Page 51 of Playing the Backbeat

“How old were you?” His voice is pained.

“It started in middle school. There was a talent show, and I had the great idea to sign up.” I shake my head. “Big mistake.”

“Sad-girl poetry reading?”

My jaw must hit the floor. “How the fuck did you know that?” I ask, breathless, the room suddenly devoid of air.

His answer is soft, like he can ease the discomfort of being seen so easily with gentle words. “When we met, you told me.”

“I didnottell you this.”

“You said enough. You did your normal Dee move, joking about sad-girl poetry.” He pauses, and I wait, unable to move as my heart beats so hard it hurts. “Your eyes said more than your words did.”

I can’t believe he remembered. It was the smallest comment, a slip of the tongue passed off as a bad joke when we first met…and he remembered. Not only that, but he heard what I wasn’t saying. Saw what I was trying to hide despite knowing me for less than an hour, most of which we spent in a Taco Bell parking lot.

“Well, if my words weren’t doing the talking, then you can imagine how terrible my poetry was.”

“What happened, Dee?” he presses.

I hate this. I never talk about it. I try not to even think about it.

“I read what I thought was my best poem. A few of the girls in my class smelled weakness and latched onto it. They spent the next three years torturing me because of it. They’d print flyers of my poem and stuff my locker or put it up in the halls at school. They’d call my house and leave messages. If someone showed interest in befriending me or dating me, they’d interfere. Kept me isolated.

“I was so relieved when my dad got a new job, and we had to move after my sophomore year of high school.” I spin the bottle on the arm of the chair before taking a sip. “Fake it till you make it became my motto. At my new school, I acted overconfident to the point of unbothered. Blowing up my personality as big as I could make it, so no one wanted to target me. I found a nice group of friends to spend my time with, but I was never quite as close with them since they’d known each other since elementary school. It wasn’t until I met Bec, Ellie, and Carissa in college that I felt like I belonged.”

“I’m glad you found them. People who realize how great you are.” Something seems to click in his mind, connecting the dots before he continues. “So, Emi…everything she’s got going on at school…”

“Yeah, that has my mind all fucked up.” I rub my temple. “I’m trying to help. To be a good aunt. Shit, I’m trying to just be a good person and support her, but I barely know what to say. I didn’t handle it well when I went through my own shit. I worry every time it comes up that I’m fucking it up for her too. Morgan assures me that listening is enough to be helpful. To let Emi vent. Morgan has to be the big, scary mom and deal with the bigger implications of it all. Talking to teachers and the administrators when needed.” I shrug. “But I want to do more than listen. I want to make it stop. I’m helpless…and I fucking hate it.”

“I’m sure she’s right,” he agrees. “Listening is helping more than you think.” He rubs his jaw and the scruff along his chin, considering what I’ve said.

“What if I were to offer to listen right now? To you.” I throw out tentatively. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but do you want to talk about it?”

“Why I freaked the fuck out today?”

“Yeah, I mean. I know you’ve mentioned it can happen with stress. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says, staring out the window.

“Didn’t really seem that way.”

He sighs, relaxing farther into his chair, shoulders heavy, his head sagging against the back cushion. “I told you when I get stressed, I have some habits…they can be a little obsessive. It doesn’t impact my life normally. But today was…a lot.”

“I’m all ears.”

“The owner came in for a visit. Unannounced. He’s debating selling the Bridge to someone else. Someone who will probably make him an offer I can’t possibly beat.” Defeat hangs heavy in his voice, like he’s already given up. “Ed knows me. He likes me. I’ve spent years working for him, making shit easy for him, handling all the issues so he could chill and reap the benefits with none of the stress. And this could be it. The end of everything I’ve been working toward.”

“I’m sorry, Dylan. Maybe there’s another place, another venue—”

“Not like this place. It’s perfect. I care about its history and the team.” He shakes his head. “Starting over somewhere else would kill me, but it might be my only option if this other deal goes through. The prick wants to renovate. Turn it into some fucking restaurant.”

“That fucking sucks.”

His surprised laugh rings out through the quiet space between us.

He nods slowly, his smile bright in the dark glow from the wall of windows. “Yeah. It really fucking sucks. See? Listening is all I needed. See how much that helped?”

“I think you’re underestimating how good action can feel too.” His eyebrows raise suggestively, and I shove his shoulder. “Not that kind of action, you perv. I was thinking about slashing thisguy’s tires. Or pretending like the place is haunted on his next walk-through of the building. Scare the shit out of him and force him to back out of the deal.”