I couldn’t sing along to this one. No way, no how. I swallowed, trying to get the courage to sing the lyrics, but I was overcome with the sharpest kind of intimidation. “You’re brilliant,” I told him, and because I was nervous it came out a whisper. “That sounds beautiful.”
“What’s the song, Hollis?”
I shook my head, and he continued to play, continued to look into my eyes.
The tension was building along with the melody on the piano. He was waiting, testing me. I didn’t mind play singing along to the other songs, but this one was too close to the truth for me to sing it like it was nothing. “I can’t,” I said.
“Want me to stop playing?”
“You’re a real jerk,” I said. “I can’t do Alicia Key’s song justice.”
“You don’t need to do it justice. You just need to sing it.” He closed his eyes briefly, bopping his head to the beat. “Come on, you can do it. I believe in you.”
The words struck me, especially coming from him. But since his eyes were closed, I gave in and let the lyrics to ‘Fallin’’ pour out of me. It felt better to sing along with my eyes closed, so I gave into that as well.
“Keep going,” he whispered, when he probably would’ve stopped. So I did, I kept singing, hoping my voice didn’t sound like a raccoon dying, until he stopped playing.
Opening my eyes, I felt my stomach twist. His were open, probably had been for a while. “You’re not half bad, Hollis.”
“I’m not talented like that,” I said, feeling shy. I looked everywhere but at him.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s not a big deal. I know where my strengths are, and I’m very comfortable with myself. I’m not going to make a career in music, and that’s okay.” I was rambling. I shook my head and gave him a smile. “This isn’t me fishing for compliments, Adam. I’m awed by your talent, but I recognize that I lack the same talent.”
His eyes didn’t look settled, however. He was on the verge of frowning when I nudged him. “Play another one.”
So he did. It took me a little bit longer than the others to get, but after he played for a little while I recognized it and started singing softly along with it.
He stopped playing, abruptly, and I looked at him in confusion.
“You know this song?” he asked.
“Yes…” Why was he acting so weird?
And then it hit me, right when he said, “That’s one of my songs.”
There was no backing out of this. I couldn’t feign ignorance, couldn’t pretend I hadn’t listened to his music over the years. “Yes. It is.” I folded my hands on my lap, willing myself not to be embarrassed.
“So…you know my stuff? I mean, my band’s music?”
My face warmed. “Yes. I’ve listened to your music.”
“You knew the lyrics to that song. The piano is just background in that track, but you caught it and sang it anyway.” It wasn’t a question, but it was posed like one.
I took a deep breath in. If I got ahead of it, if I admitted it, maybe this would be less embarrassing. “Yes. I told you, I had a crush on you.”
“You did, but I didn’t believe you.”
I licked my lips, feeling claustrophobic on this bench. “Hopefully you do now.”
“Why are you clamming up on me, Hollis?”
I hadn’t realized it, but I had gone board-straight, and my hands clasped in my lap were tight enough that they’d start sweating in an instant. “Because,” I said, “I’m embarrassed. Obviously.” I hated that I couldn’t control my face when it came to my emotions. For someone as much of a control freak as I was, my cheeks flooding with color when I was embarrassed was exceptionally frustrating.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” He gently bumped against me. “I’m flattered. But if it’ll be easier, I’ll play another one.” And he did, something slow and sad, almost. It started slow, crescendoing into something strong, powerful, before it ended on a few higher notes that he played softer and softer until you could scarcely make them out.
I didn’t recognize the song. It wasn’t any of the ones on his band’s album, or a song I’d heard on the radio. “Maybe I’m a little rusty,” I said. “I was gone most of the summer, so I haven’t caught up on all the hits right now.”
“Did you like it?”
“It was beautiful. Sad, a little.”
“That’s interesting.” He rubbed his jaw. “I didn’t think of sad when I started writing it. It was more confusion than anything.”
“You wrote that?” I shook my head. “That was gorgeous. Really, something special.”
“I’m glad you think so.” He played the beginning riff again and then turned to me. “I wrote it after we kissed for the first time.” He glanced at my mouth before meeting my gaze again. “I guess it’s kind of your song.”
That truth pummeled into me, robbing me of any intelligent thought. He’d written a song partially inspired by me. What did someone say to that? I was flattered, shocked, and felt entirely inadequate. “You did?” was all I managed. I wanted to hear it again.
He nodded. “I couldn’t get my own thoughts out of my head. So I wrote them down.”
“Did it help?”
“Music always helps,” he said. “But it doesn’t solve my confusion. It just makes it sound pretty.” He gave me a crooked grin.
“I want to hear the lyrics,” I said.
“I’m not a singer,” he replied.
“Neither am I.” I held his gaze this time, saw him look slightly less at ease than he had before.
“Touché.”
“Are you ready to eat?”
I turned to where my mother stood at the entrance to the kitchen. I didn’t know how long she’d stood there, how much she’d heard. Her face betrayed nothing.
“Ready?” I asked Adam, feeling a little rubbed raw and completely not ready for a dinner with my parents.
“I guess.” He stood and held out a hand for mine. When I took it, I wished to have the kind of outlet Adam did, to translate my own feelings into something beautiful the way he could. I had my studies, but what else?
