Page 80 of Falling for Them
Leaning forward, he says, “Fuck yes, I do.”
I sit down in one of the armchairs and hold out my phone.The video of the two of us singing can literally be found on every social media channel I can think of, so it’s hard to miss.But King doesn’t do social media.
“Here we go,” I say, finding it on VideYou and pressingplay.
“Arsonist’s Lullaby” comes on.I can’t take my eyes off of Ella in the video.And the way her voice flows with mine, harmonizing, allowing me to complement it throughout the song, is fucking magic.
Viewer comments are popping up even as King and I watch the video, things like,Wowwwww fireandFuck I didn’t know Bastian Crown was still aliveandIf they aren’t doing each other, I’ll eat my cat.I think the cat one meant to sayhat, but the typo is funny.Someone responds to that comment, saying,If they aren’t doing each other, I volunteer as tribute to do either one.
“People are disgusting,” Kingston says.
I shrug.I’m used to it.
The song ends and Kingston looks at me.
“People are disgusting,” he says, “but Ella is magnificent.We have to find her, Bash.I’m going crazy.”
Ella
I wake at eight-thirty the next morning, thanks to my used-to-be-a-phone-but-is-now-just-an-overpriced-alarm-clock.
There’s no confusion when the alarm goes off.I know exactly why I set it and where I’m going.This day, January twenty-ninth, is the anniversary of my dad’s death.I’ve been both dreading this day and hoping it will bring some kind of end to the constant ache in my chest.Closure.
Although I don’t know if there can ever be closure after losing someone as special as my dad.
I dress in jeans and a sweatshirt and grab a packet of saltines that I filched from the pub the other night.In my defense, Kevin was watching while I took them, and he didn’t say a word—he just added extra french fries to the dinner he packed for me to take home at the end of my shift.
I’m not too proud for charity at this point.
The walk to the cemetery is loud with traffic, despite me leaving after rush hour.I have to dodge a bike and a bus at two different intersections.Eventually, though, the craziness of the busy streets fades behind me as I reach more residential areas.Here, tucked behind a church and bordered by a series of townhouses, is the place where Dad is buried.
I find his modest headstone easily.A long moment passes where I can only stare at the letters.There’s not much to it, just his name—Eric Thomas Marchand—and his birth year and the year he died.We couldn’t afford anything elaborate.My eyes trace the serif font over and over, like somehow the little lines on each letter will make sense or bring comfort.
None of that happens.
Blinking away the extra moisture in my eyes, I plop down in the grass next to the headstone and just sit.I didn’t bring flowers, but Dad wouldn’t care about a gesture like that.He didn’t care about stuff, really.Cleaning out his place had been simple after his death, because he was never a collector of things.Really, all Dad would want from me right now is company.I know he’s dead, and I never really formed a great idea of what happens after death.But if he’s around, somewhere, somehow, I hope he knows that I am giving him the gift of time.
I pull a notebook from my bag and scribble down lyrics.Composing, for me, has to happen at the keyboard.I need to feel the keys, hear the chords and melodies.I can hum something and jot down the general feel of it, but the magic only happens at the keyboard.
I used to dream that someday, I’d have a grand piano in a sunny room overlooking the ocean.As I sit here and miss Dad, I think about that imaginary place.That’s what my heaven would be.I wonder what Dad’s heaven would be.
I’m so lost in my thoughts and the random verses I’m writing down, that when a shadow comes over my notebook, I give a startled yelp.Looking up, I see my brother.
“Thought I might find you here today,” Tommy says.
Shrugging, I say, “Yeah, well.It’s the anniversary of his death.”
“Yeah.”Tommy sits down on the grass next to me, crossing his legs and staring at Dad’s headstone.
His curly brown hair is a bit too oily, like it’s been a few days since he had a shower.His lips are chapped, his blue eyes dull.
I’m worried about him, but the last time we talked, he was a complete asshole to me, so I’m not sure what to say now.
A long silence stretches between us.I fucking miss my brother, and he’s sitting right here and I don’t know what to say to him.I don’t think I even know how to talk to him anymore.
He sighs.“I was a dick, I think.”With a laugh, he adds, “I must have been, for you to be so pissed at me.”
“Why do you think I’m pissed at you?”I ask carefully.
