“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?”
“Reese!” Emery gasped again, embarrassment written across her face.
I rolled with it and shrugged. “That seems to be the question of the year, kid.”
Reese crossed her arms. “Stop calling me ‘kid’—I’m five years old. I’m a big girl.”
“I’ll stop calling you ‘kid’ when you stop calling me ‘Mith.’”
“Okay, Mr. Mith!” she snapped back in the sassiest tone ever.
“Well, all right then, this morning chatter has been nothing but amazing, yet perhaps it’s best if we are quiet the rest of the way and listen to the music, okay?” Emery cut in.
About twenty minutes later, we pulled up to the camp, and Emery put the car in park. “I have to walk her inside. I’ll be right back.”
As Reese climbed out of the car, she made sure to give me one more jab as she put on her backpack. “Bye, Mr. Mith. I hope you find good music again.”
You and me both, kid.
“Oh, and Mr. Mith?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about your brotha,” she said with a slight lisp. “He was my favorite.”
I didn’t know why, but hearing that from a little
girl hit me harder than anything before. There I was, seconds away from tearing up in the back seat of a vomit-scented vehicle.
“He was my favorite, too, kid.”
She smiled so big, and for a split second it was as if that smile was enough to take away an ounce of my pain. “Don’t call me ‘kid,’ Mr. Mith.”
She hurried away with her mother, and without thought I went to check my phone, which was still, indeed, dead. I wondered if the world was thinking I was somewhere dead in a ditch. I wondered how much that would please some people. Stop being so negative. It was almost morbid how often those kinds of thoughts flew through my mind. I supposed losing someone who meant the world to you would do that to a person.
I don’t want to be here.
Fuck.
My parents.
Every time I thought about how I didn’t want to be living, my mind wandered to my parents.
They were probably worried sick about me. I was almost certain they’d seen the articles that the paparazzi had run about me, and it wouldn’t have shocked me if Mom was trying to book a first-class ticket to Los Angeles to make sure I was okay.
“Sorry about that,” Emery told me, slipping back into the driver’s seat. She turned to face me and gave the smallest grin. Somehow that smile healed an ounce of my pain too. “Where to?”
I gave her my address and she took off.
I tapped my fingers against my legs as I listened to the music still playing through the stereo. Every time I’d hear Alex’s guitar riffs come through the speakers, my chest would tighten more and more.
“Can we not do the music thing? I don’t really like listening to my own stuff. Or, well, any of my music since . . .” My words faded, and her brown eyes softened in the rearview mirror as guilt filled her stare.
She quickly shut off the music and muttered something under her breath, but I couldn’t hear her. If it was her condolences, I didn’t want to hear them. I’d received enough of those from people, to the point that they seemed ungenuine.
We drove a few blocks not speaking a word, until her soft voice filled the space again. I wondered if silence drove her mad too. I wondered if other people lived inside their heads as much as I did.
“You’re a whole different person today,” she said, starting up a conversation that she hadn’t even known I needed to have. “Last night you were the complete opposite of who I’d imagined you to be. I always thought you were more reserved.”
The nerves in my gut tightened as I tried my best to gather flashbacks of the night prior. I must’ve made a complete ass of myself and humiliated myself in front of that poor woman.
“I wasn’t myself last night.” I didn’t know the last time I’d been myself. “If I did anything to offend you—”
“Don’t apologize,” she cut in. “Honestly, I get it. I’ve been there before. Once, I got so wasted that I passed out at some random person’s house and woke up with a puke bucket next to me and a Taco Bell Crunchwrap smushed against my cheek. So, we all have those days.”
For some odd reason, that gave me a moment of comfort. I didn’t know Emery, but there was something about her that made me feel less self-aware.
“Did you pee in someone’s houseplant?” I asked.
“No, but you know what they say—there’s always tomorrow.”
I chuckled slightly, and she looked back, appearing almost surprised by the sound that came from me. Every time she glanced back toward me, I felt a heat rush against my skin.
Strange.
“You’re much quieter today,” she said.
“I’m a quiet person. I’m not myself when I drink.”
“Then why do you drink?”
“Because I’m not myself when I drink.”
She swooned, seemingly moved by my comment. “I don’t know if you meant to do that or if it’s just natural for you, but sometimes you speak, and it feels like you’re creating lyrics to my next favorite song.”
If only it were that easy to create someone’s favorite song. My record label would’ve been thrilled.
“Oh! Oh!” Emery gasped, pointing out of her window as we drove. “If you were wondering, which I doubt you were, that’s the best Mexican food you’ll ever have. It’s called Mi Amor Burritos, and your life will be forever changed when you get their food.” She nodded her head in pleasure as she thought about it. She was the opposite of me—more like Alex. Conversation came easy to her mind, while I struggled to gather my thoughts. “It’s such a hole-in-the-wall place. I only knew about it because my sister, Sammie, stumbled across it years ago when she came to stay with me for a little bit. She has a gift of finding the best things in random places.”
