up with the lead singer of our opening act.

I hope I won't commit manslaughter, but the way Marley has my blood boiling and my heart flipping irrationally doesn't make me confident in my prediction. A rational person would probably calmly talk about this, but I am not patient or reasonable. All I know is, I want something, and for the first time in my life, I can't have it.

Lars calls me the golden boy because, unlike the other members in the band, I like my family and they like me. My parents have always encouraged my dreams and even put aside their lives so they could help me follow them.

I was ten when I told my dad I wanted to play the guitar in a rock band. My father smiled, took me to a music store, and I bought my first acoustic. When I quit college to busk on the sidewalk, my parents didn't freak out. My pop told me it would be a cool story to tell the magazines when I was in a big rock band. My dad was right. It makes a killer story and gets reporters all starry-eyed. If people discovered the countless reporters I've fucked after they've heard the story, they'd be scandalized.

Women love an underdog story. It gets them crying from both their eyes and in between their thighs.

Unlike my bandmates, my parents were very present in my life. When we played my hometown, they would all come out hooting and hollering my name. This support is something I revel in and look forward to, but not during this tour.

This time around, I want to play our set and then drink myself unconscious in my hotel room by myself.

"Ig, you still there? Hello? Did we get disconnected? I hate cellphones."

"I'm here, Mom," I say as I try to focus on her voice at the other end of the phone. She's been talking my ear off for the past thirty minutes about how she's so excited to see everyone.

"Does Billie have any allergies? I'm so excited to meet her."

Billie is the only person who has yet to be accosted by my mother. "Nope, but I'm sure Lars already filled you in on her. You talk to him more than you call your own flesh and blood."

Lars lovingly calls her the band mom, since his own mother passed years ago. I used to find it annoying how Lars would basically fawn over my mom. It made me feel like a terrible son, but he is excessive. Lars set the bar for pampering my mom so high there's nothing I can do to outdo him. Which irritates me.

"Oh hush, you and I both know Marley is my favorite." At the sound of Marley's name, my chest tightens. "How is my sweet boy, anyway?"

I know she's asking about Marley, but I can't tell her how he is, even if I wanted to. Marley Banks and I have been avoiding each other like the plague. "Me? I'm great, Mom. Thanks for asking."

"You may be my flesh and blood and I might love you to the moon and back, but you and I both know you are far from my sweet boy. Marley's been weird during our calls. You know he missed his call last week? I waited until nine before I called to yell at him. In eight years, he has never missed his weekly call. That boy loves me more than you do. I need you to take care of him, Iggy. You better make sure my sweet boy is happy."

"Whoa, you'd think he's your actual son and not me. "

"Oh, you hush now, you're both my sons. You came from my body and Marley from my heart."

I know what my mom means by her comment. She views Marley as her adopted son, took him in and loved him like she'd raised him herself, but a small part of me is a little annoyed that there is a strong possibility if things remain going south between Marley and I, my mom might not pick my side.

My throat runs dry as I attempt to speak about Marley, the guy who I've become so fixated on, thoughts of him are the only things in life that both enrage and sustain me.

"Iggy, what did you do to that boy?" my mom demands when I don't answer right away.

Her tone irritates me. "Why do you assume I did something and not him?"

"Oh, Iggy, not what I meant, but I worry about Marley. He's silent in his sensitivity. Men like him feel so deep but live in silence with their pain. You're so different. I worry about you differently. I'm not worried about silence drowning you, but I am with Marley. With you, my concern is you'll take stupid risks and hurt yourself living."

I sit up, alert. "What do you mean?"

"Baby, Marley needs a little extra care. He doesn't know how to take risks like you. You've always done what feels good. You step face-first into situations and work it out while experiencing it. Marley can't do that. For him, everything in life goes through hundreds of scenarios with all the outcomes, and some of those outcomes seem like a nightmare. It's a frightening way to live. Imagine if you never took a chance because of the possibility of failure."

My mother's words knock me down from my throne of righteous indignation. For the last two weeks, I have been walking around believing myself to be the protagonist of the situation, when I might be the antagonist.

"One day you're gonna have to teach me how you do that."

The sound of my mother's laugh softly permeates my ear. "I don't think I can, sweetheart. Patience has never been your strong suit. "

The alarm on my cell goes off. "Oh shit, Mom, I gotta go. Gotta get all dolled up for tonight's concert. I'm gonna see you there, right?"

"Of course, baby. You're sleeping at the house instead of a hotel, like usual?"

"I'm never going to sleep in a hotel in Portland. I'll be home after the show. Still got my keys and everything."

"Also, don't forget everyone is coming over for dinner tomorrow."

Dinner with my mom is something I never miss. Not only is my mother the world's best cook, but there is something exceptional about being surrounded by the familiarity of your childhood when you've been living out of a suitcase months on end.

But I can't shake the feeling my complications with Marley will put a sour taste on it all.