Page 91 of This Side of Beautiful

My earliest memory was ofsitting beside my mother when I was three, and she used my hands to play the piano. She smiled and praised me the entire time, though she guided me in hitting the right keys. I loved my mother. Analise Ann Hayes. Loved her as any son loved his mother. Loved her so much that I didn’t allow my father to hug me until I was seven. I’d blown a perfect note in his horn, and my father, who’d been careful with me, grabbed me up and held me to him. Although I resisted and held my body stiffly, he embraced me until I hugged him back. After that day, falsely believing we’d bonded over music, he was determined to make me the next great horn player. And when I chose the guitar, he considered me his biggest failure.

My mother would steal me away from my father with cookies and milk to practice her beloved instrument. My parents playfully argued over me and my talent. They ignored the fact that I didn’t spend time with other children on the rare occasions we went to the park. That my birthday parties were always filled with adults. That I wore a hoodie or a jacket even when there was a heatwave in Brooklyn. That I flinched from any unexpected touch. That I wouldn’t eat anything mushy like peas or avocado or allow my food to touch on my plate.

They ignored that I only spoke in their presence until middle school. And that I spent hours in my room focused on music and astronomy instead of girls. Like music, school came easily to me, and I excelled academically though I flunked socially. When my sixth-grade teacher recommended therapy after she had to coax me from underneath the table because I’d become emotionally overwhelmed, my mother requested a new teacher. She didn’t want anyone who couldn’t understand my genius or idiosyncrasies to educate her son.

While my mother was overprotective of me, my father chastised behaviors he didn’t understand, which were most of my actions. Admonishing me when I didn’t want to play outside with other children or watch sports with him. His lip would curl with disgust when I cried because “real men don’t cry.” He demanded I open my mouth when words I longed to say were trapped in my throat. Although my father never hit me because my mother didn’t condone corporal punishment, he found ways to shove or push me whenever my behavior angered or embarrassed him when he was drunk.

My father did show me love at times. When sober, he exhibited patience and kindness. When I was twelve, he begged my mother to seek help for me because I seemed so unhappy. She was a traditional wife who followed her husband blindly and usually did his bidding, right or wrong. I was her exception.

I’m coming toyour show tonight alone. I don’t care if youwant to speak to me or not. I want tosee my son perform.

I reread my mother’s text for the umpteenth time. The gnawing hunched me over in my chair while the rest of the band were getting in place for the second of our shows in New York. The crowd had been wild Friday night, louder than any other we’d had thus far. The boys were home, and “Fallen Star” was burning up the airwaves. My hat had been pulled down low, and I’d remained in blue light, managing to thank everyone and introduce myself and then Janae before we left the stage.

I’d kept myself busy with rehearsals and my guitar to avoid talking to Janae about my breakdown. Knowing about my panic attacks and seeing me in the throes of one were two very different things. She tried to be there for me without pressuring me or asking me to talk about the incident.

My phone wallpaper was the selfie we’d taken on the subway. Despite the weariness in both of our eyes, happiness shone through. Janae had sworn she wouldn’t leave me and that she loved me the night of my panic attack. I believed she loved me, perhaps more than she’d ever loved another man. She’d told me once she was needy, but I hadn’t seen that side since Houston. Even the other night, she’d bounced back as soon as she saw me. She didn’t need to be saved or rescued by a knight. Janae could stand on her own two feet, and sooner or later, she would realize her strength and leave me.

Someone knocked on the door.

Janae.

“Come in.”

“Baby… we need to be on stage.” She strolled in wearing a sparkly, emerald-green pantsuit. She didn’t wear a bra, and one button held the top of the suit together. Frankie had styled her hair in cornrows, and makeup enhanced her brown skin and almond-shaped eyes.

“I hate that the makeup covers your freckles.”

She rolled her eyes. “How about you compliment me instead of telling me what you hate?”

“You don’t need me to say how your beauty captured my heart and won’t let go.”

“I do need you to say that.” She walked to me, taking my hat off to run her fingers through my loose hair. “I need to braid it again. I’ll do it while we’re on the road.”

I popped open her sole button and pressed the side of my face to her warm breasts and her stomach. “My mother is coming to the show. Might already be out there.”

“Is that why you’re still in here?” she asked while caressing my hair.

“Yeah. Despite it all, I want to please her. I want her to be outside cheering me as loud as the strangers around her.”

“If she’s here, then that’s what she wants too.”

“Music is the only reason she loves me. I sometimes wonder if she would even bother if I hadn’t been this prodigy.” I wrapped my arms around Janae’s waist and kissed the diamond in her belly.

She pulled my head back by my hair and gazed down at me. “It’s not the only reason I love you.”

Her heartfelt words lifted my dour mood, and I pulled her right nipple in my mouth and sucked briefly. “Mm… can’t wait to get you home.”

She tapped my head. “Stop getting me hot so we can get on that stage. We have a show to do.”

I rebuttoned her suit, grateful that she’d sought me out. “This better not pop while we’re performing. New York doesn’t need to see all that’s mine.”

“Whatever. Come on.” She hurried to the door.

“Janae?” I was three steps behind her.

She wrinkled her face. “Landon?”

“Wear that suit home.” I slapped her round ass hard and rushed past her before she hit me back.

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