Santiago
Sweaty and dragging, Maeve grabbed her bag. I waited with my hands on my hips, and when she turned, I raised my eyebrows. “Ready?”
She paused by her kit. “Do you think I am?”
I’d been asking if she was ready to go home, but her question went deeper. Did I think she was ready to be the headline drummer across Europe?
“No doubt.”
I’d never seen a musician work harder than she did. Before I joined Unrequited, I’d been in four or five other bands. I’d never really buckled down and committed. My practical slash pessimistic side wouldn’t let me. But during those years of floating from band to band, I got to see how a lot of musicians worked, and none compared to Maeve, both in talent and in her boundless enthusiasm for getting the songs right.
She pressed her fist into her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut. “Do you think…?” She twisted her lips.
“What?”
“Could we practice ‘Valley Street’ again?”
“Of course. Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?”
Her fist opened, and she wiped the sweat from her forehead with her palm. “I am. Haven’s comin’ tomorrow, so I’d rather spend the time workin’ on this tonight.”
It couldn’t be easy for her to ask for my help. She’d been in pain and miserable before she’d asked for a damn heating pad. And even though she’d been staying in my house for nearly a week, I’d barely seen her outside of practice. Her walls were firmly in place, and that was the best thing for all of us.
That didn’t mean I wouldn’t help her any time she asked, especially when it came to the band. It had taken me a while to fully commit to Unrequited, but once I’d decided I was in—I wasin.
I unzipped my bass and pulled up a stool in front of Maeve’s kit to face her.
“Do you want to run through the whole thing, or is there a particular part that’s giving you trouble?” I asked.
She chewed her lip, eyes rolling to the side as she thought. “Let’s go through the whole thing. I’m feelin’ off about it, but I can’t pinpoint why.”
We sat and played the same song for a good hour. She was unrelenting in her need to perfect it. I’d done this with my brother countless times. Coming up with the rhythm to the melodies Mo and Murray wrote. Getting in extra practice, or just fucking around. It had been a while since he’d spared me time like this, though. He was always out, indulging in the lifestyle that came along with our fame. I’d done a little of that in the beginning, but it wasn’t really me.
“What do you think?” I asked when Maeve lowered her sticks to her lap.
“I think I’m nervous I’m going to screw it all up, confirming everything you, Clark, and all the jackholes think of me.”
I frowned, letting my bass lie flat on my lap. “I don’t think that. I don’t know about the jackholes, though.”
She tilted her head, her rosy lips curving slightly. “You’re not waitin’ for me to mess up to bring Diego back in?”
These days, every time the topic of my brother was broached, I stiffened to the point of pain. My fingers curled and my teeth ground. Maeve couldn’t know Diego was an open nerve. Even grazing him sent painful tremors down my spine.
“He left on his own.”
“That wasn’t much of an answer. Where is he?” she asked in a way that was both gentle and insistent. Probably because this wasn’t the first time she’d asked, and people around here got all cagey, looking at me to explain.
I considered telling her, but I hadn’t said the words out loud to anyone outside of family. I didn’t want her to hear “rehab” and think she had the entire picture. But I guess that was how most people with addicts for loved ones felt.
He’s different, you wouldn’t understand.
He’s an addict, but not a regular addict.
If you knew his whole story…
He’s not a statistic or a fucking cliché.
It had all been said before. Not by me yet, but those words were on the tip of my tongue, ready to defend my brother until my dying breath—no matter how many times he screwed up.