Page 76 of The Older Brother
He merely drops his gaze to me with a faint smile as if what he did was no big deal. Perhaps it wasn’t to him. But it meant the world to me. He made a tiny gesture to make sure I felt like I belonged, or at least like we both are outsiders together.
I think I would have been nervous seeing my dad tonight regardless. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen one another face to face. And while we call and text often, it’s different than being involved in one another’s lives daily. There’s a guard that gets put in place, almost automatically.
Now that I know the reason he’s here, however, that guard has grown thick. I feel slighted. Even if it’s not his intention, it’s the byproduct. He has a song that’s got a million streams. He could have booked a show in the Valley anytime. But he chose now.
“You okay?” Rowan keeps checking on me. It’s sweet. But I must be showing my nerves because he’s asked a few times in the last five minutes.
“I’m just anxious. I want it to be over, and that sort of sucks.” My mouth falls into a relaxed line.
We step into the roped-off area to the right front of the stage, and Rowan positions himself directly behind me, his armswrapped around my shoulders and chest as his chin skims the side of my face.
“Remember, we can leave whenever you want to. Just say go, and we’re gone.” His voice is soft at my ear, and the tickle from his day-old stubble brushes the crook of my neck, sending welcome shivers down my spine. I prefer feeling like this, so I wrap my hands around his in front of my body and focus on how incredible it feels to be in a place like this with him.
The venue fills up fast, even in our roped-off section, and I’m suddenly twice as grateful to have Rowan’s body acting as a buffer from the sharp elbows and tall bodies squeezing in. I feel a tinge of pride overhearing pieces of conversations around us, actual fans of my father’s band, excited to see them live. One woman to our left is gushing about how she’s followed them on the road through six tour stops.
“My dad has a groupie,” I whisper, looking up at Rowan. He chuckles and teases me about my potential new stepmom, which makes me study the woman with more discerning eyes. She might be a little crazy upon a second look. But aren’t we all?
By the time the lights dim and the crowd engulfing us begins to scream in anticipation, I’ve nearly buried the resentment I’ve been harboring since finding out my father’s visit is more about cashing in than seeing me. And when the lights go up, coloring his squared jaw and neat beard in deep red and purple hues, I fall into a state of awe.
My father’s hands move along his guitar as if he’s reading his favorite story, the one he knows by heart. When he strikes the power chords for their opening song, “Honey Thunder,” the throngs of fans roar, and his groupie nearly faints. My dad’s stoic face remains focused, his jaw rigid and eyes often closed except for when he looks right at their lead singer, Lyle. They’re well into their third song before he scans the crowd, moving around the stage as he plays. When his eyes land on me, I lift a handand mouth, “Hi.” My father’s lip ticks up, and he winks, and the women around me scream, assuming that little bit was for them. I know better, though. He may be in this town to extort money from my mom, but he’ll always see me in a special light. I’ll always be his star, his one good thing. I need to hold onto that as I work through this pending bump in our road.
Killer Mongoose owns the stage for ninety minutes, blessing their fans with two encore songs, one of them the lullaby my father used to sing to me when I was little. I tear up when he joins the lead singer, their smooth voices blending for “Hush, Little Baby.” I’m basically a pile of emotional mush by the time the venue clears out, and Rowan and I hole up at a cocktail table at the back of the attached bar.
The lead singer comes out first; a small group of fans having been invited to chat with the band after their show. It’s hard not to notice how many of the fans are beautiful women, and I grimace as the realization hits me that my dad has probably slept with a fair share of women in situations just like this. It’s probably unfair to hold him to a certain standard simply because he’s my dad, but I guess it’s a good lesson to learn—the people we love are still just people. They aren’t perfect. And he is single and allowed to be whatever kind of man he wants.
When my dad steps out of the dressing room, a few women giggle and gather. They’ve been waiting for him, and as he passes by, they hold out their hands and flex their fingers just to get one hand squeeze. It’s kind of weird to see. My dad pauses between two of his fans to take a selfie, and he holds up a finger to me and Rowan.
“Sorry about that,” my dad says when he finally peels himself away from his groupies to visit with us. “Ever since Honey Thunder took off, things have gotten a little crazy after shows.”
My dad runs his hand through his hair, the slicked-back look giving way to his natural waves as a few strands fall over his eyes. I get my hair’s texture from him. Same as my height.
“I’m proud of you,” I say, catching the gleam in his eyes. His skin has weathered more over the years, so the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles seem deeper than I remember them. And there’s more.
“I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around. I’m proud of you,” he says, lifting his arm up and inviting me in for a side hug. I soak in his warmth and make a mental snapshot of how this moment feels, just in case it’s fleeting.
“You all want to slip out the back? I know it’s late, but there’s a pub on the next block that serves dinner until one. My treat.”
My dad’s eager gaze makes my gut feel heavy with guilt. I glance at Rowan, hoping to silently signal my desire to stay put. I’d rather not get locked into a meal once our real conversation begins.
“Uh oh,” my dad says, likely noticing my hesitation.
He pulls a stool out at our pub table and slides on with his hands clasped together atop the table.
“I’m guessing Rowan finally filled in some gaps for you.” I expect a guilty slant to touch my father’s eyes, but instead his expression is soft and conciliatory.
“I think I’m up to speed now, yeah.” Rowan’s hand moves to my knee under the table, and I layer mine on top.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the ugly truth myself.” My dad’s gaze shifts to Rowan, but only for a moment. “I wanted to.”
“I understand. You were trying not to paint Mom as the enemy.” I lift a shoulder and bunch my lips into a tight, crooked smile. I hadn’t doubted my dad’s intentions until now.
His shoulders relax as he exhales and slides his hands toward me along the table. My gaze drops to his reach, but my own hands remain as they are, one on my left thigh and the otheron Rowan’s hand on my leg. My father gradually straightens his spine and his palms retreat.
“I wanted to let you know before I talk to your mom tomorrow; I plan on reopening our divorce settlement. I’m not trying to be cruel or vindictive, it’s only that . . . well . . . when we split, I gave away everything to make it easy on you. But now?—"
I shake my head and utter, “No.”
My interruption surprises my dad as his head tilts suddenly and his mouth hangs open, suddenly lost for words. His gaze narrows on me as his brow furrows.
