Page 27 of Broken Chords
Chapter Eleven
Leading tone:the last note in a major scale; the note that leads to tonic, the first note of a scale
Damian
I smile at Charlie’s happy sigh. A small, contented smile that echoes the sentiment expressed by her sigh.
“They liked you,” I say after a moment. When my mom took me into the kitchen to pack up the leftovers for me, she lowered her voice and said, “I like her. And not just because she gave me an expensive gift certificate to a fancy spa. You seem happy.”
“I am.”
“Good,” Mom said. “Then I expect to see her again soon.”
Charlie turns her head, and I see the flash of her teeth as we pass under a streetlamp. “I liked them too. They’re fun. They’re a lot more … vibrant than my family.”
“What’s your family like?” I ask the question carefully, not sure if she’ll answer. I’ve noticed that she doesn’t like talking about her family. Or her life before coming to Marycliff. Finding out she used to work on music tours was a revelation. Maybe that’s why the guys she’s used to expect sex so quickly? Maybe waiting till the third date seemed like a long time to her. Shit. Is the fact that we’re waiting this long a problem for her?
But she’s never seemed to be upset. Frustrated, sure, but that’s mutual. And her frustration has been more of the unresolved sexual tension variety, not frustration with me. At least, I don’t think so.
“My family,” she says slowly, her voice pulling me out of my newfound worries. “They’re … focused. And kind of intense. At least my mom is. She has specific ideas about how things should be and browbeats everyone until they fall in line with her vision of reality.”
I’m quiet while I contemplate that. “That sounds …”
“Unpleasant? Terrible? Fucking awful?” she supplies.
I let out a low chuckle. “That’s not what I was going to say, but those all work.”
She leans her elbow on the center console, moving closer to me. “What were you going to say?”
“I was going to say that it sounds like there’s not much room to live your own life in that kind of environment.”
Her hand lands heavily on my bicep, not quite hard enough to be a hit. “That’s not what you were going to say.”
I smile and glance at her. “Maybe not, but you distracted me. It’s true, though. It does sound like it’d be hard to figure out your own way growing up like that.”
“You have no idea how right you are.” She lets out a deep sigh and centers herself in her own seat again, her thumbnail going into her mouth.
“What about your dad? He just gives in too?”
“Yeah. He used to push back some, but not so much anymore. Mom knows best. At least according to her. It’s easier to do what she wants than to try to fight her.”
That statement hangs in the air between us for the next mile as we approach the freeway exit to head toward the South Hill, where we both live.
“You’re not doing what she wants now.” I state it quietly as we wait at the light at the end of the off ramp.
She swallows and looks down at her hands in her lap. “No. I’m not.”
I leave her to the internal battle she’s clearly waging, not pushing for more right now. She’s already shared more with me tonight about her family than she probably has in all the weeks we’ve known each other combined. The thing about her mom trying to push her into doing what she wants isn’t news. But she hasn’t made her out to be such a bully in the past. Just that they disagreed about the way Charlie should live her life.
And now I want to know what her family does on these tours. Are they part of the road crew? Catering? Maybe they’re in the backup band for different acts? That would make a certain amount of sense given Charlie’s musical talents. The fact that she didn’t have formal lessons for several years comes into clearer focus now. And why she knows more about popular music than classical music. I feel like I’ve gotten a more complete picture of who she is.
It surprises me that her parents would have brought her on the road with them. Did she grow up on the road like that? She’s mentioned being homeschooled for high school, so maybe so. Maybe that’s what she really meant. But I can see why she’d gloss over it. She’s intensely private, and she said that in a group setting. Saying she spent her high school years being homeschooled on a tour bus would invite a whole host of questions that someone who avoids attention wouldn’t want.
“Did you plan on inviting me inside? Or making me walk home?” The humor in Charlie’s voice makes me focus on where we are. At my house.
“I’m sorry. I drove here on autopilot. Do you want me to take you home?”
She peers out the window, taking in the dark house and lack of cars. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s here. I’d be happy to come inside if you want me to.”