“Are you and your sister close?”
There was a hesitation in her before she swallowed hard and stared forward. “We were.”
For fuck’s sake. “I’m sorry.”
“No worries. She didn’t pass away or anything. She’s just . . . I haven’t seen her in a few years, since she went off to find herself. We still talk every now and again, but it’s not the same as it used to be. She’s on an adventure across the States, trying to find where she belongs.”
“You think that’s a thing? Having a place where someone belongs?”
“Belonging comes in different forms, I think. It can come from a place, a person, an object, an occupation.”
“What makes you belong?”
“My daughter,” she said without hesitation. “She’s my safe place. What about you?”
I stayed quiet. I noticed the small frown that landed against Emery’s lips as I stared in the rearview mirror. She didn’t push on to force me to give her an answer, and I was thankful for that.
About twenty minutes later, we rounded the corner of the street I lived on and pulled up to a gated community. Steven, the guard, walked up to the car with a clipboard in his hands and a walkie-talkie on his hip.
Emery rolled down her car window and smiled at Steven. Steven didn’t smile back, probably because he dealt with hordes of fanatics and paparazzi trying to crash through those metal gates.
“Can I help you, ma’am? Are you lost?”
“Well, I’m not in Kansas anymore, that’s for sure,” Emery muttered, looking toward the massive homes behind the gates. She then nodded to the back of the car. “I’m dropping off one of your prized possessions.”
Steven looked in the back seat at me and still didn’t smile back. He nodded once. “Hello, Mr. Smith.”
“Hey, Steven.”
“You created quite the buzz around these parts today.”
I smirked, tossing my hands up in the air. “You’re welcome for the entertainment.”
“Keeps me on my toes,” he said.
Steven walked away, and not long after, the gates began to open. As Emery drove, her mouth hung open, and I swore flies were seconds away from shooting straight into her throat.
“So, there’s really people out here living like that?” she asked, stunned.
“Yeah.” I nodded, looking around at the multimillion-dollar homes. Demi Lovato was rumored to have bought a property a few spots down from me. Alex would’ve loved that; she was his celebrity crush. “This is what we are wasting our fortunes on.”
“Holy crap,” she breathed out as we went up a hill and passed two people on a walk. “Was that a Kardashian? Holy crap, that’s a Kardashian!” she whisper-shouted with her windows still down.
“A Jenner,” I corrected.
“Potato-patahto,” she sighed, seemingly a bit starstruck. I wouldn’t have taken Emery as a Kardashian fan, but I guess people had a way of surprising you sometimes.
“I would give my left boob to have Kylie’s lipstick from her makeup line.”
“I think priorities need to be checked when giving away body parts for makeup.”
“You just don’t understand how good the makeup is.”
As we approached my house, she pulled up the driveway, and I saw two people sitting on my front porch, and I knew
I was in for a handful after my night’s event.
“Is that your PR team or something? To do damage control after last night?”
“Worse. My parents.”
She put the car in park, and I hopped out and walked over to her driver’s door and leaned forward on the window frame. “Thank you for helping me out.”
“No worries, really.” She combed her thick, beautiful hair behind her ear and whispered, “Oddly enough, this was kind of a dream come true for me.” I studied her as she bit into her bottom lip and nervously nuzzled against the skin. “Can I ask you something?”
I nodded.
“If it’s too personal, you don’t have to reply.”
I nodded again.
She leaned toward me, growing closer as she placed her hands right beside mine on the window frame. “Are you okay? Like, overall. Are you okay?”
Her question was so gentle and packed with care. That’s what it felt like that morning, ever since I’d crossed paths with Emery. She felt like a weighted blanket of protection that was keeping me from crumbling. In her brown eyes I saw the concern for me that she held.
Why would she care about me?
I was no one of real importance. Then again, perhaps she only cared about the Oliver Smith who was a performer, not the Oliver Smith I truly had been. If she knew my truth, she probably wouldn’t have cared as much.
I knew what I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell her what I’d been telling the rest of the world. I wanted to lie. I wanted to say I was fine and that everything was okay, but for some odd reason, my lips parted, my voice cracked, and I said, “No.”
No.
That felt good to say.
No, I wasn’t okay. No, I wasn’t going to be okay. No, nothing was getting better.
No.
She smiled a smile that looked as if it were dripped in tears. I never knew smiles could feel so sad. Oddly enough, the sadness in her grin made me feel more at peace with my own despair.
Her hand moved on top of mine, and she lightly squeezed. Her touch was warm and soft, like I’d imagined it to be.
“I’m so sorry, Oliver. I’m going to pray for you to find better days. You deserve better days.”
Was she even real? Or was she just a figment of my imagination that came to tell me the words I so very much needed to hear? I wanted to tell her the truth about prayers, about how they never came true. Before Alex was pronounced dead, I prayed for him to come back, but it never happened. I prayed for healing, and nothing got better. I prayed for the universe to take me instead, yet it’d left me behind to live.
The Mixtape Page 7
