Chapter 19

Griffin

LA felt like a foreign country as I stepped out of the terminal. The smell of the air and the relentless sun even in October, the bright colors and fashions and multiple languages around me, the bustle of the crowd— I’d made LA my home for a decade, and now the place seemed alien.

I hauled the cart with my guitars and luggage toward the curb, a ball cap worn low over my forehead, not meeting anyone’s eyes. This was LA though. There were a dozen bigger stars than me coming through LAX every day of the week. I could’ve probably waltzed through with my name on my jacket and folks would’ve just yawned.

They wouldn’t yawn at Pete Lebraun, though, which was why a limo with smoked windows stood at the curb and the driver came my way. “Mr. Marsh? Mr. Lebraun is waiting for you. I’ll load up your things.”

“Careful with the guitars,” I said automatically and then flushed because if this guy worked with Pete, he knew all about that.

He just said, “Yes, sir,” and held the back door of the limo for me.

I slid onto the leather seat and he closed me in. Pete sat across from me. He grinned and held out his hand, clasping mine with strong fingers as we shook. “Griff. It’s been way too long, man.”

“Well, you know, I got a bit busy the last six months.”

“I heard.” He peered into my face as the sound of loading came from the back of the car. “I messaged you early on, but I didn’t want to push.”

I hadn’t seen his text. But then, for a while, I’d just deleted everything that wasn’t court related. “Thanks. I wasn’t in a good headspace to talk to anyone.”

“How are you now?”

Better than Linda Bellingham. “I’m good.”

“And the throat nodules? You’ll be able to perform?”

“Should be.” After taking my mornings off from Wellhaven— maybe a coward’s move, but I couldn’t look at Lee like nothing had happened— I’d put in a ton of extra practice, mostly guitar but also singing, a little at a time. As far as I could tell, I still sounded pretty good. A little extra rasp never hurt.

“Good to hear. It sucks either way, but would suck a lot more if you had to miss the biggest show of the year.”

“I have to thank you again—”

Pete waved me off. “Rocktoberfest management asked us who we’d invite and it was a no-brainer. You gave us a hell of a break when we were total unknowns, then showed us what a real pro on tour looks like. We owe you everything and being able to pay back even a little? We jumped at the chance.”

“I can’t wait to play with you guys again.” I realized that was true, and a little of the fog I’d been walking in for days lifted. “I need this. A break.”

“You look wiped.” Pete sat back as the driver got in. “We’re going to my place. You’ll stay with me, of course.”

“A hotel would be fine.”

“Fuck that shit. The rest of the band is at my place. You don’t have to jam with us if you don’t want to tonight, but we’ve got a barbecue grilling and they’ll be glad to see you.”

I took a long, slow breath. “Thanks.” I needed that. An uncomplicated evening with friends. Food, music, no responsibilities, no worries, no guilt, no loss. Pretend the last year hadn’t happened and we were just hanging out and jamming together.

If the last year didn’t happen, neither did Wellhaven, Willow, Ellen treating you like a mom should, Owen and Harvey getting married. Neither did Lee.

I shoved that thought down. I couldn’t think about Lee, not now. A new song swirled in my head, something nebulous flavored with love and pain, but I couldn’t think about that either. Barbecue, guitar, Chaser Lost. “Can’t wait,” I said.

Pete’s place was a pretty typical rock star abode. Gated community, circle drive, border wall, long, low house with lots of glass, pool, pool house, and a couple of bodyguards walking around trying to be inconspicuous. I couldn’t help thinking of the small place Lee shared with his mother, where the front step had a crack and I’d promised to help sand and paint the peeling doorframe. Gonna break that promise, I guess.

We pulled up at the side of the house, where a white-pebbled path led to the backyard. As I got out, Shondra, the band’s keyboard player, peeked around the corner of the house. She squealed and galloped toward me, still all long legs and knees and elbows and flying beaded braids after ten years of stardom. I met her hug with my own and whirled her around, realizing how glad I was to be there.

