“Sorry,” I tell him. “Tell them to book someone else.”
Kyle groans. “Come on, man, you’re killing me! I already turned down another leg of the tour so you could have a break, but this is one night. One tiny studio show. You could be on a plane and back in Beech Bay by Monday.”
“Oak Harbor,” I correct him, heading back towards town. “And you know it’s never just one night. You’ll be hounding me back into the studio before I’ve had a chance to breathe.”
“Yeah, well your third album won’t write itself,” Kyle grumbles. “And you know this one’s the big kahuna. The debut got you cred, the follow-up was the smash, and then this one’ll take it to the next level. Total world domination. Just look at Adele!”
I have to appreciate his faith in me. He’s the one who found me playing at an open-mic in Austin and swore I could make it all the way to the top. Still, when it comes to the grind, Kyle doesn’t get it. He stayed in LA through most of our tour, working the business end and only flying out to a few big shows, so he doesn’t know what it takes out of me. He doesn’t know how I give my all to an audience, and then get right back out there and do it again the next night, and the next. “Unless you want the whole record to be about insomnia and the inside of a tour bus, you’re going to have to give me some time.”
“I get it, refilling the creative well. Look, I’m on your side. You wouldn’t believe the way the label’s hounding me. But I told them, I said ‘Finn’s gone fishing’. That’s why this SNL gig would get them off my back.” His voice turns pleading. “Buy us some time for this vacation of yours.”
“Don’t act like I’m bailing on you,” I warn him. “I’ve been out there for two straight years, and it’s not just me. My band was about ready to kill you by the time I called it, and they still might if I drag them back before they’ve had a chance to recover.”
“So we make it a solo show.” Kyle keeps pushing. “You, acoustic, unplugged—”
“I’m hanging up on you.”
“No, no, wait!” Kyle calls. I reluctantly lift the phone back up. “I’ll see if I can push them a couple of weeks.”
“A couple of months,” I correct him.
“Same thing. Whenever you’re done getting back to your roots. What are you doing down there, anyway?” Kyle asks. “You swore you’d never step foot back in that town.”
I think of Eva in my arms last night, and how her body pressed against me, her mouth demanding everything. I meant what I said to her: this isn’t over, not by a long shot.
“I’ve got my reasons.”
I head back to the house, admiring its stately glory. I knew from the look on Eva’s face as she walked up the front path this was the place I’d take. I’d have rented a shack on the cliffs if she’d smiled the way she did when she opened the front door here, but this is better. Not bad for a kid who grew up in a rundown house on the wrong side of the tracks, barely one step up from a trailer. I guess I should be used to it by now, the zeros in my bank account. Kyle tells me the way the record is selling, I could buy myself a private jet and still have plenty left over for change. But a part of me still feels like I’m living paycheck to paycheck and working every last dollar to get by.
I head up the path – and find someone waiting for me on the front steps. Sheriff Keller. “Bill.” I stop, wary right away. “Everything okay?”
“Don’t worry, son,” he chuckles. “This is a personal visit, not business.”
I give him a wry smile. “You know me, nothing to hide.”
Bill snorts, probably remembering the days I spent thumbing my nose at the law in this town. He always cut me a break because he was friends with my dad. They served together back in the day, and I dread to think what kind of juvie record I’d have under my belt if he hadn’t looked the other way. “How’s Marcie?” I ask. “And the kids?”
“Oh, you know.” Bill rolls his eyes. “My youngest just discovered boy bands, and Chris came back from school with a ballpoint pen tattoo. Whole damn thing’s infected now. Serves the kid right.”
“I can give him the name of a real tattoo artist, if you like.”
Bill glares. “Don’t you go giving him ideas.”
I wonder what brought him out here. Bill just strolls to the end of the porch and looks around. “Nice place you’ve got here. I heard they fixed this place up.”
“Yup.”
“Staying long?”
“A couple of months, maybe.” I keep watching him. “You want something to drink?”
“No thanks, son.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, looking awkward. “You been by the graveyard yet?”
Every bone in my body turns to lead. I slowly shake my head.
“I know you couldn’t make it back, but we did it up right.” Bill says, somber. “A soldier’s burial, had some of the boys down from Fort Bragg. It wasn’t a twenty-one gun salute, but it was something. I saved the flag for you, if you want to come by--”
“No. Thanks,” I add, through gritted teeth.