“Yeah, man. I’m starved. And I’m gonna win.” Austin heads for the door with Trent.
“You wish.” Sean laughs at Austin and sets his bass back into the stand. “You coming, kid?”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Bedo?” My fingers tap at my sides, a habit from when I was younger, and the second I realize I’m doing it I shove my hands in my pockets. “At least tell him we’re leaving?”
Austin bursts with laughter. “If he wanted to keep tabs, he should have stuck around.”
I glance at the door, propped open by the heel of Trent’s boot, and debate my options as three sets of eyes stare expectantly. Should I go with the guys, or will Bedo get pissed and fire me before we leave for the tour? “I’m not really sure—”
Trent snaps his thumb and index finger together before pointing my way. “Do you give a fuck where you sleep on the tour bus?”
The fact he’s acknowledging my place on this tour brings a smile to my lips. “I’m just honored to play with you guys.”
“Then stay here if you want. We’ve got a wing challenge to battle.” Trent shrugs and he and Austin leave.
Sean strides to the door, catching it before it shuts. He meets my gaze over his shoulder. “And if Bedo ever shows, tell him we’ll be at the house. He can come to us.” I don’t miss the animosity in Sean’s words, but I do wonder what my uncle did to place it there. Before I can ask, Sean is out the door and I’m left, for the second day in a row, alone in an empty studio.
7
Opal
When I was thirteen,my church provided a scholarship so I could go to camp in Galveston. It was the first time I went anywhere without my grandparents, and the first time I ever saw the ocean. As scared as I was to travel alone, there was an underlying current of excitement that came with experiencing adventure. I could hardly contain my joy on that Greyhound bus.
But when the camp started, I was matched in a small group of girls who were already friends. They’d gone to camp together the previous summer and as kind as they were, I was an outsider. I tried to smile and laugh along, but they shared inside jokes and a comradery that seemed impassable.
That’s very much how I feel here. Trent and the guys have been nothing short of friendly, as are Trent’s mom Deb and Sean’s friend Jess, but I feel like a misplaced girl. Lexi flew back yesterday to finish her tour, and it’s less than forty-eight hours until I head on tour with the guys.
I’m extremely nervous. It’s not that they aren’t kind and welcoming, they’ve been nothing but. Even Austin, who’s more than nice and takes delight in making me blush at his dirty innuendos. It’s more the way I don’t really belong here. I certainly don’t fit in, and more than anything, I don’t want to be a burden. Which is why I’ve made a special effort to stay out of the way these past few days. To give everyone space to hurt. To grieve the loss of their friend.
I can only relate with my experience losing Grams. The first few weeks were the worst. Everyone and their cousin stopped by, bringing food, warm memories, and offering to help. But how could they? She was gone. Everything our community did, though well meaning, seemed overwhelming.
Except for the food. That was practical. That was helpful. And it was really nice not to worry about meals when cooking seemed so trivial.
Those are the thoughts that lead me outside my room and downstairs to the kitchen. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that my Grams’s sticky buns have magical powers. Okay, maybe it’s just the sweet icing and cinnamon baked combo, but food is the only way I know how to help.
The guys aren’t here today and I haven’t seen Trent’s mom or Jess yet. They’re usually around, or out in the garden, but today it’s just me in the mansion. The silence is comfortable, and I don’t have to explain myself as I rummage through the kitchen retrieving the ingredients I need. This pantry is fully stocked, and I hope it’s not a problem I make myself at home. I shake the doubt from my head. The guys have been insisting I do just that all week.
Plugging my new cell phone into the portable speaker on the counter, I find my favorite country music mix and crank it loud, shaking my hips as I sing along and measure, pour, and mix. The oven heats while I roll out the dough. It’s relaxing to work in the kitchen, and I find a rhythm, the way I’ve done with Grams a thousand times before. More scandalous though, since she made us listen to hymns and there was definitely no dancing involved. The thought brings forth a chuckle as I line up the rolls in the pan.
“Holy fuck.” Austin’s voice at my back causes me to jump and nearly knock over the open bag of flour. “Are you making apple pie? Please tell me you’re making pie.”
I reposition the flour further back on the counter and wipe my hands with a dish towel before lifting my gaze. “Gosh, sorry. No, I’m making sticky buns, but I can make you a pie next.”
“Don’t start giving in to his demands.” Trent strides into the kitchen, shoving Austin away from me and toward the barstools at the end of the island. “He’s a greedy bastard.”
“That I am.” The heated stare Austin directs across the counter is enough that I have to look away. Even still, I’m certain my skin blotches with the warmth of my blush. I don’t expect them to change how they talk, but it’s a harsh difference from the way I was raised that catches me by surprise.
“What is this shit?” Austin laughs, turning my music so low it’s not even audible.
“Sorry. Guess you can’t take the country out of the girl.”
“This is really sweet, Opal. Thank you.” Sean drops his keys on the counter and pulls up a chair.
I shrug. “Just want to show my appreciation for the hospitality. It’s nothing. I like to bake.”
“You’ll spoil us. We’re used to takeout and protein shakes on the road.” Trent dabs a finger through the icing and licks it off. “Actually, maybe you should join us on every tour.”
I grin at his compliment. Grams’ recipes are the best, and always a hit. She’d be proud of my baking today. I’m happy I’m able to pass along the joy that comes from her food.