The rest of the band wandered around the side of the house calling greetings. Pete was right. Quinn looked a hell of a lot younger with his beard gone and his hair short again, almost like the nineteen-year-old he’d been back when I invited them on my Bite This tour. Although those years of drumming had built up some good muscles in his arms, shown off by a sleeveless tank. Zoe was the same slim elfin woman she’d always been. Ulrich— closest to my age— gave me his trademark grin.

I missed this. I let them chivvy me to the back where the grill gave off enticing smells. They scolded me for being a stranger, sat me down with a beer. I’d been avoiding any alcohol the past week, because I could imagine diving into a bottle and not coming out. This was different, though. I sipped the hoppy brew and listened to the conversations resume around me. An argument about cables was followed by a mock-fight over whether the SLO was an overrated amplifier. I didn’t join in, just sat there in the warm LA air and let their voices wash over me.

Lee would enjoy this. Well, not the music technicalities but the friendship, the banter, Quinn trying to push Shondra off her chair and Zoe dumping his seat out from under him with a deft hook of her foot.

I’d imagined I’d bring him out here one day. Probably not for two years, since Officer Daniels wasn’t likely to okay an outstate vacation, but someday. Fucked that up. I really wanted to go back in time and tell Lee the whole truth right away. Except. Then I wouldn’t be here feeling my music-loving soul drinking in the ambiance like a plant that’d been in the dark for months. I wouldn’t have the buzz of a coming performance sparking in my veins. I’d be back in Iowa sitting around worrying. With Lee, though.

I don’t know what the fuck I want.

I was greedy. I wanted Lee here by my side and Rocktoberfest on the horizon and to never have killed an innocent woman and to not feel that little rasp in my throat when I took a big gulp of beer.

Wish for a billion dollars, why don’t you?

Pete sat beside me and held out an extra plate. “Burger for your thoughts?”

“Huh?” I took the food and scarfed down a big bite of juicy meat and bun. So good.

He took his time answering, demolishing half of his own burger before he set it on his plate. “You seem detached. Was a time you’d have waded into the amplifier fray.”

“I’ve never owned an SLO. I have no dog in that fight.” When he just munched some more, eyeing me, I shrugged. “Maybe I’m tired from the travel.”

“Are you?” He licked the juices off a callused fingertip. “I could pack every shirt I own in the bags under your eyes. That’s not just one day of tired. And you’re never this quiet.”

“It’s been a weird year. Lots of stress, yeah.” I hesitated. Pete was just in his mid-thirties but he was a level-headed guy. He’d had a couple of long-term girlfriends although I’d noticed Kim wasn’t around. “If, hypothetically, someone you lo— cared about— thought you were damaging your health by touring and wanted you to quit, would you do it?”

“Hard question.” He tipped his head back, looking at the sunset colors streaking the clouds. “That’s what happened with Kim and me, basically. She was tired of the life, wanted kids, wanted me to commit to settling down, get out of the rockstar world. I was willing to cut back a bit, but music is who I am, what I am. I’m not going to stop touring any time soon. She decided that meant I loved music more than her and walked.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Maybe she was right. Either way, I knew what kind of frustrated grouchy guy I’d become if I had to give up this life for her. We couldn’t find a compromise. I still miss her. Sometimes at night, the house is so quiet I want to run out and find her and beg her to come back.”

“What do you do?”

Pete met my eyes with a crooked smile. “I write songs. Got some fucking awesome new music out of it. I don’t know if that makes me a guy with good coping skills or an emotional vampire.”

“I’ll go with coping skills.”

“Figured you might. What about you? Got a hypothetical someone out there?”

“It’s complicated. I… yeah, I met someone. Or re-met. We had a thing twenty years back.” Thing was a bit flippant for what Lee and I had been building, but I didn’t want to get into the details. “Now we reconnected and it seemed good. He’s an awesome guy, a nurse, hot dad-bod, sweet smile, just the most caring person you could ever meet.”

“But not a fan of your music?”

“He’s a worrier. Which I get, he’s had a rough time with losing people. But he wants to bubble-wrap me and I can’t do that.”

“You couldn’t convince him that if the booze and the drugs hadn’t got you yet, they’re not going to?”

