Page 22 of The Only Thing That's Real
“My family,” I say, keeping my answers short and sweet.
“You’re the oldest of four siblings. Is that why you always knew you wanted out? Wanted your own space?”
“Well, living in a van with your four best friends and a shit ton of equipment doesn’t provide much space. But, something like that,” I lie.
I don’t like that the conversation has turned to home. Her questions are innocent enough, but my spidey-senses are tingling. I rarely share my personal life with journalists, and she’s dancing close to the edge of what I’m willing to answer.
I can tell she’s noticed by the way she leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, eyeing me as a hint of a grin pulls at one corner of her mouth. My clipped answers don’t deter her at all. If anything, she seems amused. Maybe preparing for another of our verbal sparring matches.
But rather than pushing me, she reins herself in and sits up, returning to a safer topic. “So, when did you realize music was your passion?”
I’ve answered a variation of this question many times. She’s back in my safety zone.
“It started as a joke. Sean and Matt were playing around in Matt’s garage, and I was just hanging out. Back then, they played together and Sean sang, but it was just for fun. I’d sat in that garage listening to them play more times than I cancount, but one day I got bored and stole the mic from Sean to sing along to the Pearl Jam song they were covering. I fucking nailed it, which surprised us all. Afterward we all just stared at each other, stunned. They had no idea I could sing. Hell, I didn’t know I could sing. I had never tried. But just like that...” I snap my fingers. “My life changed.”
“Did it take time to find your voice?”
I shrug. “That first day or two we tried a bunch of different songs. It didn’t take long to find my sweet spot.”
“Who were your inspirations when you were a kid hanging in Matt’s garage?”
Letting out a disappointed exhale that she’s asking me questions every journalist asks, I answer her next handful on autopilot.
I wonder how many freckles you have?
With all those curls, how crazy is your hair when you wake up in the morning?
Is your skin as soft as it looks?
“Talk to me about your relationship with the other guys in the band.”
This question grabs my attention, stopping my musings about her freckles. “They’re my best friends. My family.”
“Can you elaborate on that?”
Distracted by the bounce of her foot keeping the beat of a song only she can hear, I don’t realize I haven’t answered until she clears her throat.
“What would you like to know?”
“Whatever you want to tell me.”
It’s irrational, but I want her to know everything. And dammit, I trust her. But that voice in the back of my mindscreams at me, reminding me how stupid it would be to tell a reporter all my deepest, darkest secrets. Or even scarier, how I actually feel about some of the most important people in my life.
Keeping my mask in place, I give my well-rehearsed answer about growing up together and how lucky I am to have gone on the adventure of a lifetime with my best friends. Including our manager, Trevor. How it’s always been the five of us.
“And what about the new normal? Having the kids and wives on tour with you. I’m sure it’s changed your rock star lifestyles.”
Her question about the kids throws me. What is she trying to imply?
“Of course, but mostly for the rest of the band. No kids on tour for me,” I state the obvious, and nausea churns in my stomach. “But we make it work. Family is number one. Always has been.”
For fuck’s sake, why do I sound so insincere? I’m reading too much into her question. I know I am. But I still want to scream, cry, and rip my hair out.
Her foot is bouncing again. Is this her tell? If so, what does it mean?
“So, Mr. McKinnon, how would you like to do this going forward?”
“Oh, so now it’s Mr. McKinnon, is it?”
