Page 88 of Shattered Chords

“Yeah, well...” I strode across the room, aimless steps taken mainly to calm the restlessness that was rising in me due to so many familiar faces bringing so many unwanted memories. “You know, drugs do that to you.”

“At least you see things for what they are. I’m glad. I hope it works out.”

“I hope so too.” I stopped and ran my palm over the massive desk in front of me. “I like her a lot.”

“And the girl? You said she plays?”

“Ally. Her daughter. She’s great. Probably gonna be better than me in a couple of years.”

“Don’t discount yourself.”

We were silent for some time. The hum of the party reminded us that there were several dozen people waiting on the other side of the door.

“I’m fucked up, man,” I whispered, the words coming true and real and desperate. Oh, but there was no undoing what had already been done. And I wept over it in my mind, I wept like a child whose dreams had been shattered.

“No, you’re not.”

“You really think so?”

“I think it’s all in your head.”

“Oh yeah?” My voice dropped even lower, to an ugly rasp. “Of course it’s in my fucking head. Cuz, it’s fucking screwed.” I tapped my forehead. “Tell me you don’t want to go back to a time when you didn't have an ounce of titanium in your body. Tell me you don’t miss your body being unbattered.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Frank said grimly, flopping into his office chair.

“Why is it irrelevant?”

“Because everyone gets older.”

“But I’m not fucking old,” I spat, words wobbling out of my mouth in rapid succession. “I’m not even forty.”

“I never said you were. You keep misunderstanding me.”

“Well, that’s your problem. You keep talking in fucking sudoku.”

He smiled. “At least your sense of humor is still intact.”

“Well, thank fuck for that.” I threw my hands in the air and matched his grin.

We were back to being our impossible selves. “So who’s on a guitar?”

“Story.”

I cringed. The kid who played in Isabella’s band, who couldn’t tell what a B minor was. “Is Izzy going to perform?”

“Yep, we’ll do a couple of songs, the ones we’re working on.”

“So the new record is coming along then?”

“It is.” Frank’s expression morphed into something extremely jubilant and I hated him a little for it, for being so happy, for making new music, for believing in himself.

“That’s good.”

“You should come over sometime when we jam.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“We’d love to have you. Izzy has a soft spot for you.”

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