Page 131 of Toxic Wishes

Music is the most potent form of magic.

“What’s so funny?” Colt asks.

“Oh, nothing,” I shake my head once, not taking my eyes off the words as I remember that day outside on the patio.

“Blake and I had this argument. Well, it's more like a back-and-forth agreement. He argued music was the way to one's soul and needed to be created, which I couldn’t argue. But I told him I liked music too much to create it.”

I reach Colt’s gaze with my silly grin.

“I’m not following.”

“Haven’t you ever heard that once your art becomes your job, it loses its elusive charm? It’s like seeing your favorite music video or movie behind the scenes. The cables and green screen with people floating around on set. It desensitizes you. That’s why I never wanted to become a music star.”

That’s the excuse I told myself and everyone else until they believed it, anyway.

“I wonder if Cliff had that problem. Money, fame, and football didn’t mix well with him.” He picked up a piece of paper that fell by his shoes, reading it absentmindedly. I sat on the floor, legs criss crossed as if ready to dive into the magic of each word on these papers.

“Not that I’m too far off these days,” he mutters as he lets the papers slip out of his fingers and drop back down to the floor.

“I can only imagine what that type of pressure feels like,” I say.

“Not to spoil your happy ending, but he became a womanizer, a gambler, a short-term addict and a shit dad.”

“At least now you know why. He probably hates himself.”

“Good, he should.” He looked around as if the papers overwhelmed him and he was too afraid to touch them because he might damage one.

His musky cologne had an undercurrent today. And it made my stomach clench almost violently.

“What’s your big D?”

“My big D?” I say, looking up at him with a scrunched-up face.

“Yeah, disaster.

“Oh,” I tear my gaze away from him and resume gathering the papers one by one.

“C’mon, you think I go around talking about my dead brother who overdosed?” He let out a bitter chuckle.

“We’re past small talk, sweetheart. Don’t think we’ve ever been there.”

I said nothing. I honestly wasn’t sure. All I know is things changed after I turned six, and I was walking around with a hole in my chest, waiting for it to be filled.

“C’mon, I could use a distraction. I’m this close to saying to hell with this project and marching down those steps, putting a big sign on the front door, letting Cliff know there are no deadbeat dads allowed.”

His low voice seeped into my gut, though it had no business going there. “So Bodie would be very grateful if you pulled my head out of my ass because I was this close to not giving a shit and looking like the monster I feel like being in front of my son.” He held up two fingers, indicating how much patience he had left.

“I wasn’t lying. I don’t know. All I know is that when I turned six years old, everything changed.”

“Can you maybe elaborate,” he says with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m sure you know my cousins and I all grew up with each other, and we were best friends, but then something changed one day. I’ll never forget the day they started treating me differently. It was around six years old, and they all started picking on me, excluding me from playing activities, except for my sister. She never played along with their shenanigans, but she never stopped it either. And somewhere along the way I stopped loving myself. Then, if that wasn’t weird enough, sometimes I found my dad giving me these looks.”

“Looks? Like-”

“No,” I say, quickly shutting that thought down.

“He never touched me or looked at me inappropriately. It was more of an evil glare as if he couldn’t stand the sight of me.”

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