Page 39 of No More Love Songs

KIT

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“Dinner’s in the oven,” I tell Ari as I pass by her room, guitar in hand. “Hey, Rat.” Her best friend is over. Kids have the weirdest nicknames these days.

“What’s up, bro.”

I’m the cool dad. So, I don’t laugh at that. I also know it doesn’t warrant a response. “It’s rodent friendly, of course.” She’s a vegetarian. Something I find easy enough to accommodate but which her own family seems to continue to struggle with.

“Where are you headed?’ Ari calls after me just when I’m out of sight.

“Sky’s working on new material for her album, and since I’m the only musician she currently has access to, she asked me to help.” I say loud enough for her to hear even as I reach the stairs. “I have my phone on me.”

“I can probably manage the two-minute stroll across the house to get from here to her room,” Ari yells from inside her room.

“Yeah, but don’t,” I shout back. “Just call.” I’d like to pretend my intentions are to protect Sky’s creative space, but the truth is, for the first time in thirteen years, I want to give someone the opportunity to see more of me beyond who I am as Ari’s dad. And that’s impossible when she’s present. Because I’m always going to put that part of me first when she’s there. Hell, even when she’s not there, being her parent is at the forefront of everything I do and think and choose. But there are other aspects of me that surface for seconds at a time when I don’t have to worry or wonder about her safety or her needs being met, moments when I can think about meeting my own.

I’m just stepping into the lodge when my phone buzzes in my palm.

It’s Ari. Can we finish the box of popsicles in the freezer?

I roll my eyes. I just bought the box yesterday. There are probably eight popsicles left in there. Go for it.

It’s just juice anyway.

I notice Jack is at my side when I reach the stairs to make my way up to Sky’s suite. “Why do I feel like you were already headed this way and you’re not here for my sake?”

Jack responds by speeding up and beating me to the door, which she opens without hesitation to let herself inside.

“Sorry about that,” I mumble, making the effort at a half-assed knock even as I’m following my dog inside.

“I could lock the door if it bothered me,” she points out from where she’s sitting on the bed. She’s got about seven notebooks sprawled out around her with her guitar resting in her lap, serving as an arm rest for now from the looks of it.

“Are you planning to write every line in this song in a new notebook?” I ask, pulling a chair over to the bed to have a seat.

“These aren’t for writing in,” she informs me before she whips out a previously hidden pad of paper she was apparently sitting on. “This is for new stuff. These,” she spreads out both arms to encompass the spread of papers, “are all filled with old material that never made it anywhere but paper. I like to look through them all every so often, see if anything worth salvaging is hidden among the scribbles.”

“Any luck so far?” I lean forward trying to get a peek at the open pages closest to me. “What’s this one?”

She reaches out to snatch the notebook before I can even make out the first line. “That one’s junk. The whole book is. I pull that one out to remind me how far I’ve come and how much good shit can follow writing really bad shit.”

“Can I see it?” I gesture for her to hand it over, but she just clutches it tighter to her chest.

“Why?” Her eyes narrow suspiciously.

I shrug. “I just want to know what you think is shit.”

She starts to hand it over then whips it back before I can take it. “You’re not going to laugh at me?”

“Come on.” I’m about to laugh right now. “Who can make a promise like that in a situation like this?”

“A polite person who can restrain themselves to keep from hurting someone else’s feelings,” she counters straight-faced and clearly unimpressed with my response.

“Have I hurt your feelings even once since I’ve known you?” I return.

Her face softens, as does the ironclad grip on her notebook. She doesn’t answer but to hand it over to me.

“Thank you.” I maintain eye contact a moment longer with her, silently acknowledging the significance of the gesture. Then, I flip it open and start to take in her words. “You have a very warped idea of what shit is,” I tell her quietly, letting the lyrics settle before I turn the page to take in more.

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