She walked around to the driver’s seat and glanced over toward me. I kept looking up and down the street, trying to familiarize myself with the neighborhood, but of course, I was completely lost.
Emery cleared her throat and tapped the top of her car with the palms of her hands. “Do you need a lift?”
“That would be great,” I breathed out, walking to the passenger door of her car.
She snickered low and shook her head. “Um, I actually meant like, the app, Lyft. Like, the car service where they pick you up. Or even Uber . . .” Her words faded off, because she probably saw how damn idiotic I appeared.
Of course that’s what she meant, Oliver, you dumbass.
“Yeah, right. That’s what I meant. I would, uh, yeah. Okay.”
She must’ve taken pity on me, because she glanced up and down the street, then at her watch. “Or I can drop you off to wherever you’re going.”
I lowered my brows. “You’d do that?”
“Sure. It’s no big deal.”
“I’m sure you’re busy . . .”
“No, she’s not. Mama lost her job at the hotel, so she doesn’t do anything during the day,” Reese said matter-of-factly from her rolled-down window.
Emery’s eyes widened. “How did you know that?”
Reese shrugged. “Heard you talking to Ms. Abigail about it when you dropped me off at her house the other day.”
Emery embarrassedly smiled my way. “Kids have a way of talking too much. But it’s true. My day’s pretty open, so I can give you a ride.”
“I appreciate it.” I went to open the passenger door again, and she held her hand up.
“Whoa, whoa. What do you think you’re doing?”
“I thought you said you’d drive me.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “But after driving you last night, you’ve lost your front-seat privileges. Back seat.”
What did that even mean?
“Now, hurry up, will you? Reese can’t be late.”
She hopped into the driver’s seat. I slipped into the back seat and sat down beside Reese, like a damn child. All that was missing was my booster seat.
“Good God, what’s that smell?” I barked out.
“That, my friend, is the smell of your vomit,” Emery replied.
“I threw up in your car?”
“Yes, and all over me.”
Note to stupid self: you owe this woman a deep cleaning of her car, a houseplant, and probably a million dollars for babysitting your ass.
Every self-hating thought I could muscle up filled my brain all at once. I was shocked Emery hadn’t pushed me out on the curb and left me for the vultures to finish off. Them or the paparazzi—same thing, really.
She turned the key in the engine. The car roared, hiccupped, coughed, and spat before she put it into drive.
“Eww, you puked in Mama’s car?” Reese hollered, making a grossed-out face. “That’s gross.”
“An accident, I’m guessing.” I looked forward toward Emery. “I’ll pay to have it cleaned.”
Emery shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.”
She rolled down the windows to air out the vehicle as Reese covered her nose with her hand and asked, “Mama, can you put on our music?”
Emery glanced back at her daughter as she began to drive. “Not today, honey.”
Reese dropped her hand, appearing shocked. “But Mama! We listen to it every day!”
“Yes, so we’d better take a break from it.”
“But, Mama!” Reese cried, and in that moment, I was 100 percent certain I wasn’t cut out for fatherhood. Alex, on the other hand, would’ve been a fantastic father.
Stop thinking about him, Oliver.
I wished turning off your brain was like turning off a faucet. Easy and painless.
“Fine.” Emery finally gave in and turned on a very familiar track, making it extremely hard to get my brother out of my head.
It was the song “Tempted,” from our very first album. I hadn’t heard it in years, and when it began to play, I felt the chills of yesterday vibrating through my system. That seemed so long ago, when the days were shorter and the music came easy.
It was one of Alex’s favorite songs.
Emery glanced back at me through the rearview mirror. “I’m not like some fanatic fan,” she commented, looking back to the road. “We just really enjoy this song.”
“It’s fine. You’re allowed to like my music.”
Reese’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t your music.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not! This is Alex and Oliver Mith’s music!” she stated matter-of-factly.
“Smith,” I corrected. Her “Mith” sounded like “myth,” and for some reason that made it seem as if I didn’t truly exist. Funny enough, I felt like that on the daily.
“That’s what I said,” she said, agreeing. “And that’s not you.”
“I’m pretty sure I know who I am, kid.”
“You have no clue who you are,” Reese argued back at me, and fuck, if that wasn’t an emotionally damaging statement, I didn’t know what was.
“It’s true, Reese. That’s Oliver Smith. This is his music,” Emery chimed in.
Reese’s mouth dropped open in shock, and her eyes bugged out farther than I thought eyes could ever bug. She then whispered. Who knew this little girl understood the art of whispering?
“You . . . ,” she started, her voice a bit shaky now. “You’re in Alex & Oliver?”
“Yes, I am.” I paused. “I was.”
I caught Emery’s saddened eyes in the rearview mirror before I looked back to Reese.
“Oh. My. Bananas,” she muttered, stunned, as her face turned pale and she slapped the palms of her hands to her cheeks.
“Oh my bananas?” That was a new one.
Emery snickered. “It’s clear we’re both fans of your music. Anything you want to say to Oliver, Reese?”
“Yes.” Reese wiggled around a bit in her booster seat before clasping her hands together and looking my way. “We only like your first two albums because the other ones are recycled mainstream garbage that was made to only sell records instead of art. We don’t listen to those ones, because even if it’s recycled garbage, it’s still kind of like trash.”
“Reese!” Emery gasped, shaking her head back and forth. “That’s not nice at all!”
“But, Mama, it’s true, and you said a person is always supposed to be honest. Plus, you’re the one who told me it was recycled garbage. Remember, Mama?”
I couldn’t help but smile at the kid. Shit . . . when was the last time I smiled? I should’ve started keeping a journal about the times I found a split moment of happiness. Maybe that would help me stop drowning every single day, if I knew there were moments of happiness too.
“Sorry about that,” Emery said. “You know what they say: ‘Kids say the darndest things.’”
“Hey, Mr. Mith?” Reese asked, tugging on my shirtsleeve.
“Smith.”
“That’s what I said. Hey, Mr. Mith, do you think you’ll ever make good music again?”