I grin. “I appreciate your support, but I dropped the ball. All of them.”
Boone picks up on that and runs with it.
He stands straight and looks me in the eye. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“I know exactly why I drop all the balls in my life. I can tell you why I neglected something, failed something, ignored something else—it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t mean there’s a good reason, either, just that there is one.” He pauses. “Why are you dropping your balls?”
I make a face and shake my head. “What on Earth are you talking about?”
“Your balls dropping.” He snickers. “No, seriously. I want to know why.”
“I don’t fucking know. Shit happens. Isn’t that good enough?”
“Yeah. Good enough if you’re willing to take a bullshit answer.”
We have a showdown, each of us unwilling to look away first. Finally, he gives up and sighs.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll tell you why you drop them.”
“Oh, please. Tell me,” I say sarcastically. “I can’t wait to hear this.”
“Me either.”
I flinch. “You mean you don’t already know?”
He shakes his head. “No. I just open my mouth, and the truth comes out. It’s my party trick.”
I laugh and head to the breakfast table. I sit. He watches me from the sink.
“Shoot,” I say.
“I think that you let your balls fall with Meadow because you didn’t want to have to think about your career. You could just party it up and have fun, and it didn’t feel like something permanent to you.”
Not bad.
“You always say you’ll be home to visit, and we both know that’s not true. But it sounds good, and I think you tell yourself that so you don’t have to acknowledge your life isn’t here anymore.” He narrows his eyes. “That or you don’t have to think about this being your life, your actual adult career. If it’s not and you fail—who gives a fuck? You had a good ride. You’ll just go on about your life in whatever job you were supposed to have all along.”
My blood runs cold.
I’ve never admitted any of that aloud to a single soul on the face of the planet. But have I thought about those things? Only a million times while lying in a bathtub in a random hotel.
Boone is emboldened by the success he thinks or knows he just scored.
“You also dropped your balls with Bellamy—not last night but the proverbial ones,” he says, grinning, “because you think you would lose her anyway. She’s always fought you and pushed you away. You figure that it doesn’t matter if you actually stayed in her life or not because it wouldn’t have worked out regardless. It was just so much easier to make the decision and help the inevitable along.”
Holy. Shit.
“Damn, I’m good,” he says, impressed with himself.
I’m impressed with him too. But I’m not about to tell him that.
My finger runs along my bottom lip.
I look at Boone like I just met him for the first time. This Boone has never been around. I didn’t know he existed. Hell, I didn’t think he knew the alphabet for sure, let alone be able to conjure up philosophical arguments from someone else’s point of view.
We definitely don’t give him enough credit in this family.
“Am I right?” he asks as he opens the fridge. He takes out the lemonade, opens the lid, and drinks it straight from the container.
I’m less disturbed about his drinking habits than I am bothered by his theories.
I do all the things he said. Down deep, I’m afraid of failure.
Having a bad reputation and flying by the seat of my pants has always been easier than not being good enough.
Am I good enough to succeed in music? I hope.
Am I good enough for Bellamy? Not even a chance.
But keeping them apart from each other—not incorporating Bellamy somehow in my life—is the reason I’m unsatisfied. I know that now.
My web of experiences and emotions aren’t filled with the right things. Or the right people.
Damn.
I run a hand down my face. I have no idea what this means or what to do about it.
I don’t know if there’s anything I can do about it.
Boone looks at his phone and motions for me that he’ll be a second. He takes the call, saying, “Hey, baby,” as he turns the corner and disappears out of earshot.
I sit at the table and think about my life.
I tried to fill the hole created by impersonal relationships by shoving it with razzle-dazzle. Filled stadiums, screaming fans, plaques on the wall—I hoped that someday all of that would make me feel complete. That the wonderfulness of the accomplishments would, at some point in the future, make up for all I sacrificed to get here.
But as I think about Bellamy smiling against my skin, the precious moments spent with Joe, my mom’s garlic butter chicken, and Boone’s weird epiphanies, I realize that this life—the one with my family and friends—could be pretty fucking spectacular right now.