Page 57 of Sustain

Brianna takes them with a thin smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "They're lovely, my pets." She passes the artwork to Axel without a glance. "We'll put them on the fridge for when we get back, shall we?"

June's face falls a little as Axel stuffs the papers out of sight. I bite my tongue to stay civil; the girls don't need to see theanger simmering in me. I know whatever art they create for me during this visit will have places of pride displayed back at my house. For now, I just need to get them away, balanced, and happy. Brianna will always put herself first, and I refuse to let her damage claim more innocent victims.

"Okay, my loves, into the car," I say brightly, ushering the girls ahead of me. "We've got Christmas cookies to bake at Grandma’s." That draws smiles and laughter again. As long as I'm here, Brianna's apathy won’t dull their shine. Not in my presence.

The living roomis still bedecked wall to wall with evergreen boughs and cheery poinsettias giving off a festive scent. A few lone scraps of colored wrapping papers litter the floor, remnants from yesterday's frenzy of gifts and squealing girls. I nestle deeper into Mum’s well-worn armchair as our dishes clink softly in the cozy kitchen-adjacent dining nook. Outside big, fluffy snowflakes drift lazily past lead-lined windows still dressed in charming Christmas fairy lights.

Mum soon joins me by the fireplace, porcelain teacup in hand, piercing gaze raking my scruffy appearance. "You look tired, pet." Her assessment thinly veils her constant disapproval.

"Well, managing a rock band these days requires keeping rockstar hours to stay in sync with the musicians." I shrug through a sip of Earl Grey that I wish to God was whisky.

"When are you going to get a real job and settle down? Give those sweet girls some stability? Lord knows Brianna can’t or won’t do it. And I won't be here forever to step in, you know." Mum's tone softens slightly with the latter part.

I clench my jaw, the old clash of wills rising. We relive variations of this script every visit home. And while she’s not wrong about Brianna, she knows better about me. Seeing the earnest care etched in her features, though, some of my defensiveness eases. She may repeatedly judge the shape of my existence, but ensuring my daughters' well-being drives it all. My voice loses some of its edge. "No one is ever truly prepared to become a parent. But I do the best I can."

"Gadding about to concerts and music festivals is no proper work for a man pushing middle age with daughters," she presses on, lowering her voice even more.

My stomach knots thinking of the woman an ocean away I'm currently doing a shit job of tending any connection with. But Mackenzie’s dreams never included kids and mini vans. I rake a hand roughly through my hair.

"I have, and ideally, I always will provide for Hayley and June directly. As for nesting,” I shrug, “Maybe it'll happen, but ‘stability’ isn’t my strong suit. Never has been. You know this.”

Mum’s nostrils flare, but before tensions boil over, June tugs my sleeve. "Daddy, can we play my new Candyland game from Santa?" My mother's criticisms fade away as I meet my little girl’s hopeful gaze. I may constantly wrestle with shortcomings, but being a Dad is one identity I’ve gotten right.

"Absolutely, darling heart," I tickle June mercilessly until she squeals and runs off to fetch the game. No matter what failures I perpetuate with the other women in my disaster zone of a love life, my girls will always be my guiding lights.

My hand reflexively goes to the front left pocket of my jeans, my thumb sliding over the phone concealed within. Mackenzie's 'Merry Christmas' text from yesterday morning still glares up at me, the platitude underscored by the last few days of strain and silence. My inept, 'Happy Christmas, hope you’re well,' reply latelast night sent after the girls fell asleep mocks me in its complete inadequacy.

I know it's only prolonging the inevitable. She'll learn the truth about June and Hayley soon enough. It’s inevitable. It'll surely be a death knell sounding over anything real developing between us. Still, I masochistically torture myself, grasping at these last scraps of connection. I'm well beyond mere avoidance or denial. I bloody yearn to stop the entire fucking world, rewind, and start fresh with all truths laid bare from the beginning.

My spiraling internal musings break off as June bounds over clutching Candyland. As her sweet chatter fills the room, I am desperate to imprint every detail of this joyous time together. Who knows how many more I have before this house of cards collapses on top of me, breaking me down.

For now, I force brighter smiles. Listen closer. There is still goodness to be found in each passing moment, however fleeting. I owe my daughters that indefinitely where possible.

With June now beckoning me eagerly to play, it seems the annual clash with my Mum has reached yet another stalemate. We mean well in disparate ways. As I settle onto the carpet to play games, I meet Mum's gaze briefly. A sort of tired peace offering. She worries, and she loves. The rest we navigate one game night at a time.

forty-one

. . .

Oceans

Mackenzie

I gulp the last mouthful of lukewarm coffee as I stare blearily at my laptop screen. The droning pulse of my neighbor's tasteless annual techno New Year's playlist seeps through my apartment walls, fraying what few brain cells haven't already flatlined from slogging through band accounting and revenue statements.

Leaning back with a joint-popping stretch, I observe the sunny California skies outside with mounting dread. Year-end reporting will be the death of me. My least favorite part of managing Murderous Crows. But Blackmore expects properly filed records, so I resign myself to the work. At least the band's tour did damn good numbers this year. And, the festival was surprisingly profitable despite the weather.

Of course, that makes Ian flash through my mind, and I sit up curiously, wondering if Ian knows he needs to submit end-of-year paperwork too. He's an industry veteran but was on the artistry and talent scouting side before. Surely the label debriefed him. But knowing that chaotic band, plans probably got lost in the turmoil.

My hand hovers over my phone for a beat. I haven't reached out since his, ‘Happy-Christmas-hope-you're-well,’ text. The gulf between us lately has me second-guessing everything. I’ve been giving him space, knowing he’s a million time zones away. Maybe I should check in, and make sure the crash course in band admin stuck? Give us a chance to actually talk?

Before I overthink too much, I fire off a quick text.

ME: Hey rockstar, you getting your year-end reporting done on schedule? Holler if you need band management crash course number two.

I've barely set my phone down, resigned to the silence continuing when it unexpectedly chimes Ian's custom ringtone. I snatch it back up quickly.

Ian: Reports? What reports should I be doing??

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