“That wasn’t the issue. I ditched him once when he needed me so I could grab my big musical break and tour around the world. This time was supposed to be different, but when he had a… concern, and asked me to skip Rocktoberfest, I said no.”

“Fuck, no!” Pete stared at me. “Unless you’re dying of cancer. You’re not, right?”

I hope not. “Not as far as I know.”

“He’s a nurse. Didn’t he go to work during COVID? Risk his life for his job?”

“He’d say his job is essential, mine’s not.”

“Music is pretty damned essential.” Pete softened his tone. “If he doesn’t respect what you do, is he really the guy for you?”

I just shrugged. I still couldn’t tease out who was right and who was wrong between us. Or whether that mattered. Maybe if you loved someone, you had to sometimes let them win when they were wrong. All I knew was that Rocktoberfest was the thing that’d kept my head above the deep dark waters through my trial, my one hope of going back to something like my normal life. I still wanted to perform with every breath I took. But Lee had been like the oxygen around me, and those breaths felt strangled now.

I set the last bite of my burger on the plate, suddenly unable to finish.

Of course, it didn’t matter who was right or what I figured out, because Lee was done with me. I’d texted him, after giving him a day to calm down. Just a simple, ~Let me know if you ever want to talk. He’d read it. Never answered, no matter how often I checked my phone. Which was an answer. I’d managed to lose the one guy I cared about, again.

“Which room do you want me in, Pete? I think I’m going to turn in.”

I wasn’t sure if that was pity in his expression, but all he said was, “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Sleep was no easier to come by in Pete’s beach-themed guest room than it had been back home. I lay in bed, turning side to side, and watched the headlights of the occasional car sneak between the curtains and flash across the wall before vanishing. The soft bouncing-ball hoots of a screech owl sounded from a tree outside, then went silent. I’d rarely spent a full night with Lee. Most of the time, he went back to his Mom’s place. But the other side of this big bed seemed like a black hole without him there.

Around three, I got out of bed. Words and notes had begun colliding in my head and I might as well get them down. Better than recalling that last night with Lee for the hundredth time. The outcome never changed.

My acoustic guitar sat in its case in the corner. I pulled over a chair and opened the lid. I was never sure if this old case really held the scent of scuffed wood and paper and sunshine, but the impression filled my nose. I’d written “Edge Dancing” on this guitar, sitting on a battered wooden window ledge while Lee lay sprawled across my couch. I had a vivid sense memory of the sun on my shoulders, the faint stuffiness of that small apartment, Lee’s voice drawling, “How about ‘Edge Prancing’?” with a limp- wristed gesture, before I tossed my discarded T-shirt over his face. He’d laughed.

I hoped Pete’s room at the back of the house was far enough away tonight to muffle the sound, but he at least would understand.

The outer pocket of the case was stuffed with notebooks and bits of paper and pencils, beginnings of songs that never came to be, and early versions of songs that charted higher than I ever dared hope. I tore a page out of a notebook because sometimes words came easiest on scraps of paper.

long hellos, short goodbyes

make a home for love

taking risks

trust lost

I wrote a lot of bits of lyrics, searching for the angle I wanted. When the words ran dry, I picked up my guitar, checked the tuning, and began picking out a melody. Maybe I’d write a song for Lee. He’d likely never hear it, might not welcome it, like that ceramic his dad sent. I hadn’t originally asked him to come with me to Rocktoberfest because a big crowd of hard rock fans wasn’t his thing. Now, of course, that was just as well. Maybe one day, he’d come across a video or a recording and wonder if I’d meant for him to hear me.

I could write a love song, something that talked about his red hair and his easy smile, his sense of humor and his intense caring. Put in his mom, Willow, even Alice, all the people he loved. For a while I messed around with that idea, a gift for Lee. Names changed, of course, so only he would know the man with the huge heart who formed the soul of the song was him.

The lyrics never gelled, though. I kept coming back to “Goodbye,” the major chords turning minor under my fingers. So I wrote that one instead, until the world outside the curtains began to lighten and I was exhausted enough to put the guitar and my notes away and fall into bed for a few hours of sandy-eyed sleep.

