Page 159 of Ice Me Out

Hart

The phone trembled in my hand as I stared at a never-released promo poster of Obsydian Trip before they exploded onto the scene. Three kids stood against a grimy concrete wall beneath the band’s name, dressed almost entirely in black. I recognized the triplets immediately. They were younger, skinnier, baby-faced versions of the men I’d watch dominate sold-out stadiums.

But my eyes kept drifting to the kid sitting in front of them.

VG.

Vera.

She may have been twelve; perhaps thirteen. An oversized black T-shirt swallowed her narrow frame, falling almost to her knees over baggy cargo pants and aged combat boots. Her locs were short, barely brushing her jaw, and half were hidden beneath a black beanie pulled low over her forehead. She didn’t wear makeup or jewelry; nothing that would draw attention to the fact that the scrawny kid sitting with his elbows resting on his knees wasn’t a boy at all.

And it fucking worked.

If Snoh hadn’t told me. I never would’ve known.

I zoomed in, and the eyes gave her away.

Those same dark, slightly upturned eyes stared into the camera with unimaginable intensity. Her mouth was set in a hard line, but the right corner lifted just a little.

I recognized that look.

I’d seen it across dinner tables, from the passenger seat of my Bronco, and on her side of the bed when she was trying to hold back a laugh.

There was no mistake that it was Vera. And according to Snoh, she’d written 16 songs in two weeks, climbed behind a kit, and helped create the band that would eventually become one of the biggest in the world.

I eased the phone to the table and slid it back towards him. He glanced at the photo, then slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“What—” I paused to clear my throat. “What happened? Why didn’t she stay in the band?”

Snoh seemed prepared for the question.

“Obsydian Trip was gaining traction. They’d been touring and opening for bands, playing pop-up gigs and festivals. Then they got a big break. They were on the setlist for Dead Summer Fest. Originally, they held an early slot, but some shit went down with the headlining band. Uncle G did his thing, swooped in, and snagged the spot for Obsydian Trip.”

Snoh stared at me, making eye contact.

“That was a big fucking deal. Eighty thousand attendees, music artists, music media personalities, journalists, you name it. Mom never attended any of Vera’s concerts because she was very much against the whole thing. Long story short, Vera begged Mom to come to the festival. Eventually, words were exchanged, accusations were made, and feelings were hurt. I won’t go into detail, but Mom changed her mind and attended the show.

“Obsydian Trip brought down the house, and after meet-and-greets and interviews, they went backstage and learned that Mom had died in a car accident.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mumbled.

“She decided to leave the venue early to avoid traffic and was hit by a drunk driver who had attended the festival.”

“Jesus Christ,” I repeated, unable to find anything else useful to say.

Snoh’s gaze shifted back to his mug. “Vera never stood on a stage ever again. Obsydian Trip kept on with her blessing; they found a replacement for her, and she melted into obscurity. She’s still the band’s lyricist and writes every single song, but… it’s tragic.”

“It sounds like she’s punishing herself.”

“That’s Vera for ya.”

“What does your family think?”

“Everyone wants to see her happy instead of cosplaying as a brew master.” He held up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong. She knows her shit. But that wasn’t her fucking dream. She just settled for what she thought was the next best thing.”

“Do you think she will ever return?” I asked optimistically.

Snoh leaned against his chair and draped his arm behind it as he considered. “It would take a miracle to get her back out there. We tried everything we could, man, but she’s stubborn as hell.”