Page 30 of Deliverance

“What the hell happened?”

“My dad switched the channel to MTV and I saw a Korn video.”

A loud laugh rattles Drew’s chest, and I feel all sort of gooey and warm on the inside.

“I think you’d make a decent pilot though.” She grins.

“Well, I guess we’ll never find out since I’m too old to enlist.”

“Age is a useless number.” She rolls her eyes.

“Ha, tell that to the recruiting officer.”

We spend the next hour polishing off the rest of the food and discussing the benefits of drinking one glass of wine a day. But ironically, we don’t limit ourselves there, and soon, Drew pulls out a second bottle. I’m not certain when exactly the buzz hits me. It creeps into my system slowly and carefully, wrapping itself around my brain, claiming a front-row seat to watch the show that is Drew.

She’s grown more animated and when soft pink colors her face, I remember a time when I was young and women made me weak, when I loved the wild intimacy of the nights on the road that followed evenings full of drinking and silly banter. And then Chance died and all that stopped. I lost interest and I no longer cared who warmed my bed, I no longer cared if she laughed at my jokes or liked the same music I did. I no longer cared if there was any kind of connection. As long as I could bury myself in her, whoever she was.

The sad thing is that after a while, you get used to shutting off all your feelings, and when a woman finally catches your attention, you’re overwhelmed and not sure how to behave, because you’re out of practice and you’re scared to do something really stupid.

As if sensing my inner conflict, Drew rises to her feet and says, “Let me get more wine.”

We’re two bottles down; I don’t know if starting a third one is such a good idea at this point, because I’m beginning to fucking melt, but she disappears behind the divider before I get a chance to object.

My gaze shifts to the canvases sitting in the corner and I leave the table to check them out. Most of the artwork is very similar to what’s showcased in the gallery. Bold and dark with splashes of silver, gold, and vermilion. Some pieces are nearly identical with slight differences only in their shape, and I wonder if they’re older works.

“These were all part of my first collection,” Drew confirms my guess. “Tina didn’t want to take a chance and picked only half of what I had to offer.

“So they’re just sitting here?” I glance at her over my shoulder as I flip through the canvases.

“Most galleries have a limited number of spots. I might auction them off eventually, when the time is right.” She gives me a shrug. “We’ll see what happens.”

I reach the very last piece and pull it from the stack. A thin male face stares at me from the dark background. Lines of soft purple shadowing his cheeks highlight the fragile bone structure.

“This is Cash,” Drew says, her voice quiet and lacking its usual spunk. “We made this right after he was diagnosed…”

“I’m sorry about your loss.” I’m holding on to the canvas with both hands, studying the details. I can almost feel the desperation trapped within this image. The ache of the looming end and the inability to change the outcome. Strange sadness fills my chest, making me realize how powerful Drew’s art truly is. I’ve never had anything except music affect me this way.

“You know what?” She steps behind the divider again and continues to talk, “I totally forgot. I saw his sister the other day and got you that record I promised.”

I slide the canvas back to its rightful spot and turn to face Drew as she walks over to me with the vinyl in her hand. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a player here. I suppose you have one at home, right?”

It’d be fucking blasphemy to be in a band that releases its albums on vinyl and not have a turntable. “I do.”

“Let me know what you think once you listen to it.”

I carefully study the packaging. It’s still sealed in plastic, brand new. “You mentioned the band’s records aren’t for sale?”

“When Cash found out he was sick, he signed off all the copyrights to his sister, Sienna. She owns the masters.”

“What about the other guys?”

“Cash was the principal songwriter. He wanted her to get some eyeballs on the album.”

“Did she?”

“She reached out to a few labels, but it’s been a slow process.” Drew gestures at the vinyl as I set it on the table. “There were only about two hundred copies made.”

“So essentially, I’m now the owner of a very rare item?” I clarify.

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