When time for rehearsals rolled around mid-afternoon, none of the band made it weird that I’d ditched the party. Maybe they chalked it up to jetlag. Maybe Pete had told them my excuses. I hadn’t asked him not to.

Either way, they just greeted me with the same cheer as the day before and asked where in the playlist I wanted to start. I was grateful for the easy acceptance, and equally grateful for the way they settled into backing me up like they weren’t international stars who’d climbed higher than I ever did. Didn’t hurt that they were fucking awesome musicians, better than any backup band my label ever hired.

For an hour, I forgot everything but the music. We picked apart the arrangement of “Don’t Look Back” and clipped the bridge to shorten it for the truncated set time I’d been given. Shondra suggested some keyboard effects that made “Wings of Ice” sound fresher. I told them I was leaving time at the end for a solo new piece and got the expected teasing about letting them hear it now-now-now. I laughed and said no, and didn’t let them know that, a week before one of the biggest performances of my career, I hadn’t yet written the song I’d play.

Last week, I’d imagined giving the crowd “Isn’t It Funny” with the verses taking hurt to hope. But now “Goodbye” nagged in my brain…

“Time to take a break,” Pete called from my right, setting aside his guitar.

I blinked away cobwebs and turned to him. “Getting wimpy in your young age?”

He went to the fridge in the corner, got out a bottled water, and tossed it to me. “You’re sounding hoarse. Take it easy and let the real pros show you how it’s done.” Circling the room, he handed out drinks to everyone.

I popped the bottle top and poured the blessed liquid down my throat. He was right, I was parched and sore. Just parched. Because I’ve been singing for an hour. I sipped some more water, then stepped away from the lead mic and slumped on the leather couch.

Pete drained his water, tossed the bottle in an open recycling bin, and turned to his band. “What do you say, gang? Ready to rock and roll?”

Zoe called, “Any time, grandpa,” and Quinn delivered a rim-shot on his snare.

Pete switched cables, slung his guitar strap back around his neck, and stepped up to the lead mic. “‘Confusion to You All.’ Ready?” He tapped the count-off with a fingernail on the soundboard and the whole band came in together with the crashing intro.

Fuck, they were good. I’d almost forgotten how good, forgotten how I’d been blown away, sitting in a little bar with a friend who’d said, “Check these dudes out.” They were a hell of a lot better now, but even then they’d had that wild energy and yet impeccable timing, like Pete’s brain was hooked up to the others and they played off him perfectly, matching his switches of tempo and mood without missing a beat. Lots of rehearsal, obviously, but it seemed spontaneous.

I clapped when they were done and Pete blinked and said, “Thanks,” as if he’d forgotten I was there.

“Free concert,” I told him. “Priceless.”

“Uh-huh,” Shondra said. “Now you get to listen to us argue about going more minor key on the second bridge.”

“Music to my ears,” I said and meant it. As long as my body vibrated with the drumbeats and my mind raced through the chords, that stupid voice in the back of my head was silenced. The one that kept saying, “Go back and apologize.” It was too late.

I’d decided at some foolish hour of night that, as much as Lee worried, even broken up, he’d probably appreciate hearing that I’d arrived okay.

I’d texted, ~delayed but safe flight. I hadn’t been able to help adding, ~miss you.

I’d told myself I didn’t expect any reply, but still, each time I’d checked my unresponsive phone since then, a pang hit me. Lots of phony messages with scams and politicians and give-me-money. Nothing from Lee.

Unable to help myself, I pulled out my phone again and scrolled to our conversation. Nope. Nothing.

As I tucked the phone away, I looked up and found my gaze meeting Pete’s. He gave me a slow nod I refused to read as pity, then signaled for Quinn to lead them into the next song. I set myself to listen and pay attention, not to fan-boy but to analyze and critique and give them some value for including me.

Four more days of rehearsal and then we’d be on the road, chilling out on their luxury bus while the driver whisked us eleven hours northward. Four days, a drive, and we’d be at one of the best outdoor rock festivals in the world. I might’ve fucked up my heart in ways I wouldn’t get over, but I was going to enjoy the hell out of Rocktoberfest.