Page 17 of Love Me Steadfast
His face brightens. “Doing great. Sofie’s practice keeps her busy, and the kids are growing like weeds.”
Their last Christmas card was a family photo of him and Sofie with their littles. Curren must be about five, and the baby girl with Sofie’s honey-brown curls is probably walking by now. “How’s Linnea, and Jesse?”
Jesse’s partner Neve passed away not long after Skye was born, and it rocked their family.
“Jesse’s doing really well,” Zach says. “Skye just turned seven and she’s quite the pistol.” He laughs. “And Linn just finished grad school.”
“That’s all so great to hear.”
“We can go with a warning,” Zach says, grinding the toe of his boot over the gritty pavement. “Promise me you’ll slow down?”
“Promise.”
“Okay,” he says, gripping his waist. “It’s really good to see you, Charlie.”
“You too.”
I wait for him to retreat to his SUV, then start my engine. After pulling slowly back onto the road, I hum one of my audition tunes and try to refocus. But the billboard that flashes into view a mile later obliterates any chance of that happening.
I stare, unblinking as it looms over me.
NIC SALAZAR AT CREEKSIDE OCTOBER 2.
It’s gone in a blink, but the heaviness seizing my chest gets tighter and tighter, squeezing my lungs.
Creekside is one of the biggest outdoor music venues in the region. An indication that nothing has held Salazar back from the fame he was so determined to claim.
I try to soften the emotions cracking open inside me with the curiosity my therapist tried to cultivate in me.Strong feelings are like messengers.
What are these trying to tell me?
No, don’t go there.
An idea scratches to the surface of my thoughts. How long has that billboard been there?
My shoulders sag. Of course.
Though even if I’m right, it doesn’t help me know what to do. Except avoid this particular stretch of road. And make sure Nic’s not planning a surprise show at The Limelight.
No fucking way. Nic wouldn’t come to Finn River. He wouldn’t dare.
I turn at the light and descend into town, guided by my inner compass to Second Street. I park on the corner, then stare through my bug-splattered windshield.
I’m gone for three years and everything has unraveled.
Will I ever fully escape?
I step out of my car, the early afternoon sun hot on my shoulders, and use the half block to The Limelight to draw my energy back into myself, so I can confront this situation with a level head. The light pole on the corner is plastered with playbills faded by the harsh elements, the staples rusted. Some of the bands I recognize, which brings on a surge of pride. Even though I never wanted to stay part of The Limelight, knowing that Dad still draws good talent gives me a little boost.
When I swing open the big door, the familiar squeak of the hinges cracks open a thousand memories, enhanced by the scent of warmed bread and rosemary, and something I can’t label but that is tied to all of my memories of this place. Something like hope.
The hostess stand just inside the door is vacant. Scanning thehigh-backed booths and tables lining the left wall, I see only guests and waitstaff. At the bar along the back right, a few barflies are holed up, pretending to watch the football game on the TV in the corner while a bartender moves from the taps to the fridge while carrying on a conversation. In the light of day, The Limelight looks even more tired than I remember, or maybe it’s the windows in need of a good scrubbing. Or the decades-old carpet in the dining area—once a deep burgundy but now dull and gray. Or maybe it’s the peeling varnish on the wood tables and booths.
I walk to the bar but just as I lean against it to catch the bartender’s eye, the TV program switches to the news. The image of a pretty young woman singing into a microphone hovers over the broadcaster’s shoulder. The volume’s low enough that I only catch “overdosed” and “pronounced dead”. Before I can make sense of the broadcast, the bartender saunters over.
“Grab a seat anywhere,” he says with a welcoming grin. He’s mid-forties with a thick mustache and warm brown eyes. There’s a bright energy about him that’s reassuring. He doesn’t recognize me, but that’s not his fault.
I purposefully avoid my reflection in the giant mirror because I don’t want to see my lack of a poker face right now. “Is Ray here?”
