Page 107 of Caught in a Storm
Billy can deal with Robyn tearing up. He hopes, though, that Caleb won’t, because if he does, Billy knows that he’ll fall apart before their dinners even arrive. Fortunately, though, the kid holds tough. “But I like Baltimore,” he says. “I want to be here, with you. Both of you. You’re my family. My mom and dad.”
Robyn puts her hand on Caleb’s hand.
Billy decided that he wasn’t going to mention the grid of Stanford photos on Caleb’s computer. His son is old enough to have his own secrets. “It’s not about Baltimore, buddy,” he says. “And don’t worry about your mom and me. We’ll be fine. Especially your mom. Look at her; she’s a killer.”
Robyn laughs. “Gee, thanks.”
“This is about you,” says Billy. “Cay, you deserve this. And I know it’s scary—change is scary. Sometimes it’s terrifying. I get it. You’ve been here your whole life, right? You’re safe here. You love this place. And you should, because Baltimore is great. But maybe there’s something even better for you out there—something you’ll love even more. But you won’t know unless you go. Because sometimes…sometimes you’ve gotta take a chance on something.”
Across the outdoor dining patio, the doors from the kitchen swing open, and their waiter emerges with a tray of food hoisted over his shoulder. Billy notes this just as he notes that Caleb and Robyn are looking at him. His son is smiling, and Robyn is shaking her head.
“What?” Billy asks. He already knows, though.
“Dad, thanks…but, like, are you even listening to yourself right now?”
As their waiter weaves toward them, Billy thinks about Margot. It’s an easy thing to do, because he’s been thinking about her virtually every moment since she left. And then Robyn takes her hand off their son’s hand and puts it onto his.
“Thank you, Billy,” she says. “Now, really, get out of here.”
Chapter 60
Margot doesn’t know how long she’s been walking, but her feet are killing her.
Her driver inched along slowly behind her for at least two miles after she left the studio. He got stuck behind a few buses and was marooned at several intersections, but he kept catching back up to her.
“I’m not supposed to leave you alone, Miss Hammer!” he shouted out the window. “Mr. Albee will kill me!”
“I’m fine!” Margot told him. “And tell Axl to go fuck himself!”
As a pedestrian it’s hard to be inconspicuous when you’re being slowly trailed by a giant black Cadillac, so people on the street kept waving at her and calling her awesome. Then, finally, she heard the big engine rev behind her. When Margot looked back, her escort was finally gone for good, and she was free.
Back at Threshold, Margot had played the first verse of her song and the chorus three times in front of Rebecca Yang, Wave, and her stunned bandmates. “But I’m here now! And you’re here, too! And that’s good enough for me! If it’s good enough for you!”
In the control room, Chuck had put his headphones back on, which means there must be a recording of her playing. She doesn’t need to hear it, though, to know that she sounded incredible.
“Margot?” said Anna when Margot finally stopped.
“Holy shit,” said Nikki.
Margot took the guitar off her shoulder and gave it back to Jenny. She squeezed the guitarist’s hand then hugged Anna. “I have to go.”
Four words, unspecific, but they knew what she was saying. This was it. The Burnt Flowers reunion was over. They, officially, were over.
“Can we come?” asked Anna.
“Yeah,” said Jenny. “Can we?”
Margot winked at Rebecca, and then she looked at Nikki. Neither woman said anything. This entire thing was a gimmick. Nikki didn’t need Margot. She didn’t need Jenny and Anna either. Nikki didn’t think she did, anyway. Nikki would rerecord the material they’d already laid down with a new backing band. She’d come up with a few more songs. She’d have the three of them cut out of that terrible album cover, and she’d be fine. Love her or hate her, Nikki Kixx is a rock-and-roll survivor.
Margot kissed Anna’s cheek, then Jenny’s. She told them, “Not now, okay? But soon.” Then she left the studio and stepped out into the evening. She wore jeans and her boots and a pilly sweater. Not exactly a rock outfit, but Margot is a rock star nonetheless. Stupid Lawson was right: she was born to be.
She’s walking now in the general direction of home, but there’s no way she’ll make it in these boots.
For years now, Margot has operated on a day-to-day basis, rarely thinking ahead, her thoughts tangled up in the past—Lawson and Nikki, Burnt Flowers, the MTV Video Music Awards, a mental collage of Us Weekly headlines. Now, though, as the crossing light before her blinks on, her future rolls out ahead of her like a red carpet. Tomorrow she’s going to clean her apartment. After that, she’s going to write a song. And then, by God, she’ll write another one. Soon after that, she’ll call Anna and Jenny, and she’ll ask them if they want to start a new band with her. They’ll say yes, she knows, and one of them, probably Jenny, will mention that they need a singer. Margot will tell them that they can all be singers, but that she knows a singer-slash–guitar player in Baltimore named Emma who can really bring it. And if they want to get crazy, there’s a kid named Daquan who hits drums like a beast. And if they want to get really crazy, there’s another kid, even younger than Daquan, his name is Jackson, and he’s killer on the piano. They’ll make songs together, the first of which will be the song Margot just belted out at Threshold, and they’ll release an album. If her bandmates have a better idea, great; but right now, Margot is thinking We’re Fine would be a perfect title.
But before she does any of that, she needs to call Billy.
Just eyeballing it, there don’t seem to be as many benches to sit on in Manhattan as there are in Baltimore, so Margot diverts into a decent-enough-looking bar. It’s mostly empty. The few people inside are gathered in small groups. Some solo folks stare at their phones. Margot heads straight for the bartender. “You don’t have a beer called Natty Boh, do you?”
