Page 32 of Songbird: Black Kite
“Alright, well, let’s start in that direction then. Alex, you keep working on that beauty of a riff you were playing with earlier. I’ll see what I can come up with for some fucking words. Maybe this isn’t the lost cause we think it is.”
“You got this, man,” Gavin said reassuringly. “We’re right here with you.”
“We are, but right now, I need a beer and a blow job.” Alex stood, stretching and scratching at his chest, his dirty blond hair flopping over his eyes. “I’m gonna hit upThe Sour Patch, see who’s on stage tonight. You down?”
The Sour Patchwas a local bar that we had been frequenting for a long time. The place had been known for showcasing some of the hottest up-and-coming rock acts, and had been responsible for some serious break out performances.
Before shit hit the fan withBlack Kite, I’d been there as often as I could, soaking in the atmosphere and spending time with the guys.
Now, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone. Or had even felt like going.
“Nah, man. You go ahead.” I pretended I didn’t see the disappointment in Alex’s eyes when I declined. “I’m gonna stay in tonight.”
“Again, you mean.”
“Yeah. Again.”
For a moment, I thought he’d push the issue. He and Gavin exchanged a look, and I prepared for the lecture I’d be getting about living like a hermit and allowing life’s bullshit to get in the way.
It wouldn’t be the first time they’d said it.
But when Gavin gave a subtle shake of his head, Alex just blew out a breath and nodded.
“Alright, man. See you bright and early tomorrow, then.”
“For you, that means well past noon, fucker,” I laughed, and it felt good. Easy.
For once, the three of us seemed to be easing into a place that was starting to look like it used to, with our friendship at the forefront of our interactions, not band politics.
And maybe I should have gone out with them. Maybe I should shake off this dusty cloak of self-pity and allow myself back into the real world.
But I just didn’t feel ready.
Instead, I headed to my study, poured myself a drink, and opened the next box of letters.
I wasn’t even going to pretend to be interested in any of the others; with no one else around, there was no use in lying to myself.
I was looking for one thing and one thing only: feathers.
Wren’s letters were starting to haunt me. Painting a picture of her life, I found myself invested in every word she wrote, her story growing and evolving every time I opened one of her beautifully decorated envelopes, the feathers she drew calling to me in a way I didn’t understand.
I had been able to pinpoint her location, the post office stamp on the third letter having been much clearer than the previous two, and I was ashamed to say I had spent a stupid amount of time looking up Grand Rapids, Minnesota online. A former mill town, it sat near the headwaters of the Mississippi River, so far north it was practically in Canada.
The place was small and tired and part of me hated that she had grown up there. It seemed so dull and gray compared to the image I had of her in my head. A bright, shining beacon of intelligence and creativity, I imagined that she felt stifled in a place like that. A place that was so middle America, when I imagined Wren as bright lights, big city.
One thing I hadn’t done was look her up. I could have; social media was bound to show me hundreds of photos of her at the click of a button, but for some reason, I hadn’t yet. I told myself that it was me not wanting to invade her privacy any more than I already had, but some part of me was also hesitant to end the illusion that my mind had created. Wren as a free spirit, her hair wild and her smile bright as she rocked out to music we both loved.
I was happy with the image I had of her, and I was hesitant to change what was quickly becoming my favorite past-time of living vicariously through her love of my music.
It took an hour and two boxes, but I finally found one. This time, the envelope was practically covered in feathers, with dozens of different sized ones on the front and back. They seemed almost hastily drawn, as though she was working as quickly as she could because she simply couldn’t keep them inside her for a second longer, and I smiled, the second-hand joy I felt from just looking at the envelope better than anything a night out atThe Sour Patchcould offer.
Taking my letter opener, I carefully slit the top, not wanting to damage even one of the precious drawings, and then I slid the letter out and unfolded it, settling in to read.
She’d written the date at the top, and my mental math told me it was fifteen years ago, making her twenty when she wrote it. I could see in her penmanship how she had grown, her hastily written words flowing with a practiced hand. This one was shorter than the last one, and I refused to let myself feel disappointed. I would take what she gave me, but I wouldn’t lie and say I hadn’t been hoping for more.
I read the letter.
Then I read it again.
