Rifts and Refrains

by Devney Perry

And I’d given it to Nan.

  His smile faded along with the light in his eyes, and my heart squeezed. If there was something I could do today to take away some of the pain, I was here for it.

  “That was from our second tour,” I told him. “If you want, I have some from the other tours too. The first poster is very rare and they sell for over five-hundred dollars on eBay.”

  “Really?” His jaw dropped.

  “I’ll send them to you once I get home.” I kicked off my shoes, sinking into the thick carpet. The soft, mushroom-colored fibers squished between my toes, soothing some of the ache from my heels.

  Graham had updated this room with the paint and carpet. While the living room and dining area had faded oak hemlock trim, this room had solid white bordering the chocolate doors.

  “So where are your drums?” I asked.

  “Downstairs.” He shot off the bed. “Wanna see?”

  “Sure.” I spun to follow him and staggered when I saw Graham leaning against the door frame. I hadn’t heard him behind me because somewhere between here and the kitchen, he’d toed off his polished dress shoes.

  “Want anything to drink before he takes you hostage?” he asked.

  “No, thanks.” I smiled, grateful that he was taking it easy on me. I didn’t have the strength to fight an angry Graham today. “I’m okay.”

  And surprisingly, I was okay. Here with Graham and Colin, I was okay.

  “Listen, about the song.”

  I held up a hand. “It’s fine.”

  “You’re not pissed?”

  “I was at first, but I get why you did it. I wouldn’t have been able to sing with you up there. I would have let you do it on your own.”

  A wave of relief washed over his face. “You were . . . it was perfect, Quinn. She would have been so proud.”

  The sting hit my nose, but I forced a smile. “She was the best.”

  “Quinn!” Colin shouted, drawing our attention.

  “I’ll be up here if you need anything.” He turned away, his hands stuffed in his pockets causing his slacks to pull tighter around his ass.

  I ogled. Blatantly. If he turned, he’d catch me, and I didn’t have the energy to care. The man was mouthwatering. I’d had my hands on that ass last night, gripping and squeezing as he’d taken me to the edge.

  He continued down the hallway, past a bathroom, to his bedroom.

  I continued to stare.

  “Quinn! Are you coming down?” Colin’s shout caused me to flinch.

  I scurried toward his voice. “On my way.”

  Graham’s chuckle followed me down the stairs.

  Busted.

  I hurried down the stairs—a split-level flight with a landing in the middle—and hit the cool, concrete floor after the last step. The chill soothed my aching soles.

  Colin was already behind his kit, situated in the corner of a huge, open room. The basement seemed to be nearly the entire width and length of the house. All of it open into this cavernous space.

  In one section, two overstuffed leather chairs and a matching couch angled toward an enormous television. The floors were bare except for the biggest area rug I’d ever seen sitting beneath the furniture. The coffee table in the center was empty except for three black remotes.

  Canned lights were recessed into the ceiling. The floors added an industrial vibe. The walls were painted the same shade as Colin’s room upstairs. This was the rec room. The man area.

  “This must be the hangout spot.”

  “Yep.” Colin smiled, waving his sticks. “Ready?”

  I arched an eyebrow and crossed the room. “Are you? Scooch.”

  He jumped off the stool so I could sit and handed over the sticks. I’d left mine at home today because they didn’t go with my dress.

  Colin’s drums were only a pocket kit with a snare, bass, rack and floor toms. He had two cymbals—a high hat and crash. It was smaller in size but similar to a set I’d started out on. I’d been a lot older when I’d become interested in the drums. My first love—thanks to Mom and my lessons beside Graham—had been the piano.

  “Guess how many cymbals I have for my tour kit?”

  “How many?” Colin stood over my shoulder, soaking up my every move as I began a slow, steady rhythm on the snare.

  “Guess?”

  “Four.”

  I shook my head, picking up the tempo. “Eight.”

  “Wow.”

  “Okay. I’m going to show you an easy sequence so you can hear it, then you’re going to do it.”

