The sun is going down when we come across a guy busking on the boardwalk, guitar slung across his shoulder, hat on the ground. Attention isn’t the only thing people aren’t paying him. His hat sits empty, which gives me an idea.
I look down at Kai, who’s now starting to fray around the edges some. She’s held off the exhaustion revealed by the faint lines bracketing her mouth and the shadows under her eyes as long as she could. Now it’s starting to show. I want to get her home so she can rest before the tour restarts tomorrow. One last thing will seal this day, and then we’ll leave.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask, knowing damn well she can’t be.
“I doubt it.” She laughs, reaching into her pocket to pull out a dollar and drop it into the busker’s hat.
“Hey, dude.” I gesture to his guitar. “Lemme hold that for you while you take ten.”
“My guitar?” By the look on his face, you’d think I just asked for his kidney. He may not be a great musician, but he definitely loves his guitar like one.
“Ten minutes.” I shrug. “I’ll be right here. You can even stay and watch to make sure I don’t leave. Just give your fingers a rest.”
“Man, I gotta make rent.” He shakes his head and flexes his fingers. “I’m nowhere close.”
“What’ll get you there?” I reach for my wallet. I know he’ll probably bloat the price, but I don’t really care right now. I’m past smart and am pretty much just determined.
“You serious, man?” His wide eyes go from my face to my wallet a couple of times. “My share is two hundred.”
“And how much have you made today?”
“Around thirty.”
“Like I said, take a break.” I offer him two hundred dollar bills. “Ten minutes.”
That guitar is off before I’ve put my wallet away. He hands it to me, a huge smile on his face. I slip the strap over my shoulder, plucking a few strings to see how badly out of tune it is. For my purposes, it’ll do. Kai’s standing off to the side watching and grinning, arms folded across her chest. I dig around in my mind for the lyrics I want to sing, hoping I don’t screw this up since Kai is an expert on this song and this artist.
“They say we’re young and we don’t know,” I sing, strumming the familiar chords. “We won't find out until we grow.”
I sing the rest of the first verse and then nod my head, encouraging her to sing what comes next. To my surprise, she darts over and tips up on her toes until she can whisper in my ear.
“That’s actually Cher’s part. Cher goes first. Then Sonny.”
When she pulls back, I expect at least a smile, but no. If there is one thing Kai’s serious about, it’s her Cher.
“Sooooo . . .” I keep playing and roll my eyes. “Let me guess. You want to sing Cher’s part?”
She nods, an infectious grin stretching between her cheeks. So we start over, her singing Cher’s part, me singing Sonny’s. Our voices tangling up at the chorus, declaring I got you, babe. A small crowd gathers around, and a few dollar bills land in the hat. Some even start to sway with the music we’re making.
It is, without a doubt, the simplest, goofiest song maybe ever written, but there is something about the lyrics. Something about the defiant, doubt-us-if-you-dare, na?ve hope of a love like the one we’re singing about. It grips me. Our eyes hold, and before I know it, our smiles fade. There’s no one on this boardwalk but us. The sunset is ours alone, and I’m singing a promise to the only girl I’ve ever loved. And miraculously, after all I did to destroy it, everything about her says she loves me back. If there’s a moment more perfect, I’ve never had it.
And unless it’s with Kai, I don’t want it.
KAI MAY BE THE ONLY PERSON who would get me in a room face to face with my parents. I’ve only seen them a handful of times outside of a courtroom since I emancipated. One of those times, last year, I fondly refer to as Bloody Christmas. Another was necessitated by threat of death when my father had a heart attack. Even after his apology, my visits to him as he rehabilitated were infrequent. A whispered half-apology when he was wired up like Frankenstein and mere heartbeats from death doesn’t bridge the chasm the years have created between us. As for my mother, I’ve met dentures less fake.
“I first want to commend you all for coming today,” Dr. Ramirez, our counselor, adjusts her glasses and leans back in the leather armchair like the ones my parents and I occupy. “Taking the time to repair these relational breeches is a positive step that many never take.”
I fix my eyes on her instead of looking at my mother and father. She has kind eyes behind her glasses. Well-meaning eyes, I’m sure, but I’m not convinced she can perform a miracle we haven’t been able to achieve in almost fifteen years of enmity.