Page 29 of Tainted Tempos

“Jameson,” I repeat, clearing my throat. “My mom’s boyfriend was named James and, I recognize how on the nose this sounds, but Jameson Whiskey was his favorite drink. He wasn’t a big drinker, but that was his preference. He passed away two months before my brother was born in a brushfire that wreaked havoc in Prospect Park, Brooklyn.”

Mckenna sits up straighter, placing her tea down on the small table between us.

“You and your brother…”

“We don’t have the same biological fathers. But Jameson doesn’t know that,” I admit, recognizing as I say the words that I probably should have told my brother before Mckenna. But after everything she’s shared with me, I want to confide in her too. Iwant her to be the keeper of my secrets as much as I want to be the shoulders that carry her burdens and pains.

Mckenna gasps, her eyes widening.

“My mom met my biological father, Big Jim, when Jameson was four months old. Nana and Pop liked him at first too. He was charming and caring and didn’t mind that mom had a baby. At that point, Mom’s musical and acting aspirations were on hold. She was grieving James, had Jameson to take care of, and was working as a hairstylist at a salon in the city. Nana was minding Jameson during the day, but it wasn’t a long-term solution. Mom met Big Jim while he was in the city for a work conference. He walked into her salon needing a haircut, sat in her chair, and that was it. They hit it off immediately. Nana told me that Big Jim took some of the grief from Mom’s eyes. She started laughing again. It was a whirlwind romance and Mom moved to Boston to be with Big Jim. Nana and Pop followed shortly afterward. And for a while, things were good. I was born. Jim was working. Mom was introducing my brother and me to music. We were happy.”

“What happened?” Mckenna whispers.

“Pop was diagnosed with dementia. Mom was doing everything she could to help Nana with Pop. She was still working as a hairstylist, mostly nights and weekends then, so her days were free to support Nana. And right in the midst of it, Big Jim was laid off.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah. Him losing his job was a huge setback. He’d been growing frustrated for years that he wasn’t moving up in the company or landing any promotions. Things were getting more expensive—music lessons, rent, food. Normal things, I guess, that married couples navigate. But when Big Jim lost his job, it’s like he lost a piece of his identity.”

“What did he do?”

“Started hitting the bottle. Spending days in the pubs. Betting on the horse races. And he began taking out his bitterness and resentment on Mom. It’s like he was pissed with her for not being there for him. But I don’t know what the fuck he expected. She was the only parent putting food on the table and her dad’s condition was worsening. Right in the middle of that shitstorm, my father decided that he had enough. I came home from school one day, Jameson stayed after to work on a piece with our music teacher, and Big Jim was packing a bag. Just like that, he was going to take off and not say a word.”

“What did you do?” Mckenna asks, her eyes shiny with tears.

“I begged him to stay,” I admit, my voice scratchy as I confess one of my greatest shames. “I fucking begged him, Mckenna. Like a goddamn dog.” I shake my head, recalling the tears that rolled down my cheeks as I pleaded with my father. “He was drunk but not wasted. He crouched down in front of me and told me to man the fuck up or I’d end up just like him. I didn’t understand what he meant and that’s when he told me.”

Mckenna sucks in a sharp breath.

“He told me that Jameson wasn’t his biological kid. That Jameson was born to a fucking saint named James that my mother still held a torch for. That he was the fuckup second choice and I was the leftovers of all the collateral damage. And that one day, I’d end up just like him. A drunk, second-best, good-for-nothing pushover. He said I had choices to make but if I continued to cry like a pussy, then those choices would be made for me anyway and it would be too late,” I continue. His words are so sharp in my mind, as if he said them yesterday and not over a decade ago. I heave out a breath. Shake my head at Mckenna and the mess I made of our lives. “Some days, I wonder if he was right.”

“Maverick,” she admonishes. “There’s nothing second-best about you.”

I snort. “Most people only think I’m in the band because of my brother. He’s the real talent and I’m…the hang around.”

“You know that’s not true. At your level, with your success, come on. You’re crazy talented.”

“I think that’s why I wanted to write songs so badly,” I admit. “I wanted to prove that I was more than what I am. That I could be better than he said I’d be. Stupid, isn’t it? To still care or be driven by the words of a man who’s missed most of my fucking life.”

Mckenna’s expression is almost stricken as she shakes her head. “That’s not stupid at all. That’s…well, that’s one of the most relatable things you’ve ever said to me.”

I laugh at that and Mckenna cracks a grin.

“We’re completely fucked up, aren’t we?” I mutter.

“Broken beyond repair.”

“Not even close,” I say, reaching for her.

She comes to my side of the couch and wraps her arms around me. The second her body melts into mine, I breathe easier. She snuggles into me, and I hold her close, and together, we pull in an inhale.

“You’re not broken, baby,” I tell her.

“And you’re not fucked up, Mav.”

“Some days I am,” I admit.

“Some days I am too,” she replies, chuckling into my shoulder. She presses a kiss there.

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