  He nodded, his eyes glued to my hands.

  “Let’s start with the money beat. It’s easy peasy. Eighth notes on the high hat. Bass drum kicks on one and three. Snare on two and four.” I showed him twice, counting it out, and then gave him back his stool.

  He played it perfectly the first time and shrugged. “Dad lets me do YouTube videos.”

  “Ahh. Then let’s ramp it up a bit.”

  Next I went through a common drum fill that he’d hear a lot in pop music, something he could use to play along with the stereo. Because that was the fun of it, right? Playing to a song on the radio. The drums were fun and fancy licks were a blast, but there was nothing better than when it all came together. That was the magic, not someone playing solo in their basement.

  When I’d handed over the sticks, he’d shot me a look over his shoulder that said I got this.

  And I smiled.

  Over and over we played, Colin soaking up my every word. He was my first student, and I couldn’t have asked for better. He was so eager, his excitement so contagious, it was like going back in time. I’d been like that once.

  “Should we take a break?” I asked Colin after glancing at the clock. We’d been down here for three hours, though it felt like minutes.

  He grumbled but followed me over to the couches, plopping down.

  Graham must have heard us stop because moments later, he appeared at the base of the stairs, two glasses of ice water in hand. “Thirsty?”

  “Yesssss.” Colin gulped his as I sipped mine. I laughed as he collapsed in the couch, flopping and flailing. “That. Was. Awesome!”

  “What do you say to Quinn?” Graham took a seat in the chair farthest from me.

  Colin shot up on his knees and threw his arms around my neck.

  “Whoa.” I wasn’t sure where to put my hands as he hugged me, but they sort of just drifted down to his back and wound around his frame.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I dropped my cheek to his hair. “It was fun.”

  He squeezed me tighter, then let me go and went back to his water.

  “Where’d you learn to play?” he asked with an ice cube in his mouth, the words coming out jumbled.

  “School. I didn’t start the drums until I was eleven.”

  “Sixth grade,” Graham added.

  “That’s right.” I’d been just a girl in middle school who’d had to pick an instrument for band.

  My teacher, Mr. Black, had suggested I try something other than the keyboard so I wouldn’t be bored. The French horn and tuba had held no interest. The other girls had claimed the clarinets and flutes—hello, predictable. So when I’d asked for the drums, he’d raised an eyebrow and booted David Hill out of percussion to the trombone, making a space for me among all the boys.

  Mr. Black.

  That guy changed my life.

  He’d been my favorite teacher, and luckily for me, when I’d moved on to ninth grade and the high school, he’d come along. The previous high school teacher had retired, opening the position.

  “Did you know Mr. Black moved away?” Graham asked. “After we graduated, he took a job in Oregon to be closer to his wife’s family.”

  “Yeah. He emails me every few months. He’s come to some concerts, and last year when we had a stop in Portland, he brought his whole family.” It had been one of the best shows, looking over to see my childhood mentor standing backstage, rocking out with his wi
fe and kids.

  A flare of annoyance crossed Graham’s face that I’d kept in touch with Mr. Black, and I pulled my lips between my teeth to keep a comment to myself.

  Graham could have stayed in contact. Maybe not at first, but years later. They all could have kept in touch. For a woman who lived on the road and had never had an office in her life, I excelled at returning emails.

  “Who’s Mr. Black?” Colin asked.

  “He was my teacher. My favorite teacher. He got me hooked on drums and rock and roll.”

  Mr. Black had been a classical musician but had loved rock from the sixties and seventies. Jazz was his second love. He’d introduced me to drummers like Keith Moon from The Who and John Bonham from Led Zeppelin.

  He’d introduced me to artists who’d taken an influence of jazz and funk and infused it into rock and roll. Drummers who didn’t only accent the bass line but focused on the melody to change the flow of a song.

