Page 109 of Worst Nanny Ever
He just grins expectantly.
“I’d love to teach you the drums, Ollie. I’ll teach you on my own kit. And if you like it, but only if you like it, I’ll get you one too. Or maybe you’ll like playing the guitar. I know Uncle Rob or one of the kids at the Beat would love to teach you.”
“Can we start now?” he asks, ignoring the whole table full of toys in their packages.
My head feels like it’s being mined for gold, but there’s only one possible answer.
Hell, yes.
I take him into the music room, and we start with a lesson on how to hold the sticks and alternate hands while drumming. Keeping a steady beat.
He regards me with wide eyes. “This is harder than it looks.”
“But it’ll become easier. Once you’re used to it, you become the beat. You feel it down to your bones, and it feels good. It feels right.” I pause, embarrassed. “If you like drumming, obviously. It’s not like that for everyone.”
“Can you feel it when you’re not at the drums?” he asks, watching me with an interest that surprises me.
“Sometimes. Sometimes when I’m feeling anxious or spun up, I can slip into it. I can get into the same state I’m in when I’m playing, and it makes me feel better.”
“That sounds cool, Travis. I want to learn how to do that.”
We’re still at the drums when Rob comes over an hour or so later to check on me. Perfect timing, I figure, and ask him to show Ollie how to hold a guitar and play a few chords. I could have done that, too, since I play passably enough, but it feels right for “Uncle Rob” to be the one.
“He’s a natural musician, just like his old man,” Rob says with a grin.
“I’m bringing him to the Beat this week,” I tell him. “He wants to come.”
“They’re going to love you, Ollie,” Rob says. “Our students are going to compete for the right to play with you.”
Ollie beams at him, and my chest hurts in a new way, because damn, I should have seen what Hannah did. I should have let him decide how much he wants of my world.
Before Rob leaves, I ask Ollie to go play in his room for a few minutes so his uncle and I can have an adult conversation.
“So this producer,” he says once we’re alone together, cutting right to the point. “We’re going to tell him we’re not interested in anyShips Ahoypublicity, obviously.”
I laugh and instantly feel my headache from earlier reassert itself. “Bixby’s already writing some yacht rock songs, isn’t he? And I’m sure Drake has probably put in an order for some sailor hats for all four of us. If he gives one to me at our next practice, I reserve the right to shove it up his?—”
“This is our band,” Rob says. “Ours. We started it. We wrote the music. This isourgarbage fire, and we’re telling them no Ships Junior shit. End of story.”
Emotion rises in my throat. “You mean that.”
“I fucking do. You’re my brother. Myrealbrother. I’d do anything for you. You saved my life.”
“We saved each other’s lives,” I say. Because it’s true. He’d been struggling when I met him, deep into drinking, trying to drown out the pain of what he’d lost when Bad Magic moved on without him. I’d been struggling in my own way, too, still reeling from getting thrown off the roller coaster Lilah and I had been on. Rob and I had found purpose together, and for a long time, he was the only person I trusted, and I was the only person he trusted.
That’s changed, but the connection we formed back then is as strong as ever.
“Thanks, man,” I say. “You know how it is with all of that shit.”
He nods to show he does indeed know.
“But Bixby’s going to want to do it,” I point out.
He laughs, then gets serious, saying, “Look. This is your personal business. You get to keep that quiet if you want to, no matter what anyone else has to say about it.”
I hug him, because no amount of back patting could express how grateful I feel for our friendship.
“Bixby will understand,” he says.
