Page 2 of Where You Are

I tell her a couple of stories as we drive, her marveling and gawking at things I did and places I saw, until I turn it over to her and ask her to fill me in on her and our family.

“God, you’ve missed so much Mel,” Sarah’s tone gets bittersweet and wistful as she starts to run on. “Mike made partner at the firm, Dad got contracted to build a home for one of the Lion’s running backs, Jack’s band got that amazing break and toured with The Shock Wave and got famous. You missed him getting married…”

“I caught glimpses on TV and the internet from time to time,” I point out. “And from what I understand,everyonemissed him getting married,” I point out. Our little brother Jack is in a hit rock band that has made it big in the industry in the last couple of years, but about five minutes before that happened, he found his special someone and eloped. So yeah, he’s been married -and famous - for a year and a half, and I haven’t met his wife, Mayzie, yet. Okay, I feel kind of sheepish about that.

“Touché,” she agrees. “So tonight we’ll keep it simple, low key, order in, let you recover from your long trip,” she’s shrugging and nodding at the road, her tone ever so casual. “But tomorrow…” she gives me thewait for itlook before looking back to the road, “we’re having a party.”

I scoff over at her.

“A party?” I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. “Really?”

“Not a rave or anything, just a barbeque with the family and the band.” She shrugs like this is a given. She looks between me and the road as I continue to give her an incredulous glare. “What? Doctors party.” She holds her hand out like she asking what my deal is.

“No, sure, okay…” I placate as I turn to gaze out my window at the unimpressive, yet humbly comforting metropolitan scenery that blurs by. “It’s not for me is it?” I ask, looking back over at her.

“No, of course not. I know you don’t like parties in your honor. It’s just a get together… because everyone’s happy you’re home…” she trails off awkwardly before catching my eye and we both laugh.

“It’s okay,” I assure her. “It sounds like fun. I’m looking forward to it.”

MATT

Jack lazily strums his acoustic as he stares down at the notepad between us on the coffee table. I can tell by the look on his face that the words are starting to blur and I empathize. I’m sitting over here, picking at my own guitar on the couch kitty-corner to him in the newly converted studio I have in my basement. It’s nothing extravagant, just a small space for us to lay down tracks when the juices are flowing.

We’ve been at it for four hours and we’ve hit a wall.

“Ready to call it?” I ask, pulling my guitar off my lap and walking over to place it on its stand.

“Yeah,” Jack concurs, blowing out a breath. “We can pick this up another time. I think I’m running on fumes.” He takes his own guitar over to its case and opens it, and I see an unfamiliar notebook sticking out of the inside pocket; not the one he usually carries around to jot songs down in.

“What’s that?” I ask pointing.

“What?”

“That other notebook in your case,” I go to reach for it and he holds a hand up as he places his guitar in the velvet lining.

“Dah! Nope. No you don’t, it’s nothing.”

“Oh, I think it’s something by the way you’re acting. Are you holding out on me? Have you got some new material there?”

Before he can answer, I playfully plow into him with my shoulder, catching him off guard just enough for him to lose his footing so I can swipe the notebook out of his guitar case. He shoves me back and snatches it back, giving me an extra shove in retribution before returning it to the case that he swiftly snaps shut.

“Seriously, what’s in there man?” I ask with a curious smile. “Do you have a song you’re working on? Should I know about it?”

“Yes to the song, no to you knowing about it.”

“Is it about Mayzie? Why, what’s the big deal? We’ve worked on songs about her before.” He straightens to his full height and tosses me a glare. “Ohhh… is it… in the biblical nature?” I tease.

His continued death stare tells me I’m right and I hold my hands up in mock surrender.

“It will be recorded by me and only me, and will be heard by no one but me and her,” he tells me firmly.

“But what if you’ve got a smash hit in there?” I ask, gesturing to his guitar case.

“Then the world will have to go without it. What, you want me to broadcast my sex life with my wife in a song on the airwaves?”

“Alright, fine, you got me there,” I concede. “Although others have done it…” I try to hook him until we hear a muted buzzing noise and he reaches for his back pocket.

He pulls out his phone and his eyebrows go up in surprise as he looks at the screen.

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