Page 93 of Audiophile

I envision her, bent over a book, or daydreaming, or constantly needing headphones. But within a few days, she dropped most of that, coming alive in the real world—experiencing people, nature, intimacy. “Not at first, but yes. Absolutely.”

Amanda hums, watching the girls play. “I’ll give her a chance.”

“That’s all I’m asking for,” I say. Mom squeezes my knee, and I wish Grant was here to make us complete.

The girls don’t let us sit for long. They want a dragon to chase them, a war horse to ride on, and a wicked stepmother to lock them away. Their imaginations are immense, and they useus as their cast of characters. It’s Petra’s world too, and I’m getting my first real glimpse inside it. No wonder she wants to write middle grade fiction—there are no rules. Anything goes, and strangely, the darker the better.

After playing for a while, the girls get cranky and hungry. “Should we go to Bluebells to get root beer floats?” I offer.

“Yes!” The girls shout, and pull us eagerly down the street. I smile, hand in hand with Janie while the sunshine breaks through the clouds. The moment is even more precious since I’ll be leaving them in a few days.

“You’ll sit next to me, right, Ree-Ree?” Janie asks, eyes big and pleading in her little face.

“Of course. No place I’d rather be.” I set out my microphone, and lunch is raucous, full of chaos, laughter, and fun. It’s rare that Mom joins in this much, and I embrace it.

I need to remember to visit more often. Petra will fit right in, the way I did with her family. It would be easy to blend them together—even the girls playing with Antonio and Lilly. My imagination skips ten steps ahead. I’d dragged my feet in all my other relationships, debating whether they warranted lifelong commitment. With Petra, there’s no hesitation.

“I don’t know what your life plans are anymore, but you’d make an incredible father, Reed,” Mom says after I help Janie finish the maze on her paper menu.

I purse my lips. “I’m not as confident. But if Petra’s heart is set on babies, I’ll need to step up.”

Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t necessarily mean with Petra. You’re really set on her, aren’t you?”

I’m lucky that Mom’s begun to warm to the idea of Petra. Hearing about our daily conversations has eased some of her fear. I needed her support more than I realized, and having it is a comfort. “More than anything.”

“Then I want to meet her soon. Don’t keep her to yourself.” Mom squeezes my arm. “You’re not your dad, you know. You won’t have the relationship with your children that he has with you.”

“Petra said something similar.”

Mom nods. “Sounds like you don’t believe either of us. I know him, Reed. I loved him. I need you to remember that there is so much of him that I fell in love with, and all those good parts are in you. All my good parts are in you too. Dad made poor choices, and you watched him like aWhat Not to Doguide. If that’s what’s worrying you, don’t. You have a beautiful heart, and you will raise your child to have a beautiful heart as well.”

I avoid her eyes as a ball of something hot sits in my throat and blocks all my words. Janie’s sweet face is flushed as she reaches eagerly for a root beer float that’s way too big for her little hands.

What would it be like for her to be mine? Or a little girl with curly, chocolate brown hair and long eyelashes? A little boy, with a mischievous smile and dark freckle marks across his skin?

I’d want either of them. Both of them. Or, if that’s not possible, the baby could look completely different—pale and blonde, or deep skin and tight curls, or espresso eyes and blue-black hair—and I’d be happy with that. I think Petra would too.

The lump in my throat eases. “I’m glad we had you to steady us all those years. I know it was difficult.”

Mom places her hand over mine, quiet in the midst of all the noise around us. “I’m sorry we put you through it. We set you up for your relationship with Kinley. Your father didn’t abuse me, but I tolerated mistreatment and forgave wrongs. I should’ve stood up for us. I trained you to accept behavior that is unacceptable.”

I sit back, a cold wave washing over me. “No, Mom, that wasn’t—you didn’t do anything wrong. You can’t blame yourself for Kinley.”

“Are you saying you don’t blame yourself either?” Mom asks. “Or do you hate yourself for letting her in without knowing what she would wrought on you?”

I don’t have to answer to confirm it. I brought Kinley into our lives—I exposed the whole family to her crazy. She’s the mistake that I can’t seem to leave in the past.

“If you say it’s not my fault,” Mom says, “then you also need to understand that it’s not yours.”

Mom pats my hand before turning her attention to Brooke. Janie pulls on my sleeve, trying to show me something on her coloring page. I smile and join in, but my brain is preoccupied. Do we all feel this way? Responsible for choices that weren’t ours to make?

I’m still considering it as we walk back to the park to run off the girls’ sugar rush. “Push me on the swing, Uncle Reed!” Brooke demands, laughing, and the girls race across the grass. There is a group of people standing together as their children play—two uniformed officers among them.

Mom wastes no time squeezing herself in the thick of it. “What happened?”

“A series of break-ins along the block,” an officer answers. I don’t know how we missed it, because when I focus beyond the group, it’s evident. A smash and grab, affecting several cars. My heart sinks as I walk toward Amanda’s car, anticipating the worst. Sure enough, two windows are smashed, Amanda’s bag is gone. When I go to my rental, my bag is gone too.

Myphone. Recordings with Petra, photos with Holly, texts with Grant when my life fell apart. My passwords and account logins. They’re all gone. I slam my fist into the side of the car, but it doesn’t help.

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