Page 111 of Torch Songs

“WOULD YOUjust believe that I went to a bar because bars are comfortable for me, and all I wanted was a beer and to be somewhere not with that jackass who spawned me? It was just… you know. Bad luck.”

Tad had eyed him, splayed under the comforter in the hotel room, his hair falling forward into his face as they recovered from their second round of sex and blinking like he was trying hard to stay awake.

“Guthrie’s luck,” he said grimly.

“I’m not so special I’ve got my own brand of luck,” Guthrie muttered, uncurling enough to prop himself on his elbow and scowl.

Tad smiled and pushed that glorious hair out of his eyes. “Don’t be modest,” he said. “I’m telling you, Guthrie’s luck is going right next to Murphy’s luck in the bad luck hall of fame.”

THAT CONVERSATIONin the hotel room had been a good one, had unearthed so much of the crap sitting next to Guthrie’s heart that had terrified Tad, had worried him.

Tad’s life hadn’t been easy. Money had been tight, and growing up poor left a scar on a person—there was always a chip on the shoulder, something to prove. There was always a need to be as smart as, successful as, fast as, important as,good asthe slick kids with all the money who would be living somewhere better when their daddies got them into the prep school. But Tad’s mom had been the best, and she’d loved him, and Aprilhad been a good sister, and they’d loved each other. Tad had known love was a real thing, and he’d never wanted to do anything with his life that couldn’t be achieved with hard work and smart thinking.

Guthrie’d grown up with one caretaker and a father who’d abused him until he’d had to take care in secret, and love was for songs, for scam that was the family business, and not ever for real. He’d grown up in a profession that depended as much on luck as on skill and a family that did its best to fuck his luck. He’d grown up working so hard to make himself better he’d never understood that so much of him was very much good enough, just by being Guthrie. The more they’d talked, the more Tad had understood why Seth Arnold had been so important, even if he’d never loved Guthrie back. Because he’d loved Guthrie as a friend. Because he’d valued Guthrie as a colleague… and as a musician. Because his family—as splintered as it had been when Guthrie met him—hadbeena family, and Guthrie had learned what to shoot for. He’d learned he could be good enough. He’d learned that love was real.

And then he’d met Tad and maybe a lot of his quietness, his keeping things close, was driving Tad crazy, but it was because Guthrie was learning how to make love work when it was a two-way street.

So it was the end of August, and Guthrie’s recording date had been moved—something about studio time—and his father hadn’t passed away yet, and his whole life was in flux.

But he’d asked April to make a blanket for Emmeline and had even sent a pattern with a hesitant, “Can you make this?” because he thought it looked like what a princess would have. He’d even ordered the yarn on his precious internet time and sent it, because he wanted to be part of it.

Wanted Olivia to know he was coming and, Tad suspected, wanted Tad to trust that Guthrie wouldn’t break his promises.

Tad was more secure in them now.

But it still hurt to leave.

He sat in the SUV—as April did one more run-through around the apartment, making sure they hadn’t, say, left the vacuum sitting in the middle of the floor—and gave Chris a wave. Chris and Laura, by virtue of having much more stuff, had rented a U-Haul, and Tad and April had taken a small corner of it. There was some concern as to whether or not the truck would go on the winding roads, but Aaron knew where their small housing “development” sat and assured them it was as straight as the roads around Colton got and their truck was well in established guidelines. Tad had laughed at the “development” moniker. The houses were about five acres apart and well off the road, but they were prefabricated, and the county provided services like trash pickup, electricity, and gas. They had U-shaped driveways and peaked roofs to deflect snowfall, and apparently differences in parcel shape or flora and fauna be damned, that meant they were identical.

Tad’s house—he was renting for a year with the option to purchase if the job worked out—sat on a parcel with a small stream. When he and April had gone to check the place out the week after the wedding, they’d seen three deer, eyeballing them with suspicion and not fear. Chris—who had purchased his property outright—had already contracted workers to fence in a yard to contain the big slobbering dogs his wife had plans to rescue as soon as they moved in.

There was a service track that wound behind their parcels that they could run on during their days off, and Laura already had plans to teach April how to cook and to, probably, mother Guthrie within an inch of his life.

They just needed Guthrie to get there.

April emerged from the apartment, one hand clenched around a couple of odds and ends she’d found on her last sortie.She gave a thumbs-up so Chris could start the U-Haul and then turned and locked the doors. The expression on her face was both excited and devastated, and as she slid into the SUV, she gave Tad a half-guilty glance before dumping the last few items she’d found on the console between them.

One of Guthrie’s guitar picks, probably lodged in the molding by the kitchen table, two catnip mice he’d gotten the day before he’d gotten the call from Jock, and a special ergonomic crochet hook Guthrie had picked up at a store in San Rafael for April when he was still working down there once a week.

Tad checked the haul and swallowed.

“Text him,” he said. “Take a picture of the cats in the crates and tell him they’ll miss him in the new place.”

“That’s mean,” she said, but she was turning in her seat to get a picture of John Lenny Bruce and McCartney You Fucking Asshole as she spoke. She paused for a moment and took a shot of Tad, who tried to smile, and then she sent the pic.

You’d better join us in Colton, you prick. Email us tonight if we’re not getting your texts. We both miss you.

With a swallow she set her phone down on the console and did her belt.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Let’s blow this place,” she said. They fist-bumped, and Tad put the SUV in gear.

FIVE DAYSbefore Guthrie absolutely positively had to leave for San Francisco, the unthinkable happened.

His father—almost dead, damn him—snatched Guthrie’s phone from his pocket as Guthrie was leaning over to retrieve his untouched dinner tray and dropped the thing into the gears of his electric recliner. As Guthrie stared in shock, trying to figure out how to get the old man out of the chair, Butch, wheezingwith glee, hit the button that raised and lowered the thing, and Guthrie heard his phone’s components crackle as the chair’s gears crushed it into powder.

Guthrie stared at his father in shock.

---