Page 4 of Volatile

ONE

Royal

Life looked a lot different two decades later. Aspen and I bonded over more than our shitty fathers. We’d found acceptance in the underground punk scene and community in our anger. Places like Spit Club and The Rat gave us a place to vent our rage at the life we were handed. Music became our outlet, and with his brother, we made magic. Kingsley wrote the lyrics, and Aspen became the composer of his life story, and people connected with it.

What started as playing clubs and making enough to get ourselves an apartment turned into headlining the PunkLife Tour and worldwide success.

We still went home to Ma’s house for holidays and when we played in our hometown. I thought about the night we met as he slept restlessly with his head in my lap on our flight from Chicago. He’d barely slept the night before, a trend that was getting progressively worse with all the stress he’d been dealing with.But selfishly I liked when he used me for comfort. His touch came purple, and came textured like summer scents. Aspen would always be home.

On top of the added stress, Aspen never did well when we slowed down. He claimed he’d love to settle down and write music full-time, but I’d watched him in real-time, and he couldn’t handle it. When we weren’t touring, he had too much time to think, and too much time to think left him sinking into a spiral. So I was glad to be going back on tour.

“We don’t have long before sound check. How long are you going to be?” I asked Aspen as we headed out of the private terminal towards the waiting SUVs.

“At least an hour. I have to see Mom and then pick something up.”

“What?”

He shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Ma won’t forgive me if you don’t make it to see her,” I said, not wanting him to go back to his house.

“I’ll be there. You know I wouldn’t not come. She’s more my mother than my mom is.” He offered me a tight-lipped smile.

“Okay.” I nodded, not feeling good about going our separate ways. I didn’t like letting him out of my sight. We rarely spent time apart. Aspen didn’t do well alone.

As we rode into Southie, nostalgia hit me. Boston would always be home, even if none of us lived here anymore. We made frequent trips back, as all of our parents held out despite the gentrification of the old neighborhoods. I loved walking the streets of Southie, as different as it might be. Much like Brooklyn and Harlem, Southie was far from how it appeared twenty years ago. Some of the culture remained, but it was mostly used as a tourist draw. There were the famous bars, sub shops, and pizza places Southie was now known for. Children played in front yards, and there wasn’t the risk of getting roughed up if you walked down the wrong street or found yourself out past dark.

Ma still lived in the house I’d grown up in. She’d been here for forty-three years after she’d inherited it from my great gran. She’d barely held onto it for years after Dad died, and it was her pride and joy that kept it. The only way she was leaving was in a body bag. I doubt she’d even go to a home if the need came for it. I don’t know how she still did the stairs with her knees.

As the men in the family never lived long, the houses passed from mother to daughter. Or grandmother to granddaughter, and it was the only way my Ma kept a roof over our heads. She’d barely been able to cover the taxes. I walked in the door, which wasn’t locked, something only an old Irish woman who played mother to half the neighborhood could get away with.

“Hi, Ma.” I kissed her forehead and kicked back on the 1980s sofa. Except for the slight tinge of smoke that hugged the fabric, it was pristine. She started to get up, and I waved her back to a seat. “We can’t stay for dinner. We have to be at sound check.”

“Where’s Aspen?” she asked.

“He’s gone home with Kingsley,” I said, knowing Ma would feel the same way about it I did. “He’s coming after, but he said he had something to pick up first.”

My mother eyed me but didn’t comment. She didn’t like sharing Aspen with his real mother any more than I did even if it wasn’t his mother’s fault he’d ended up in a group home. She was a product of her environment as much as the rest of us, but that didn’t mean I had to like him going back there.

But he loved his mother, and parental relationships were complicated.

“He better be. He can’t come home without coming to see me.”

“He wouldn’t not come.” No matter what was going on with him.

Ma shifted in her recliner to get a better look at me. “He doing okay?”

I shrugged, not giving away much. “‘Bout the same.”

“Would you tell me if he wasn’t?” she asked, always knowing the right questions to ask. After being the wife of a low-level mob runner, she didn’t take shit from no one and let no one get away with lies of omission.

“It’s more than the normal stuff.” She didn’t know any of it. Just what she had to assume after he’d run away from the group home. “He’s worried about King.” I avoided eye contact, not wanting to give her more.

Aspen wouldn’t like it if I told her too much. He loved her, but he didn’t want anyone in his business. He didn’t even like me knowing how he was doing, and he was my fucking best friend.

“Awful things they are saying about poor Kingsley.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is it true?”

I sighed. “Ma, of course it’s not true. Lis is a grownup, and King is good to him.” I rubbed my forehead. Kingsley had recently started publicly dating another famous musician who was a few years younger than he was, and the media did what they always did and made it into a big deal. Anything a gossip rag could get clicks with, they would. They didn’t care how much it hurt people. They were selling ads. Relationships in the public eye were hell. The rumors alone destroyed so many couples. “There are people online who act like an age gap bigger than a year is a problem. It’s nothing. It will blow over, or they’ll break up. It’s the cycle of fame.”

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