Page 73 of Badd Love
"No," Delia answered, drawling the word. "Just…less inclined to take risks or get outside your comfort zone."
Dad cut in, then. "We'll all be there," he announced. “I’ll put the word out to the tribe."
I groaned. "I just meant our family, like us, here. I'm not sure the auditorium is big enough for our whole crew to show up."
"It's what we do, son," Dad said. "Best not to fight it."
"It's you, on stage, singing," Duncan said. "Of course we'll all be there."
“Sweet," I mumbled.
"Oh no," Emerson teased in a sarcastic monotone, "the support of my whole family, how tragic."
"Shut up, Sunni," I muttered.
I felt better, now that that was out of the way. I'd been oddly nervous to make that announcement. What I wasn't telling them was that I had a solo. I also wasn't mentioning that I had to wear a tuxedo with a jacket that had those long tails. I'd made it into some sort of higher-level sub-choir thing, because apparently there's not just one choir, but also lots of mini-choirs and groups and shit. I dunno. I just show up and sing.
Another thing I wasn't telling them was that I fucking loved choir. I loved singing. I'd feel myself hit the perfect note and get the shivers. I'm not sure anyone in my family has ever ever heardme sing, because I never realized I actually could—like, not well, I mean.
I wasn't sure what to do with this newfound love for singing, but I figured I'd take it one step at a time. I don't know why I was nervous, either. It's not like my family was going to be unsupportive. It's just a big step for me.
I've worked for the same landscaping company since my junior year in high school, and I’ve never really looked beyond it. It was a good job, I enjoyed the work, and it was flexible. Or, rather, my boss was flexible.
But lately, I was wondering if it was going anywhere.
IfIwas going anywhere.
Suddenly, Delia's comment about broadening my horizons made a lot of sense.
I haven't really done much of anything other than work and school since coming back from LA. Two weeks ago, I got a postcard from Portland, Oregon, from Lindsey.
Thinking of you, it said, in a neat, female cursive script.
That was it. Three words on a postcard from Portland, Oregon.
Thinking of you.
Four months of silence, and I get three words on a postcard?
And why was she in Portland?
After Sunday dinner, I ambled down to the dock, sat in one of the Adirondack chairs, lit a joint, and stared at the postcard. A form settled into the chair beside me, and I, assuming it was Dunc, handed the joint over.
The fingers that took it were slender, and the nails painted a pale, matte pink.
"DeeDee," I said, coughing. "Not who I was expecting."
She puffed on the joint, exhaled, and handed it back. "I know. You were lost in thought." She snatched the postcard from me. “’Thinking of you.' No signature."
I didn't answer.
She handed it back. "Lindsey?"
"Yup."
She sighed. "How are you handling all that?"
I didn't bother asking how she knew about all that—there were no secrets in this family, and we love us some piping hot tea. I shrugged. "Fine, I guess."
