Page 2 of A Country Kind Of Love
“It’s for my Insta. Being a cute brother earns points with the ladies.” He winks.
Dylan’s life is heavily influenced by how many women likehis photos.
“And I was thinking you were just being nice to your little sister.” Peyton perches at the breakfast bar.
“Can you do a quick video of me plating these for my story?” He slides his phone acrossthe counter.
“When I put it in front of you I’m going to record your reaction.” He arranges each pancake with precision, neatly stacking one on top of the next. He adds a drizzle of syrup and some crispy bacon.
“Wait, it’s missing something.” He walks over to the plant on the kitchen window and pulls a stem of green leaves, placing it neatly on top of the pancakes.
“What are you doing?” Peyton questions.
“What? It needed a decorative touch.” He shrugs.
“Dylan, that’s a weeping fig tree, not a culinary plant.” She knows it’s a weeping fig because her aunt brought it over a month ago and spent twenty minutes telling her how to keep it alive.
“Oh well.” Dylan places the pancakes in front of Peyton. They look incredible. Long gone are the days when Dylan’s pancakes graced the kitchen counter inedible because he’d added tablespoons of salt instead of teaspoons of sugar––he was a pro now.
“Now, look surprised, okay?” He positions his phone at Peyton’s eye level.
Who knew the semester she spent with the drama club would be useful one day. It isn’t a time in her life she likes to discuss. She’d imagined the experience to include trips to Broadway with new best friends, watching the Tony Awards at a sleepover, and cringeworthy cast parties where everyone rocked out to famous showtunes. Instead, she got anxiety, a terrible kangaroo costume that caused her entire body to come out in a rash, and soul-crushing disappointment at the Saturday matinee performances when only the first two rows were full.
“How was that?”Peyton asks.
“You didn’t get mom’s acting skills that’s for sure.” Dylan laughs. “You got her voice though.”
“Speaking of your voice.” James saunters in and casually lifts the fallboard of the piano in the corner to expose the shiny white keys, eighty-eight in total. Peyton’s spent years studying every single one. “It’s been a while since you playedus a tune.”
“Nope.” Peyton shakes her head with a mouthfulof pancake.
“Oh, come on, please,”James begs.
The music corner used to be her mom’s favourite place, and it remains unchanged. The music memorabilia she adored decorates the right wall all around the piano. A collection of guitars hang delicately on the left. A photo framed and signed by Randy Travis takes pride of place above the guitars. She can still picture her mom, scribbling away in her notebook, playing with the keys, adjusting the lyrics as she brought the songs to life. Her brothers were typical boys, only interested in sports and girls, but Peyton, she learnt everything from her mom.
“I don’t know.”She shrugs.
People don’t hear her sing, except for her brothers. It’s usually when she thinks the house is empty and they are in fact hiding behind the door listening. Singing was her mom’s forte, not Peyton’s; she prefers to write the songs for others to sing.Others, consists of nobody currently, but moving to Nashville will change that, she hopes.
It’s the whole reason she’s going, that and to gain some independence, but to be amongst the greatest people to ever write music is what excites her, and scares her half to death, but when she’s there she’ll have no choice.
With syrup dribbling down her chin she’s hoisted from her stool. “Seriously? What thehell, guys?”
Her brothers take a leg and an arm each and march her over to the piano, delicately they place her on the familiar blackpadded seat.
“That’s really unfair.”She scowls.
“When you leave I won’t be able to climb down through my window in stealth mode and stand outside the back porch listening to you sing. I think it’s only fair,”James says.
“Wait, you do that?”
“Don’t judge me.” He rolls his eyes. He’s softer than Dylan, a little dorkier. Peyton loves that about him.
“That’s sweet, in a completely intrusive kind of way.”
Peyton runs her fingers across the polished ebony cabinet; it is a thing of beauty. Her dad had the silver fittings changed to brass two years ago; he polishes the piano most days. In the corner there’s an etching the size of a quarter; it’s her mom’s initials. The upright Kawai piano is older than Peyton, but it looks brand new.
“What do you want me to play?” she asksreluctantly.