My mother had set the table for our four places, complete with crystal goblets she’d filled with wine and impeccably white cloth napkins. My father was already seated opposite of where Adam and I were to sit.
Adam pulled out my chair and I gave him a grateful smile as I sat and prepared myself for what was sure to be stressful dinner. The intimacy of our four place settings and low lighting in the room should have made it feel comfortable and cozy. But instead it felt more like a face-off between two sides, with an interrogation looming.
“Was that you playing the piano?” my mother asked as she dished out salmon to each of us. “Hollis was right, you’re very good.”
I would not blush. I would not blush. I mean, when I had told my parents that my sort-of boyfriend was a pianist I hadn’t exactly been referring to Adam. But in a way, I had. He was the one I thought of, the guy I modeled my fake boyfriend after.
“Thank you, Mrs. Vinke.” He sounded stiff. Maybe he was intimidated by the opulence of the room and the stare of my father. In what I hoped was a reassuring touch, I placed my hand on his thigh under the table and rubbed my thumb gently. Before I could pull my hand away, he’d captured it with his, flipping it over and entwining our fingers.
A stupid, giddy little smile tried forcing its way onto my lips but I bit them to keep it from happening. I was being scrutinized by my father, who hadn’t said a single word, and I didn’t want him to question anything about my facial expressions.
“How long have you been playing?”
“Since I was small. My gram had an upright piano when I was growing up. She was the one who taught me.” His thumb caressed mine in a slow gesture and I wriggled a little in my seat. “And when I was in middle and high school, I was in band.”
The memory of him being called band geek was enough to sober me. I’d have to eventually talk to him about that night at the
party, the night that had shaped his opinion of me for so long.
“Oh, to further your piano skills?”
“Well, no, actually. I tried out a few instruments. Renting whatever was available until I got bored. I wanted to understand how they worked together, how the layers of each instrument affected the others. You know, learning how identical notes layered together create fat sounds in a song.”
“That’s fascinating,” my mom said, and I actually believed her. “You know, Hollis’s father and I were quite the music buffs back in the day. That’s why our daughters all are named after songs.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, Layla for the Eric Clapton song.”
Adam nodded. “That’s a good one.”
“Angie for The Rolling Stones.”
“Of course,” Adam agreed. “A classic.” But then he frowned and turned to me.
“‘The Ballad of Hollis Brown’, by Bob Dylan.”
Adam looked up the ceiling, as if he was mentally going through a catalog of songs that lived up there. “Isn’t that one about a murderer?”
“Yes,” I said, when my mom tsked.
“You’re looking at the lyrics too simply,” my mom protested. “I didn’t name you after a murderer. I named you after a feeling I had. You see, Adam,” she said, ignoring me as she addressed him. “My dad was a bit of a musician himself, but he played the banjo and guitar. I grew up on that song, listening to him sing it. The notes are simple, but I can still hear him strumming along to the beat.”
“My wife’s father came from poverty,” my dad added. “The song is about the effect poverty can have on a person, and my father-in-law saw it firsthand.” He looked at me. “As someone so interested in cause and effect in society, the song is really perfect for you.”
He’d never actually talked to me at length about his own feelings for the song, and I couldn’t disagree with him. “Yes, I imagine Grandpa wasn’t immune to poverty. And so that song might have hit home for him. A farmer deep in poverty, so deep that he can’t afford to feed his children. Bob Dylan’s song was an expose on social problems and the tragedies they can cause. Things we don’t always think about when we’re reveling in our own wealth and our investments in the very things that are forcing others into poverty.”
“You’re talking about Bolivia,” my father said. Sometimes, he acted as if he was blind to the problems of the world unless they directly affected him.
“I’m talking about everywhere. Poverty exists everywhere. Navy volunteers her free time at the women’s shelter, at the soup kitchen, wherever she can.”
“Don’t be so self-righteous, Hollis. You certainly enjoy the opportunities we’ve given you, thanks to our financial support.”
He wasn’t wrong. I couldn’t claim to always be doing what I should be. I didn’t always recycle, I didn’t always choose to walk instead of driving. I was far from being a leader on protecting our planet and its inhabitants, but I did what I could, with what I had. I was imperfect, but I was trying. “Yes,” I finally said. “I’ve used the money you’ve given me to fund an education. I’ve used the money you’ve supported me with to go to Bolivia and help the people there.” And, if I could, I’d use the money to fund my education in less formal ways. Instead of in institutions, I’d do it in small villages, in camps, in places my parents wouldn’t travel to, wouldn’t approve of, to make a small impact in the ways that mattered most.
“Adam, tell me about your…artwork. On your hands.” My mother was not subtle in changing the direction of the conversation. But Adam, whose grip on my hand had remained firm through my verbal battle with my father, took the bait immediately.
“Mile High is the name of one of our songs. One of the first we composed music together for. The heart is for my grandmother, because hers is ailing. There are others, too, but some of them I got when I was younger and dumber.”
