She, with a voice like an angel.
She, with a spark of mischief in her eye.
She, who taught me more than how to sing the blues.
She, who made me live them.
Callie’s always moved to her own rhythm.
It’s one of the things I love most about her.
I also love how when I’m with her, I get swept up in that rhythm until I feel airborne—no armor, no pain, no loss, no gravity.
With her, nothing can weigh me down.
She’s made me want the impossible.
I’m aching to be a better man.
But a better man wouldn’t have fucked up the way I did, would he?
A better man would have told her how he felt when it mattered.
A better man never would have treated her like a dirty secret, a scandal waiting to be exposed.
A better man would have cherished her for who she is and shouted it to the entire world with pride vibrating in his chest.
Callie’s not mine anymore.
I won’t apologize for loving her.
I will not be ashamed of the scandal others tried to make of this undeniable feeling. But I will apologize for the mistakes that led to losing her. And even if she can never stand to look at me again, I want to be the better man reflected in her soul.
That’s why my publication, The Chicago Tea, and all Osprey Media subsidiary properties are taking a new creative direction.
We’re done with gossip, scandal, and fodder for the human misery machine.
We’re done ruining lives.
My competition is probably dancing in the streets and shooting champagne through a firehose.
I only hope the people we choose to write about in the future will dance with joy as we spotlight their accomplishments, their growth, the beauty of their lives as people who create music, art, and media that uplift us all.
The same way Callie uplifted Just Vibing during her period as Chief Editor.
The same way she raised me up.
If you’re reading this, Callie Landry, I have an announcement.
I love you.
And I’m sorry as hell it took me so long to say it with the point-blank respect you deserve.
I’m sorry the weight of my armor dragged you down with me.
Wherever you are, I hope you’re happy.
It’s all you deserve.
Far more than a flaming dumbass like me could ever deserve your forgiveness.
I don’t realize I’m bawling like a baby until I taste salt and shaking heat.
That ridiculous, dramatic man.
That flaming dumbass.
I’m sobbing, smiling, laughing, and possibly inventing new emotional combinations.
I just know one thing deep in my bones.
I love Roland Osprey in all his stupid, spectacular, overly grand insanity.
And Roland Osprey—that gorgeous psycho—loves me.
I’ve got to see him. I’ve got to—
“Callie?” Dad calls from downstairs. “You almost ready? We’re gonna be late.”
Oof. First, I guess I’ve got to finish getting dressed for one of the most important nights of my father’s life.
Okay.
Deep breath.
I can’t cry or crawl too deep in myself, or I’ll ruin my throat when it needs to sing.
I have a better idea.
I’m going to get up there and sing my freaking heart out tonight.
I’ll sing Dad’s love song like I mean it because I do.
And then when tonight’s over, after Dad’s had his comeback show and he's basking in wild applause...
I’ll find Roland Osprey.
I’ll tell him that there’s no happy ending for me without him.
If happiness is what I deserve, then to be happy, I need him here with me.
If being in love means sinking, throw me in.
I’ll drown in his heart with the biggest smile ever on my face.
26
Love In Black And Blue (Roland)
I haven’t seen Barrett this excited in years.
I have to practically herd him into the car when I swing by to pick him up. He’s dressed like a teenager from the nineties, layered Henleys and all. The nostalgia hits my chest like a hammer blow and makes me smile like a complete idiot.
He remembers.
He remembers that I promised to take him to Alvin Landry’s comeback show, remembers why he wanted to go, remembers our last conversation.
Fucking aye.
Maybe he’s really getting better.
Maybe the therapy’s working, better than anyone ever thought, and one day he’ll be able to have a slice of his truest love again.
Maybe one day he’ll be able to grasp his music and keep it.
It’s a long damned drive into town to the small club where Alvin’s playing. Apparently, it took Wanda quite a bit of leg work to land these tickets.
I'm expecting to pay a hefty entry fee at the door, but it seems with limited seating and high demand from a wave of people homesick for the eighties, the venue was forced to sell tickets at a flat rate just to handle capacity.
That, too, makes me happy.
There are still people out there who care so much about Callie’s father and his old-school rock ballads.
So why, as I sit next to a chattery little brother in the back of the Rolls, staring at my phone, do I feel so melancholy?