“Oh? Then you’ve got another ten years to go,” he said with a smirk, showing a hint of his old self.
“Ha ha ha. I turn thirty in November.”
“Like me,” he said. “We’re the same age.”
“You make that sound like it’s a shock. I guess you’re used to hanging out with girls half your age,” I said.
He held my stare for a moment. “My head’s spinning. Nicotine rush. Umm… half my age? Like fifteen? I don’t fucking think so. I’m not that kind of criminal.”
“What kind of criminal are you then?”
“The only illegal thing I’ve ever done is snort coke and the odd spliff. Oh, and I tend to drive fast.” He smiled apologetically. “I like my racy cars.”
“Fuel guzzlers. You’re more of a criminal than you think,” I said.
“How so?” The corner of his shapely mouth quirked up, and a puff of smoke twisted out into the air.
“Your family’s plans to develop the farms. That will destroy the environment. While not punishable by the law, it’s still criminal behaviour.”
He puffed on his cigarette, lost in thought. Or so it seemed. “My father was…” His face darkened, and he dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out.
“Your father?” I had to ask. “Has something happened?”
“He died. Yesterday.” He bit his lip, and his face puckered slightly.
Was he about to cry? I tried not to stare as he struggled to keep a straight face. I sensed he was gathering strength to remain stoical.
“Oh. I’m so sorry.” I gave him a hug, and his body melted into mine. At first tight but then he softened into my arms. I felt his heart beating against mine as he sobbed.
Time stretched as I held his quivering body, giving him space to grieve. In response, a lump rose in my throat. His pain summoned memories of my own experience with loss, and I had to fight back tears myself.
He extricated himself from my arms and wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry. I… don’t normally… but then I’ve never experienced this kind of fucking grief. And even in there. When I heard your song about the forest being your father, I went to fucking pieces.”
My eyes steamed up. This was the highest form of praise for an artist—to pluck at people’s heartstrings. Moving people was why I created music. My total motivation as a songwriter.
This was not the shallow, hot dickhead up the road, but a deep soul in pain.
“It’s natural to cry, Ethan. I was a total mess when I lost my father.”
His watery dark eyes looked into mine, almost pleading, as though I’d just offered a cure for some rare disease. “How did you cope with it?”
“With time you learn to deal with it, I suppose. I mean, I miss him for sure. But now it’s nice memories, you know?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s still very raw for me. He was a good man. He was actually against the development.”
“I didn’t know him that well, but my father always spoke well of him. Maybe not so much of your mother.” I pulled a face. “Sorry.”
“No need. Mother’s a different person. She’s nothing like my father… was.” He let out a long, jagged breath. “I probably shouldn’t have come out, but I was desperate for a change of scenery. I hated being on my own. All fucking maudlin. And my brother, who I normally would hang out with when I need a shoulder to cry on, just got married, so I felt he needed the space to grieve with his wife.”
I nodded slowly, listening to a man who was showing a side of himself that made me feel like shit for all the abuse I’d dished out to him over the years. That was me, quick to judge. An ugly habit.
“And here I am listening to your hauntingly soulful tunes that clawed at this.” He tapped his heart. “And I’m a fucking mess again. I should just go home and hang out with a bottle of whisky, I think.”
He was about to leave.
“No. Wait. You shouldn’t be alone,” I said. “I’ve finished for the night. Why don’t you come back to mine for a few drinks? I’ll be happy to listen or whatever.”
Whatever?