Page 66 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

I think about the song I’ve been working on when no one else is home to hear me playing around on Mabel or singing the words I’ve been writing down in my notebook. I think Jamilah and Nola might like it. I think they might get what I’m trying to do, maybe feel seen in the lyrics.

But they’ll never hear the song if I keep only playing it for myself.

Fourth of July

Delilah

I’m eating lunch with my dad and his new family in complete silence.

Well, not complete silence. There’s the sound of the big oak clock in the foyer ticking and everyone chewing and forks clinking and even the faint music and laughter of their neighbor’s Fourth of July party next door. But compared to meals at my house, we might as well be in one of those sensory deprivation tanks that rich ladies pay to float in.

We’re sitting inside in Dad and Sandra’s HGTV-set dining room because nearby fires in Orange County have tinted the skies orange and made them heavy with smoke. But I feel like Dad and Sandra probably prefer this perfect, controlled setting anyway. And it’s not like anything was actually cooked outside on their expensive behemoth of a grill. It was ordered far in advance and picked up from Whole Foods this morning.

“Did you see the Yeomans painted their front door purple?”Dad says. He’s wearing a flag-printed polo. They all are, paired with matching khaki shorts. It would be a little terrifying, a little pod-person, if I wasn’t used to it. This is their usual routine for every holiday. Sandra very kindly called and offered me one two weeks ago when she was buying them at Nordstrom. I declined.

“Purple?” Sandra repeats, raising her eyebrows and giving a knowing smile. “Oh, the HOA isn’t going to like that.”

“No, they’re not,” Dad chuckles.

That’s been the general vibe of the conversation when it does happen—stilted and superficial. Never going deeper than necessary.

“I like purple,” Atticus, one of Dad and Sandra’s six-year-old twins declares, after a big bite of potato salad. Annabella, his sister—my half-sister—nods heartily in agreement.

“Purple is a nice color, sweetie. But maybe not for the front door,” Sandra says.

“And remember, Atticus, don’t talk with food in your mouth,” Dad adds. His tone is playful, but there’s an edge of chastisement there too.

When we were growing up, Georgia wouldn’t just talk with food in her mouth at meals, she would stand on her chair and belt out “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going,” hands up in the air as she hit the high notes like Effie. And I would come in as her backup Dreamgirl, dodging whatever crumbs came flying out of her mouth.

But... I guess that always ended with Dad saying, “That’s enough”—first with exasperation, then with anger. Maybe Atticusand Annabella have experienced a fewThat’s enoughs of their own to get the message at this point, without someone like my mom there to temper those stern reminders with lightness. Or maybe they didn’t even need them. They were just born this way.

“Sorry, Daddy,” Atticus says, taking his napkin out of his lap and wiping his mouth with it. “I forgot.”

“It’s okay,” Dad says with a wink.

I wish I knew my half-siblings more to better decipher how Atticus and Annabella are really feeling. If this meal feels as stifling to them as it does to me, or if it’s totally normal. But that would require sitting through more awkward, nearly silent meals, and I’m fine with the small number per year Dad requests now. Georgia finds these required get-togethers excruciating, and that’s why I’m covering for her now—I still owe her for Free Comic Book Day. Mom just asks that we try.

But I don’t know... Atticus and Annabella don’t seem unhappy at all. Maybe all the things that made my childhood so tense—Dad’s rigidness, his need for structure and quiet—make them feel secure and safe. I only see them on Dad’s chosen holidays, birthdays, and the odd weekend, but they seem content.

“So, your mother tells me you’re in a band?” Dad asks after another lull. I’d started to count each steady tick of the clock.

“Yeah, since late last year. We’re called Fun Gi, and I sing—well, really scream. I’m learning to play guitar, too.”

“Mushrooms are a type of fungi,” Annabella says, sitting up tall in her chair.

“That’s right, sweetie,” Sandra coos.

“We write it as two words, though. Fun. Gi. So, like, um, ‘Hey, I’m a fun guy,’ or something like that...”

I trail off because I actually think our name is kind of stupid, and I can see through Dad and Sandra’s strained, encouraging smiles that they feel the same.

“I think it’s wonderful that you’ve found such a... unique outlet, Delilah,” Dad says with a small smile. “Have you been putting a lot of effort into this endeavor then? It sounds like a pretty significant time commitment.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I have. Actually... I have practice today—after this, of course. Asher—that’s the bassist—he said we should take a break. For the holiday, you know. But Charlie—he’s the guitarist and he writes all the lyrics, too. He said we should keep up our normal rehearsal schedule because we have a lot of really big gigs coming up.” I’m talking way more than I normally do, but I feel this intense need to fill the silence, to keep this actual conversation volley up in the air.

“That’s nice,” Sandra says with a big smile.

“Very nice,” Dad echoes.

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