  It was how Nixon and I wrote music. I zeroed in on Nixon’s guitar riffs, merging the beat with them instead of keeping with Jonas on the bass. I liked my drums to be tight with the lead phrase, something that had all started because Mr. Black had loved John Bonham’s style.

  I’d developed my own style and idolized my own stars, like Travis Barker from Blink-182. The day I’d met him at Coachella, I’d nearly fainted.

  Nixon, the asshole, had made sure to film a video of me crying and fangirling like a damn idiot. He’d posted it on Instagram and to this day, it was my favorite content on his feed.

  “I met Travis Barker,” I told Graham. He’d been there in high school when I’d played Travis’s drum solos over and over and over again, making him listen as I analyzed them to death.

  “I saw that.”

  “You did?” I didn’t think he followed me, though with millions of followers and counting, it wasn’t a surprise I didn’t know who saw my posts.

  He nodded, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You freaked out.”

  I giggled, covering my face with my hands. “So embarrassing.”

  And one of the best moments in the past nine years.

  “Who’s Travis Barker?” Colin asked.

  I blinked. “Only one of the best drummers of the millennium.”

  He only shrugged and leaped off the couch. “Dad, can I have a snack?”

  “A little one. We’ll order dinner in a couple hours.”

  “Okay.” He raced toward the stairs but paused before he could disappear. “Want anything, Quinn?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks, though.”

  His feet flew up the stairs, leaving me alone with his father.

  “He’s talented, Graham. It comes naturally for him.”

  “Yeah, it does. I set him up with some YouTube videos and thought it would take him a few weeks to get it down. Two hours later, he hauled me down here to show me how he’d figured them all out. But he goes in spurts. He’ll hit it hard for a week then not play for three.”

  “That’s probably normal for kids.”

  “Not you.”

  No, not me. The minute Mr. Black had put me behind a kit and showed me the basics, I’d been hungry. I was still hungry.

  The drums and the music came instinctively. It was as much a part of my make-up as blood and bone, but I didn’t take that gift for granted. Every album I pushed myself to practice and experiment. To do something different and new.

  “He’s only seven.” Graham sighed. “Who knows what he’ll want to do? Some days he’s hot on the drums. Some days he’s all about baseball or football. Others he’ll sit down at the dining room table to draw and color for hours. Before school got out, he was obsessed with Pokémon.”

  I suspected that was normal too. But if he wanted to be in music, Colin had talent. And if there was anything I could do to help him when the time came, I’d do it.

  So would Graham.

  He wasn’t like my parents. He’d support Colin no matter what path he took in life.

  “Dad!” Colin shouted. “Can I show Quinn my Pokémon cards?”

  Graham chuckled and gave me an evil grin. “Sure.”

  “Quinn!”

  I pushed up from the couch. “Coming.”

  Colin made the rest of the afternoon pass quickly and without any awkward moments, mostly because he hardly let me out of his sight. We spent hours in his room, up until the time Graham called us for dinner, going through all of Colin’s worldly possessions. Pokémon transitioned to Legos to Hot Wheels to Nerf guns. Then we played games on the floor of his room, me sitting with my legs curled under my seat as we played Old Maid and War.

  We ate at the dining room table, cartons spread out for our feast. It was still light outside when I insisted on doing the dishes since Graham had bought dinner.

  “Colin, time for you to go take a shower.”

  “But, Dad—”

  “It’s seven thirty.” There was a ritual in Graham’s tone. Seven thirty was code for it’s time to start getting ready for bed.

  “Okay,” the boy mumbled as he trudged to his room.

  “I’m going to say goodbye, then get out of your hair,” I told Graham.

  He nodded, his eyes trained to his backyard from where he sat in the living room. We both knew that without Colin, things would get uncomfortable. We’d be forced to deal with last night. I had no desire to go through that, or worse . . . end up in his bed again.

  I found Colin in his room, digging out a pair of pajama shorts and top from a drawer. He still wore a white shirt from Nan’s service and a pair of gray pants, but his feet were bare like mine. The only one who’d changed into jeans and a soft T-shirt was Graham.

