“Sorry, Mr. James. But if you want me to turn off the music, I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to do that,” I tell him, as politely as possible. “If you want to call the police, I can’t stop you. I probably deserve it.”
Because I suck at drinking. And relationships. Didn’t Brendan say that to me the last time we fought? That I was wound too tight to be in a relationship? Well, he was right about that too.
“What’s wrong with him?” Mr. James asks Diane casually, as if they aren’t both shouting out their open windows.
These houses are too close together.
“A man he’s in love with told him he loves him back. It’s a tragedy, apparently.”
“Can’t you two use a phone?” I grumble, trying to focus on the lyrics that I’m starting to realize would make anyone suicidal.
Why am I listening to this? More importantly, why did Mom listen to this?
And she listened to it all the time. I can’t even remember all the times I’d wake up in the middle of the night to Killing Me Softly, Jesse or Where is the Love?
God, even those titles are killing me. And not that softly.
Whenever people who knew Aurelia Day described her, the first word they used would almost always be joy. She was a joy to be around. No matter how sick she got, no matter how broke we were. Everyone loved her.
But at night she listened to these songs about broken hearts and missed opportunities.
Halfway into my box of liquid enlightenment, the only conclusion I can come to—and one that hits me like a wine-flavored freight train—is that she lied. Either by omission or with intent, my mother led me to believe she didn’t regret anything, didn’t miss anyone and she’d never really been in love.
But who listens to songs like this unless they’re drowning some kind of sorrow? Unless they understand what it’s like to be left behind?
Why didn’t she tell me? We talked about everything.
Maybe because she didn’t want to scare you with her drunken bouts of backyard melancholy. You know. Like you’re doing every time Fred looks out that window.
“I’m sorry, Fred,” I say too softly for her to hear over the fence. I haven’t even filled out the official paperwork, and I’ve already failed as her legal guardian.
“It’s okay.”
I look up in surprise to find her standing just inside the sliding glass door, Dix sitting quietly at her feet. “Did you forget something? I thought I put the dog treats in his backpack.”
But I’ve been focused on the whole drinking thing.
She joins me on the deck, taking off her ball cap and running a hand over her recently buzzed head. “I wanted to hang out with you, I guess. And I’m okay with the music. This singer reminds me of my mom.”
“Me too. Mine, I mean.”
Fred nods wisely. “I figured. I like that—I mean it blows, that we both lost our moms. But I like that you still have her pictures up, still listen to the music she liked. You know?”
I think Fred lost most of her family albums in that fire. What she has on her social media stream is it. We should print those out.
“I like to keep her memory alive,” I say. “Pull it out whenever I need her. Although right before you came out, I was working my way up to being mad at her for not giving me better relationship advice. And this music is depressing.”
She laughs and sits down next to me. “Brendan talks about her too. Your mom,” she says quickly after mentioning his name. “He said the three of you were close.”
“We were.” Not that close or she wouldn’t have told me on more than one occasion that sex and romance were overrated. She would have told me there was a chance that I could have both with someone who knew everything about me and wanted me anyway.
And if you were really close to Brendan, you would have known he was in love with you. At least, according to him.
“It’s not because of me, is it?” she asks, tugging at the laces of her boots in a nervous gesture I’ve never seen her make before. “You didn’t break up with him because I want to live with you? I hear I’m a lot to take on.”
She says it lightly, but I can hear her doubts. She’s so smart that sometimes I forget how young she still is.
I sit up, set my drink down and put my arm around her shoulder. “He said he wanted to live with us, Fred. Not just me. Us.”
It surprised me, how quickly he adapted to having her around. He even wore the Resist shirt she’d gotten him. In public.
“It’s not about you, I promise. You’re wonderful. I’m the one that broke this.”