Page 13 of Sweet Oblivion

Yeah. Yeah, that would be better, I wrote.

6

Nash

Toward the end of my junior year, when the next February rolled around, Aya sent me a message: Happy birthday!

It’s tomorrow, I typed back.

I’d been wallowing in my room, frustrated that Cam had a gig and Aya remained impossible to get a hold of. I slammed my head back against the beanbag and shut my eyes, remembering what birthdays used to look like: huge cakes with sparkling candles, streamers, balloons, and laughter.

I missed the laughter.

I missed my mom, and the hurt inside me grew because my father hadn’t bothered to suggest we hang out on the deck—our birthday tradition.

Just then he stuck his head into my room. “You got a song for me?” he asked, as he had each of the last few times I’d seen him.

I swallowed the ache building in my chest, the weight of the anxiety pressing against my lungs. “No.”

He glared. “What are you doing?”

“Going to school, and—” And tomorrow’s my birthday.

“I hear you banging around on your instruments. Look, I need a hit. If we don’t finish this album, we’ll have to postpone the tour again. And that’s not going to make the label happy.”

I bit my lip, ducking my head. Besides the song I’d helped Cam with more than a year ago, I hadn’t heard much in the way of music. I’d looked it up and learned that grief and stress could impact my ability to focus. But I hadn’t mentioned the issue to anyone, shame building hard and hot each time my dad didn’t come home.

It was almost as if he only cared about my ability to compose music.

My phone chimed, and I sighed out a breath, thankful for the distraction.

Of course I remember. You’re about to be seventeen! Aya wrote.

“Are you even listening to me?” my father asked, stepping into the room.

I tensed, his tone as dark as his expression.

“Yeah. I just…”

“Get your head out of your ass, Nash. This, the music, is important. It’s what pays for your cushy life.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, unsure what to say. Steve appeared in the doorway.

“Your car’s out front, Mr. Porter.”

“Fine. Great.” Dad turned back to focus on me. “Remember what I said. You need to bring something to the studio on Friday.”

Friday? I had school.

Steve frowned too, his gaze remaining on my dad a moment longer than left any of us comfortable.

Dad stormed out of the room.

“What was that?” I asked.

Steve scowled. “I believe your father’s feeling some pressure. From the studio.”

“But…why?”

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