  “Thanks for inviting me over today.”

  His head whipped my direction, panic in his gaze. “You’re leaving?”

  “I better get home.” To Seattle, before this kid sucked me in for good.

  “Oh.” He hesitated by the drawer, his eyebrows narrowing. Then he flew across the room, crashing into my waist before I could realize what was happening. It was the second time his embrace had surprised me, but this time, I didn’t hesitate to wrap him up, kneeling down to his level.

  “Practice lots. Call me if you get stuck.”

  He nodded, his arms banding tighter.

  And I hugged him back, until I felt Graham’s presence behind us. He reached over my shoulder and placed a gentle hand on his son’s head.

  Colin unwound his arms and went to the dresser, picking up his pajamas from where he’d dropped them on the floor. Then he brushed past us for the bathroom, closing himself inside.

  When the rush of water came, I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  Was that goodbye? It didn’t seem like it, but I doubted Graham would want me to keep in touch with his kid after I left. Better to leave it unsaid. Colin—all of us—had said enough goodbyes for the day.

  “Thanks for letting me come over,” I told Graham, standing and making my way to the front door.

  “You’re welcome.” He stood against the wall, staying five feet away like there was a line drawn between us. A line it wasn’t safe for him to cross.

  I ordered an Uber, grateful and lucky that there was one three minutes away, and swiped up my shoes from where I’d moved them earlier. “I like Colin. A lot.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  “I’m glad I got to know him.”

  He gave me a flat smile, one that said he didn’t like how quickly I’d become, or rather, Colin had become used to me in their house.

  Because I was leaving.

  “Would you care if I kept in touch with him?” I asked.

  “I, uh . . .” He sighed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Damn, that rejection stung, sharp and biting. Graham was only looking out for his son. After all, he knew better than anyone how it felt for me to leave and cut them out entirely. But I wouldn’t do that to Colin. I wasn’t eighteen and running away from my fears. I wasn’t hurting.

  Except no m
atter how many promises I made, Graham had his mind made up.

  “Thanks for dinner.” I let myself out, pulling the door closed behind me, but then Graham was there, holding it open.

  “Take care of yourself, Quinn.”

  “You too, Graham.”

  I looked up to him, stalling for a moment as I memorized his face. I’d done the same thing the day he’d driven me to the airport nine years ago. This time, the man’s face. I studied the strong line of his jaw covered in that sexy beard that felt delicious against my skin. I stared at the crinkles by his beautiful eyes and how they deepened when he’d smile or look at his son.

  Not a day would pass when I wouldn’t think of his face and mentally whisper his name.

  A car rolled to the curb, the driver waving to make sure he’d found the right spot.

  I backed away a step, my feet heavy and hard to pick up.

  “Graham, I—” Before my brain could register my body’s decision, I was moving. I walked into Graham’s space, stood on my bare toes, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you. For today. For last night. For this week. I don’t know how I would have gotten through it without you. So thank you.”

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Welcome.”

  I stepped away, giving him a finger wave before spinning and tiptoeing to the car at the curb.

  “Quinn,” he called, making me pause.

  “Yeah?”

  “You never really answered my question. At least, not enough for me to understand.”

  “What question?”

  “Why don’t you sing?”

  I gave him a sad smile. “Because of you. I just . . . can’t. Like today, I needed you.”

  “A crutch.”

  “No.” I shook my head. Crutch wasn’t the right word. “A muse.”

  I needed him for the words to come and for them to hit the right notes. To do more than sing the same old song, to make it different and new. It was Graham who inspired me to sing.

  “Goodnight, Graham.”

  He nodded. “Night, Quinn.”

  A weight came off my shoulders as I rode home. Unexpected, for a day like today.

  But that was Graham. And Colin. And in a way . . . Nan.

  She’d brought me home, and this week, I’d buried some old ghosts.

  I was leaving on Monday, but for the first time all week, my heels didn’t feel aflame.