I grit my teeth. “Mr. Stepper, this isn’t a good ide—”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s a good idea or not! You want to yell at me? Yell at me! Just dosomethingfor once.Feelsomething.”
He jabs the tip of his cane into my knee, and before I can stop myself, I wrap my fist around it and yank it out of his hands.
“No. I won’t.”
I drop the cane like it’s burned me. This has gone way too fucking far. I push myself up from the couch, and I’m just about to step out into the hallway when I hear James repeat my words back at me in the tone of a challenge.
Bastard doesn’t know when to quit. I keep one hand braced against the doorframe as I answer him without turning around.
“That’s right. I said no. I’m not going to be like him, okay? Is that what you want me to say? Is that what you want from me? You want me to admit that I’m scared of becoming my father? Fine. I’ll admit it. It scares me. That man terrorized anyone who got close to him. He ripped his own family apart. He couldn’t even raise his own sons because he was so damn out of control all the time, so don’t you fucking judge me for trying to do better than him!”
I can’t bring myself to apologize for speaking that way. He’s pushed me too far.
“Cole, sit down.”
“No!” I glance back over my shoulder at him. “Just...no, okay? I’m done here.”
“You’re not. Sit down and play it again.”
Thatreallygets me going. I turn around to face him.
“Play it again? Are you serious? Is this a game to you? I don’t care how old you are or how famous you used to be. You can’t mess with people like this. You...You...”
All the words I want to say get drowned out by the heaviness of my own breathing. It’s taking everything in me not to totally lose it right now.
“Play. It. Again.”
He’s not even fazed. He’s sitting there in his old grandpa armchair like he’s watching the evening news, and I think that’s what’s making me so angry; he doesn’t see the threat here. He’s treating me like there’s nothing for either of us to be worried about, like it’s all in my head.
“Fine!” I shout. “You want me to play the damn bass? I’ll play the damn bass.”
I grab the thing by the neck and throw the shoulder strap over my head. I don’t realize what I’m playing until the first few bars in. I recognize the bass line off a song from Sherbrooke Station’s latest album. It’s the only song I’ve introduced to the band myself; usually Ace comes in with an idea, and we all embellish it on our own instruments. Bass parts don’t often get the spotlight on a track, but this one—this one is special.
I wrote it one night after a fight with Roxanne. I don’t even remember what we were fighting about, but it ended with us falling into bed and fucking until the hurt went from stinging to sweet, until we called each other’s names like they were prayers for deliverance instead of a march to war. It was one of those nights when you fuck until your legs give out. I remember staring up at the ceiling and honest to god not being able to remember my own name.
I pour that into the song now. I let my fingers rip it out of me and scrape it across the fretboard until it seeps out of the amp and into the air. The frenzy of skin on skin, the way it felt to wrap her hair around my hand and pull until her back arched and she screamed out words that echoed in my head for days—I let myself feel it. I let myself feel the pain that comes with the memories, the fury I feel over everything I did wrong.
I haven’t been furious in so long, and it scares me shitless—how easy it is to let it all out. I just keep fucking shredding on the bass like it’s my lifeline. There’s nowhere else for this to go. I play until my shirt is soaked with sweat and my arms are shaking so bad I can’t go on. I give a final strum and let my arms fall to my sides.
The silence is jarring, like a splash of ice water. I stare at the floor while my chest rises and falls. I don’t know how much times passes before James speaks. His voice feels like the first sign of remaining life after some kind of apocalypse.
“Andthatis what it sounds like when you play from the hottest part of the fire.” I glance up to see him sitting there slowly nodding his head. “That is the coals.”
Bastard sure does like to prove a point.
I collapse back down on the couch. My knees locked up from standing for so long, and I lean forwards to rub them as James keeps nodding.
“Are you happy now?” I ask, surprised at how even-toned I sound.
He tilts his head. “Are you?”
I give him a look. “Happy? Not particularly.”
He lets out a chuckle I can’t bring myself to return and then sighs like he’s about to impart some wisdom. Sure enough, he does.
“Cole, has it ever occurred to you that trying to be different from your father means you’realreadydifferent from your father?”
