Page 37 of Betsy
“That good, huh?” A twinge pinched just below my ribs.
“Yeah.” A tapping sound followed, pencil against his desk.Tap, tap, tap. “Hey, Asher?” The edges of his voice had rounded. Softened. “I’m proud of you, man.”
My eyes immediately stung. “You don’t have to—”
“I’m proud of you,” he interrupted. “No matter how many belittling messages you’ve received—from Mom, people in the industry, even me at times—you haven’t let them keep you from rising above the noise. But you’ve done it in such a humble way, not seeking the top to prove anyone wrong, but quietly confident in your own worth and ability. You’re an amazing guy, and I’m proud to call you my brother.”
The lyrics of “Kumbaya” floated through my mind, and I let out a heavy breath—part frustration and part begrudging humor—that crackled in the phone.
“Too sappy?”
“What? No. Sorry. Something just came to my mind that’s sort of an inside joke. But, yeah.” I swallowed hard. “I’m proud to call you brother too.”
“Okay.” He didn’t press for more details. “Well, my ten minutes are up. So unless you want me to start a timer for billable hours, I’ve got to go.”
“Talk to you later.”
We hung up, and I slid my phone back into my pocket, letting my head fall backward as I squeezed my eyes shut. Everything Aaron had said, I realized, were things I’d been yearning to hear. Maybe even for longer than I’d realized. How I hadn’t let the disappointment in my own mother’s eyes when she looked at me be a catalyst to prove to her my worth or seek the recognition I’d craved growing up in the shouts and accolades of fans by following after fame.
The very things Betsy had accused me of without even knowing me, I’d put intentional boundaries around because I knew how easy it would be to shift focus and try to fill holes in my life with temporal things instead of eternal. The irony would be laughable if it didn’t sting so much.
But she doesn’t know you, I reminded myself. And hurt people hurt people. So, really, the only thing I could do was give Betsy every opportunity to see me for me and not through the lens of her past experiences with musicians. Eventually she’d come to see that I wasn’t anything like she’d already judged me to be.
A loud bang echoed in the still morning air, originating behind me. I turned and Jimmy waved, his cell pressed to his ear and his hair sticking up in all directions. Knowing him, he’d just woken up and was calling Doreen, his wife, first thing. She’d originally planned to go on tour with us—no one had liked the idea of splitting up the family—but then her mom had fallen ill, and Doreen had flown out to Florida to manage her mom’s health needs.
I made a mental note to check on Jimmy and Marcus often throughout the next weeks. Tours were stressful enough on their own. Add in personal difficulties on top of that and it could potentially be a recipe for a breakdown. While we’d made commitments with each of the churches hosting us as venues, I had a greater responsibility to my bandmates and friends.
I stepped back into the bus, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee welcoming me. Someone had found a miniature coffee maker in one of the cabinets (the carafe only held two cups of near-black liquid) and had plugged it in. It took exactly one step and a pivot to enter the “kitchen” and stand in front of the leprechaun-sized Mr. Coffee. We’d need to brew at least three or four pots for everyone to have a cup. I opened an overhead cabinet in search of a mug. Best to get the second pot brewing, but I needed to empty the carafe first.
A stack of disposable to-go-style cups nestled together in the corner of the cabinet. I peeled off the top two, set them on the small square of butcher’s block counter space, then grabbed the handle to remove the carafe from the maker’s warming plate.
“If you value your life, you’ll step away from the coffee.”
I let the smile play over my lips. I’d never seen the point in schooling one’s features. If I felt something—joy, anger, sadness—why should I try and hide that from other people?
Slowly, I raised my hands as if a mugger had just come up to me with a gun and threatened my life for the money in my wallet. Well, my lifehadbeen threatened, if unconvincingly. And yet, instead of shaking in my boots, I wanted to verbally spar with my assailant.
Keeping my palms held face out, I rotated on the balls of my feet until I faced Betsy. The smile froze on my lips as my breath exploded in my lungs. She stood a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest and her hip cocked like a pistol ready to send a bullet to my heart. Her baggy sleep clothes were rumpled, and tiny crease marks slashed across one side of her face, left there by her pillow. Her hair looked wild, untamed, and the embodiment of the free spirit of the woman who wore it. Something about seeing Betsy like this, just out of bed first thing in the morning, felt intimate. A privilege set apart for after marriage vows.
Which struck me as strange, since I’d just seen Jimmy in a similar state and it hadn’t phased me at all. The wordsintimateorvulnerablehadn’t even considered knocking on the door of my mind. If I had to guess, the same would be true if Tricia waddled from the sleeping area and into our duet, making it a trio. No, this impression of intimacy was reserved for Betsy alone.
I cleared my throat and looked above Betsy’s head to give myself a second to get a grip on my thoughts. “Is your first reaction always bodily harm?” I managed to ask around the lump in my throat.
She smirked. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”
I lowered my hands and shrugged. “The saying goes that you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”
“Why would I want even one, much less more flies?”
“I just meant a simplepleasegoes a long way.”
She stepped forward and gave me a shove. “So does aget out of my way.”
This time I was the one who folded my arms over my chest and leaned my shoulder against the doorjamb. I watched her pour the coffee into a cup and dump the contents of three sugar packets into the dark liquid.
“We had a cat once when I was growing up. My brother named it Lucifer because he said it was the devil incarnate. Lucifer would hiss and try to scratch anyone who ever tried to get close or, heaven forbid, tried to pet him. My mom threatened to take Lucifer to the pound, but I begged her not to.”
Betsy stirred her coffee, pretending not to listen to my story. The slow rotation of her spoon and the tilt of her head, however, gave her away. She was more invested in the words coming out of my mouth than she wanted to let on.