I held my breath, waiting for my dad’s response. I knew what he thought of tattoos. When Angie had come home with her first at seventeen, he’d made it very clear his opinion of them while we lived under his roof. But my mother continued on, probably suspecting my dad’s rising annoyance.
“I always wanted a tattoo,” she said, but I didn’t believe it. “When I was younger, of course. It’s a good thing I didn’t, or else I’ve have gotten it right over my belly before getting pregnant and watching it go to ruin.”
“Isn’t it hard to find employment when your body is covered in ink like that?”
Adam shook his head. “No. I mean, before I started working back here, I was in a band so I was kind of my own boss.”
“You’re working at Russell and Sons Construction, correct?”
Adam stilled. “Well, I was.” He cleared his throat and I continued eating. “I start work at the potato plant on Monday. The one west of town.”
“Ah.” My dad fingered his glass, looking over Adam in a way I recognized. “Hard to hold down a job?”
“Dad.”
Adam squeezed my hand. “It’s been a rough adjustment being back here, I’m not going to lie. I’ve been doing my best for my sister and trying to keep up on things for my gram so she can come home on Monday.”
“Have some more salmon,” my mom said, holding the platter toward Adam. But Adam had barely had a chance to eat a bite of the salmon on his plate. He took another portion anyway.
“You know,” my dad said, after he’d polished off his dinner. “I thought your name was interesting.”
Awareness prickled every inch of my skin. I had been waiting for this to come up, for my dad to mention something about it, and unfortunately this was the time.
“Adam?” Adam asked, and I knew he was playing dumb. My dad was about to have the upper hand, but Adam didn’t have to admit defeat to him.
“No. Oliver.” My dad sipped his water, and I hated that he was being so calculating. I gripped the seat under the table with one hand, bracing myself. “I remember your father. Mark, is it?”
“Yes. He was fired. By you, I believe.”Adam’s voice was cool, his posture relaxed. He even sipped his water calmly, as if this topic didn’t cause him even one iota of distress. Maybe it didn’t.
“That’s right. Do you know why I fired him?”
“Dad,” I started, feeling the ascension of my father’s condescension.
He simply held up one hand, effectively shushing me. “He drove to work drunk. He was late, which would’ve been forgivable, but it was his inebriation that was, well, not.”
I squeezed Adam’s hand, humiliated for him and for the show my dad was putting on.
“Sounds like my dad.” Adam lifted his chin, perfectly highlighting his beautiful jawline. The light danced over his cheek when he clenched his teeth, but otherwise he showed no outward signs of being unsettled by this conversation.
“I see he was arrested recently for public intoxication,” my dad continued.
“Dad,” I said again, firmer this time. His bright eyes flipped to me, with that look, the one that told me to shut up. But I wouldn’t. “Is that what your phone call was? You were investigating my boyfriend?”
“Are you really surprised?” He folded his hands neatly in front of him, his face placid.
“I guess not, but I don’t really see the point of this conversation, especially right now.”
“The point is that you brought your boyfriend to my home, your boyfriend who knew that I had fired his father. Was this to get back at me for some reason?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m asking if you’re dating,” he motioned to Adam with a flippant wave of his hand, “this, just to aggravate me. You knew this would embarrass me.”
“Enough.” This? He’d referred to Adam so flippantly, like he was some broken toy I paraded around my dad just to piss him off. Fury burned bright through my limbs. I stood, my legs shaking, and faced my father. “I brought Adam here because he’s my boyfriend.” I barely spit the words out without my voice trembling. I gripped
the table for stability. “I brought Adam here because I thought you might like to meet my boyfriend and because I thought you’d behave the same way you expect me to behave around the guys you practically shove down my throat.”
“There’s nothing wrong with those young men. They come highly vetted—”
“There’s nothing fucking wrong with Adam,” I said, my voice like razorblades on my throat. It was louder than I had ever spoken to my father. I saw the shock immediately in his eyes, and my eyes flipped to my mother who mirrored his expression. “If anyone here needs to feel embarrassed, it’s you. You’ve tried to humiliate my boyfriend, for something that has nothing to do with him, and you’ve embarrassed your own damn self.” I turned to Adam, felt the harsh breaths sawing in and out of me, as if I had just run some kind of marathon. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins when I reached a hand to him. “Ready to go?”
“Yes.” He stood, setting his napkin on the table. “Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Vinke,” he said before taking my hand and practically hauling me out of the room when my legs were too shaky to walk.
We ran through the living room, through the foyer, and out the front door and down the giant concrete steps all the way to his car. I felt Bonny and Clyde-esque as we raced across the lawn, like we’d just barely escaped and were on the run for our lives. I knew it was the adrenaline causing that feeling, propelling me forward when my legs felt weak. I nearly slipped in a puddle in the grass, but Adam caught me before I fell and then half-carried me to his car.
It had started drizzling while during dinner, and a fine mist coated us both before we were safely tucked into the car.
We didn’t say anything for several minutes as Adam drove off. I felt completely discombobulated. I couldn’t think about anything except what had just happened.
The adrenaline abated, leaving me weak, clammy, and rattled to my core. “I need a bathroom. I think I’m going to throw up,” I said.
One Little Lie: a hate to love rom-com Page 23
