“Well, you were right,” he’s saying to Wyatt. “This is better than Newport. It feels fresh and we’ll see the first bands tonight at that old barn, which is less horrible than I’d imagined.”
“See? You’ve got to listen to me more often,” says Wyatt.
“I would if you didn’t have such a shitty singing voice,” says Carlyle, and, inexplicably, they both start to laugh.
We make our way to a long table in the back and find our seats in a haphazard way, but when we’re seated, I realize that we’ve fallen into our old habit of sitting with all of the kids at one end of the table. Wyatt is directly across from me. The first time I look up and catch his eye, he is giving me a look that says, See? Isn’t this easy? We made up, we’re friends. Go ahead and get married. I realize that’s a lot to take from a look.
“So what do you two think?” Hugh is asking. “Cocktails outside in the garden? Dinner and dancing in here? Or cocktails upstairs in the bar?”
“I’d do the whole thing on the beach,” says Wyatt.
Jack ignores him. “I love this place.”
“What about you, Sam?” asks Travis.
I look around the room and am suddenly hot, like heat is coming from my chest up to my face. I want to say it’s perfect. There’s nothing to do but go back to the city and plan this wedding. I’ll learn how to waltz, stepping exactly in time within the confines of a box, memorizing specific guidelines for how my body should react to music. I can feel the gentle pressure of Jack’s hand on my back, telling me which way to go. One-two-three, one-two-three, on and on forever.
“I think I’d like a martini,” I say.
43
“How do you know Carlyle Trickett?” Jack asks Wyatt over dessert.
“You know who that is?” I ask.
“Well, yes,” says Jack. “He’s the biggest record producer in LA, has been for decades. He just gave up forty-five million dollars in a divorce. You should really read the Post.” I would, I want to say, but I’m slogging through some dead earl’s fictional memoir.
Wyatt says, “I met him in a bar in the Valley when I was first in LA. He was pretty quick to tell me I had no future as a singer.” He says this with a laugh, which makes no sense, and I check my martini to see if I’m drunk. No, it’s still full. I don’t know who I think I’m kidding, I can’t drink a martini.
“I remember this,” I say. “So mean.”
“Maybe. But also maybe true. It’s kind of nice when someone in show business tells you the truth. It’s rare and can save you a lot of heartache.”
“Yeah, I guess he’d know,” says Jack. “Bummer.”
This feels rude, but Wyatt is nonreactive. He shrugs in a Well, what are you gonna do? kind of way. He had this confidence as a kid, but it came from his abilities. He was a strong surfer, then a great guitar player. Maybe the best kisser ever. But I can’t imagine that kid being okay with his dreams being shattered. Something feels false.
When we’ve finished eating, a couple stops by the table to say hello to Wyatt. They want to make sure he’s coming by the Owl Barn later. He tells them he’ll try to stop by. I know a few things: Jack’s had too much to drink again and I’ve had three sips of a martini and a glass of white wine, which is getting close to too many for me. I’m in and out of conversations. My dad is thinking about a new series of paintings in straight lines that mimic the horizon. Granny wishes more people would say You’re welcome rather than No problem. Travis and Hugh might get a dog. I’m leaning back in my chair, arms folded, mentally sorting through it all.
The waiter comes to the table to tell us that our meal was on the house, a small thank-you to Mr. Pope for bringing in all this business. My dad raises his glass to the waiter and then to Wyatt in thanks. And there’s no surprise on Wyatt’s face. I know every expression his face makes, and there’s no hint of surprise there. I narrow my eyes at him from across the table. He looks away.
The fresh air feels good when we’re out in the parking lot. My parents and grandparents get into my mom’s car, and the rest of us are standing around Travis’s. “I don’t really want to go home yet,” I say.
“Let’s go hear the budding musicians!” says Jack with a bit of a flourish. He’s definitely a little drunk.
“I’d do that,” says Hugh.
We say goodbye to the old folks and Gracie and pile into the car. I’m in the middle of the backseat with Jack and Wyatt on either side. I am grateful when Jack puts his window down, because I need air.
Wyatt is looking out the window at nothing because it’s completely dark. It feels like he’s trying to put as much distance between us as possible in this tiny space. I turn to look at him and catch his eye. He just shakes his head and turns back to the window.
The Owl Barn is an actual barn. I’ve never been inside before but apparently it’s been renovated as a music venue specifically for the festival. A band is playing country music when we walk in, and they’re pretty good. The place feels crowded and smoky in the best possible way, like it’s welcoming you in and making things a little hazy. A bartender comes out from behind the bar and gives us all beers. He gestures to the room and gives Wyatt a hug.
The band starts another song and Wyatt is listening intensely. He seems to notice my watching him. He turns to Travis and says, “I like this song,” just like he would have years ago driving around in his dad’s truck.
A guy in a Def Leppard T-shirt and a little red hat stands at the microphone. “That was ‘Blackout.’?” Everyone applauds again. “This just in—I see Wyatt Pope in the crowd.” People start clapping and looking around the room. Wyatt raises his hand in the air, and the crowd erupts in cheers, which makes no sense. I look at him as he’s taking this in and know that I’m missing something. “Let’s see if we can get him up here. Just one song?”
He turns to me and almost says something before he makes his way through the crowd to the stage.
People are literally screaming as Wyatt gets on the stage. Red Hat brings him a guitar and a stool to sit on, and Wyatt examines the guitar like he’s got all the time in the world. I don’t see a hint of the nerves I would feel getting up there in front of all those people. “Everybody, Wyatt Pope.” Applause, whistles, cheers, then silence.
Wyatt takes another second to adjust the guitar, then leans into the microphone. “This was my first break,” he says. And then he starts to play. After three notes, the crowd erupts again, like it’s a dream come true to hear Wyatt play Missy McGee’s song. I know this song like I know my own heartbeat. You catch your breath, and I catch your breath. We’re locked in together. Sam, I am. As he plays each line, the song sounds the way I always heard it in my head. It feels more country than pop. And it’s no longer about Missy McGee’s old boyfriend. It’s about Wyatt and me. As he finishes and the crowd is screaming, he looks right at me, and I fully understand that I know absolutely nothing about him. And that he wrote that song.
My body is packed tight among the still-clapping fans, but my mind is everywhere. Wyatt told me he was writing songs in Los Angeles. I’ve even heard him writing songs in the treehouse. Why would he hide the fact that he wrote that song? I think of Missy McGee’s other big hits and how similar they are to this one. Wyatt’s been bullshitting me this whole time about his life. I’m both blown away by the song and angry at the lie.
Jack is at my elbow now. “Pretty good, right?”
“What?”
“Wyatt. That was something,” he says. “He could get a gig somewhere. Not in the city, but like out here?”
I look back at the stage. Wyatt is looking directly at me, though I can’t tell what he’s trying to convey. Appropriate messages would include: Hey, sorry I forgot to tell you anything about who I am and Hope you’re not embarrassed about blabbing on and on about your dumb job when it turns out I’m a music industry icon. And, Yeah, I wrote the biggest song of the last decade and it was about you. Really, the possible meanings are endless.
I need air. I’m in the center of the mob and am relieved to find Jack is still next to me. “I need to get out of here.”
“Are you kidding?” he shouts. “This is unreal. I love this place.” I must have missed the plaque that says skip warren slept here.
I turn to fight my way out of the crowd and he doesn’t notice. A rock band has replaced Wyatt, and they are warming up. Young people with plastic cups of beer let me pass without taking their eyes off the stage.
44