Page 67 of Reggie and Delilah's Year of Falling

“Thanks, yeah... I’m having fun.”

And the ball drops.

So, I eat my food—counting the ticks of the clock during the long, drawn-out silences and smiling and nodding when something is said. Partway through dessert, Sandra drops the bomb that the Birneys’ Ring camera caught the Yeomans’ Shiba Inu pooping on their lawn, and I find myself gasping loudly, desperate for something even mildly interesting to latch on to. That’s what only a fewhours here has done to me.

I study Sandra as we watchThe Music Manon their white sectional couch after lunch. Like the twins, she looks content. Not just content, actually, but overjoyed with her mostly silent meals and TV-perfect house. I don’t think she’s being controlled or repressed. This is clearly the life that she wants.

It’s not like with Mom, who always looked like she was itching out of her skin when she was around Dad. Sometimes I swear she would pick fights just to get any expression of feeling out of him, to force him to veer out of neutral. God, they were so ridiculously incompatible, I don’t even know how they made it so long. But they were so young, still figuring themselves out. And then I came along and they made the decision they thought was best for everyone at the time. Because of the way it all went down, it’s hard not to think of us as a stop on the way to the life that wasactuallyplanned for Dad—that he maybe always saw for himself, too.

And Georgia took after Mom, for sure. When we were young, she never made herself quieter, smaller when he told her to. She belted out show tunes on the front porch, put on performances in grocery store aisles, dressed herself in sequins and rainbows and red cowboy boots to go to church with our straitlaced grandparents. And when we got a little older, near the end, she picked fights of her own.

But I could always get along, keep the peace.

I guess that’s why I’m here right now, pretending to enjoy this old-ass musical while Mom’s hanging at Andre’s auntie’s pool and Georgia’s at her friend’s beach bonfire—or intense holiday rehearsal for the community theater production ofThe LittleMermaid,if Mom or Dad asks.

“I’m proud of you, Delilah,” Dad says when we pull up to Asher’s house later. I know how this should make me feel, hearing this from my dad. I know I should get teary-eyed or feel all warm inside, with his spotlight turned on me in this moment. But all I can think is: How can he be proud of me when he doesn’t even know the real me? Not like my mom and Georgia. Ryan now, too. And Reggie... the people I trust to look behind the curtain I keep up for everyone else.

But I smile and say, “Thanks,” like I’m supposed to. And he pats my arm and grins because that’s enough.

I don’t want that life.

The words ring in my head—big, booming—as I close the door to Dad’s Audi and he drives down the street with a honk.

I can’t have that life.

What Dad and Sandra and the twins have. It’s too quiet, too passive. Too boring.

But am I actually reaching for anything else? I’m still playing other people’s music and hiding my own because it’s easier. I’m still in this strange limbo with Reggie because I’m scared of what my sister might think—or really just scared that I can’t trust my own gut about what I really want. Why do I keep making myself small, thinking this is the way it always has to be?

It’s not enough to just think about the girl I want to be anymore. It means nothing if I keep walking down the same path I always have, shrugging and spouting out “Yeah, whatever” and staying in neutral.

It’s time for me to actually do something about it. And I’mgoing to start right here, right now, by finally sharing my music with the band.

I try to give myself mental pep talks all through practice.

You got this. This is going to go better than you think. What’s the worst that can happen?

But of course, my brain is pretty skilled at providing the worst-case scenario: derisive laughter, placating smiles to hide their embarrassment for me, immediate ejection from the band... I could go on. I’m a realist. Charlie is picky and elitist when it comes to music. He’s not about to praise what I’ve been working on and suggest we change the name to Delilah and the Fungus or something. No, the most that I can hope for is that they’ll all be open to it, accepting. And regardless of all that can go wrong, I know I can’t chicken out—I have to take the leap right now. If I keep being quiet and going with their flow, nothing is ever going to change.

So after we finish a third run-through of “Infinity Kit,” I take a deep breath, trying to loosen the tightness in my throat and chest.

“Bro, that last part you added on the toms is so sick.”

“Yeah, but something is still off. I need to tweak it some more.”

I will my voice to be steady, strong. “Hey, can I show you something?”

The guys are always doing this at practice. It starts with this simple request, and then Asher will play a riff he’s been tinkering with, or Charlie will read some lyrics out of his notebook. And then Beau will come in with a beat that ties everything together. They’ll adjust and refine, sometimes giving each other suggestionsor critiques, but sometimes completely wordlessly, like their brains are just melding together. It really is magic to watch. It’s how the music gets made.

But when I go to pick up a guitar to show them something like I’ve witnessed them all do countless times before, Charlie snorts out a laugh.

My whole body goes rigid.

“Ha-ha, very funny, kid,” he says. But something on my face must make him reconsider his original assessment.

“What’s going on?” he asks, eyebrows pinched together. “You don’t play guitar.”

Just like that.You don’t play guitar.Like he knows me better than me. Like I’m stupid enough to need that reminder.

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