Page 21 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

Wolf whistles and hoots echo from random spots in the crowd, and Scarlett shimmies her shoulders as she winks. Thunder claps in the low-hanging clouds overhead, and she stretches her ruby red lips into a perfect O, her fluffy-lash-framed eyes comically wide.

“Uh oh, y’all! I think we’re about to get a little sprinkle!” She turns her wrist over, making a big show of feeling for rain. “Y’all don’t mind getting a littlewet, do you? I sure don’t!”

More wolf-whistles, more hoots, more hollering, and Scarlett presses the mouthpiece of the horn back to her lips. The trumpet wails through several more bars of the song, all the while she continues to pound the bass drum and swing her hips with the beat. Just before she draws the song to a close, she steps away from the drums, trotting on tip-toes to cross the stage again, shaking her plump, perfect ass the whole way, and plops down at a piano.

She pauses only long enough to set down the horn, and then trills her way into Leaving Sweet Lorraine’s. My gaze darts back and forth between her wiggling hips on the bench and the crowd that can’t, for the life of them, stand still.

Hundreds of people hang on every single note of the song she wrote aboutme.

Aboutus.

About a night I barely remember, but will never be able to forget because it’s become musical fodder and undeniable proof that Scarlett is astar.

Or…if you will…aunicorn.

My unicorn.

The one I needed to find, but also the one I am terrified to admit that I want.

Because, after all, she said it herself in the dreams where I can’t save her.

You’re not enough, August. You’ll never be enough.

The deep, physical ache resurfaces in my gut, and I don’t like the implications of what that feeling means. I don’t like it one bit. And even though this is my brand new artist’s very first show, which means Ineedto be here for her, I can’t fucking do it.

As though she can perceive my internal turmoil from way across the stage, Scarlett cuts her lidded eyes toward me and winks. I return her coy look with a hard stare and turn away while she’s still looking at me.

I leave the stage and don’t look back, and I feel the weight of her eyes on me the entire time.

6

Scarlett

The digital clock above the stove in the kitchenette reads 11:45, which means I’m forty-five minutes late for my very first recording session, but I couldn’t care less.

“Maw-Maw, look here,” I plead with her again, but she merely swats at me for the umpteenth time. “Can you try to look at me?”

“No!” Maw-Maw swings her knobby hand at me, and I duck out of the way. “Why are you in my house? Get outta here!”

“Maw-Maw,” I try again, remaining calm and patient, “it’s Scarlett. I’m your granddaughter, and this is our apartment. Can you try to look at me?”

Her rickety fingers wrap around my wrist, and she flings my arm away from her. “Get outta my house!”

“Maw-Maw…try to look at my face, Maw-Maw.”

Another swat; another duck. “No!I’m callin’ the police!”

The sweat is starting to form on her brow, and the tremors that just showed up within the past week are violently shaking her limbs, so I back off.

“Okay,” I relent, stepping away from her. “Let’s just cool off for a minute. Do you want me to help you move to the chair by the window?”

Maw-Maw swings her trembling arm through the air again. “Get outta my house!”

A pang needles my chest, but I stifle my heartache with a bite of my bottom lip and turn away.

It’s not her fault. It’s just her mind. It’s just her condition, and I’ve known for years this was going to happen.

I return to my bedroom to check my phone for a message from Antoinette. She was supposed to be here earlier this morning, but called me at the last minute saying her car picked up a nail on the highway, and she’d be late.

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