Page 71 of August Lane
His expression begged her not to ask again. But she had to. He was her friend. “What happened to your face? And your hands?”
Denial must have been the only thing keeping him upright. His whole body went limp—arms, spine, and shoulders caving under the weight of what he didn’t want to tell her. “There’s this loose front step on our porch, and I… I went down face-first on the concrete.”
“That’s it? You got drunk and fell?”
He shook his head. “My mother took something from me, and I spent most of the night trying to find it. That’s why I was late. She came home from work and told me she threw it away.”
Luke’s voice was bloodless. She’d never heard anyone sound so tired.
“What was it?”
He didn’t answer right away, which wasn’t surprising. Luke felt things first and tried to make sense of them later. It was part of their rhythm. August would ask, and Luke would answer, but there would always be a beat in between.
“It was a book,” he finally told her. “My dad’s poetry. It’s out of print.” He started picking at his nails, digging viciously into the cuticles.
“Is that the one you wrote music in?”
He looked startled. “You remember that? Of course, you do. You’re a good person.” He smiled, but it never came close to his eyes. “Yes, it was that one. With my notes.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I wasn’t supposed to have it. She threw out all his stuff when he died. Said it was too painful to keep.” He paused. “I look like him.”
He made it sound like an admission of guilt. August studied his face—the coffee eyes, sharp jaw, and lush mouth—trying to reconcile its poetic symmetry with the shame she heard in his voice. Something so beautiful could never be a burden.
“You look like your dad, too, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she admitted, even though she wasn’t supposed to know. Silas kept a picture of Theo in his office but had never shown it to her. She’d found it while snooping around his desk when she was ten. The minute she saw the man leaning against an old Cutlass, she knew it was her father. She’d seen the shape of herself in his frame. “I think that’s why Jojo stays away.”
Luke nodded. “Ava would avoid me too if it weren’t for Ethan. She loves him a lot.” He spoke with pride, like it was an accomplishment. She wondered if he knew what it implied, that Ava didn’t feel the same way about him. That had to be wrong. Love was the bare minimum for a parent, the part that took the least amount of effort.
“You think she would abandon you?”
“Not abandon.” He fidgeted, uncomfortable with the question. “I can take care of myself.”
August was suddenly very sure that he couldn’t. Years of being punished for existing had stripped him of boundaries or gut instincts. None of it was his fault. Life was different for kids like them. They were never wanted, which made them obsessed with being chosen.
“Do you remember any of your dad’s poems?” August asked him. “Or the music you wrote?”
Luke nodded. “Some of it, yeah.”
“Wait here.” August went to her car. She rummaged through her backpack and pulled out her journal and a pen. When she returned, she offered both to him. “Write it down.”
“I only remember parts.”
“Then write those. Before you forget.”
He flipped it open to the first page.For Lukewas written at the top, followed by her attempts to turn his desire to write a love song into lyrics.I’d rip up the pages / Try to find someone new / But every chord spells your name in different keys.
His scarred fingers fanned over the words. He stared at the lyrics long enough to startle her when he finally looked up. For the first time that night, he seemed completely sober. Sharp-eyed and aware. Then he started writing.
Luke’s notes were chaotic, alternating between lines of poetry and chord progressions positioned randomly on different pages. He occasionally rubbed his head, deep in thought, until his curls were ruffled into spikes she was tempted to smooth back into place. August could picture doing it clearly. His muscles slack and still. Her fingers threading through his hair. His entire world calmed by her hands.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
2023
Luke called his addiction “the Snake.” He used to call it “that Asshole” but eventually realized that he was letting it off the hook. There was power in a name; it was a sign of respect. That’s why it took him so long to admit drinking was a problem. He didn’t respect its power. He thought it was just that asshole, a buddy who tagged along when he partied. Assholes may be annoying and cause trouble, but no one drops a friend because he screws up now and then. Only then, he starts tagging along to your shows and business lunches. Then one day he’s pouring gin down your throat at six a.m. and you wonder what the hell is going on. Why’s the asshole here? It’s fucking breakfast. Who told him he was invited?
