My Cone and Only Read online

  “I get that now.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “I was a little jealous too—of the girl you were writing about.”

  I laughed and tugged on a lock of her hair. “That was you, dummy.”

  “I didn’t have any way of knowing that, did I?” The happy sparkle in her eyes caused a lump of gratitude to form in my throat.

  “You really liked the songs?” I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear her say it again. I’d probably need to hear her say it about a million more times before I got used to it.

  “I loved them. They’re all so good. You shouldn’t keep that kind of talent hidden away. You won’t, will you?”

  I didn’t answer right away. I hadn’t thought much beyond this moment. Now that Andie knew, there really wasn’t anything stopping me from telling other people.

  So why did I still feel so reluctant to do it?

  “Wyatt?”

  “We’ll see,” I hedged.

  “You know what you could do? You could play a solo show at Zelda’s to debut your new songs. You should talk to her about it.”

  Zelda’s was a local bar near campus that featured live music every Saturday. Shiny Heathens had played there a couple of times when there was a spot in her schedule that needed filling, but Zelda preferred original songwriters when she could get them. Her place was more intimate and a lot less rowdy than the Rusty Spoke, the outdoor beer joint where we usually played. Andie was right. Zelda’s would be perfect for a solo acoustic set.

  But I wasn’t ready to commit to something like that just yet.

  “You need to tell the other guys in the band,” Andie said, her voice bright with enthusiasm. “I’m sure they’d be willing to play your songs. And at-home recording equipment’s gotten a lot more affordable. Y’all could produce your own EP and put it up on the internet for sale. You might even be able to get a spot at the Crowder Folk Festival this year.”

  My uncle Randy ran the folk festival and booked all the talent personally. But I’d never bothered to ask him about booking Shiny Heathens, just like I’d never asked him if we could play King’s Palace. Like the dance hall, the festival was for showcasing serious musicians and up-and-coming songwriting talent.

  “Once you’ve got a whole set list worth of original songs worked out, there’s like a million venues around Austin where you could play. Shiny Heathens could be a real band.”

  “We’re already a real band.” An uncomfortable tightness wrapped itself around my chest. This was all too much to think about right now. I wasn’t ready to do the things she was talking about, because I wasn’t sure I wanted everything else that would come along with it.

  “You know what I mean,” she said. “You could be so much more than a cover band.”

  I moved her off me and swung my legs to the floor so I could push myself upright. My skin felt hot and itchy all over, and I scratched at my chest. “What if I don’t want more than that?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  I dipped my head into my hands and rubbed my forehead. I didn’t have an answer. Not one I could put into words, anyway. All I knew was that whenever I thought about seriously trying to make a go of it as a musician, I got a sick, sour feeling in my stomach.

  Andie laid a soothing hand on my arm. “Wyatt, talk to me. I just want to understand.”

  “I don’t know why.” I looked at her helplessly. “I can’t explain it.”

  She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again her voice was gentle. “Is this about Brady?”

  “No.” I spat out the denial reflexively. But as I swallowed the flood of bitterness in the back of my throat, I knew she was right. My eyes fell closed as I shook my head. “Maybe.”

  It wasn’t something I’d ever admitted before. Not even to myself, because I’d spent so long trying not to think about my oldest brother at all.

  Andie hugged my arm and rested her head on my shoulder. She knew Brady was a sore spot, and that I’d mostly refused to talk about him since he left.

  I opened my eyes and stared at the framed needlepoint on the wall across from me. Get Your Shit Together, it told me in colorful letters, surrounded by dainty embroidered flowers.

  “I guess…” I exhaled a long breath, grimacing. “It makes me seem pathetic. Like I’m trying to follow in his footsteps or—or get his attention.” I swallowed, and Andie squeezed my arm. “I don’t want to be known as the famous rock star’s little brother. Everyone will think I’m trying to ride his coattails and steal some of his spotlight for myself.”

  “It’s not like that. Your music doesn’t have anything to do with Brady or his career. You’re talented in your own right.” She gave my arm a tug, like she was trying to physically drag me away from my own negative thoughts.

  I turned and kissed her head. “It doesn’t matter. Doors will open for me because of Brady, and I’ll never know if I deserve any of the chances I get.”

  “Who the fuck cares? That’s not a good enough reason to deny yourself the chance to do something you love. You are talented and you deserve your own shot.” Her voice was sharp and furious, but I knew her anger wasn’t directed at me. Andie’s mama bear instincts had been engaged. She’d kill me for saying it, but she could be just as overprotective as Josh when it came to the people she cared about. Those Lockharts were a fierce and loyal bunch.

  I leaned back on the couch, and she loosened her vise grip on my arm so I could pull her against my chest. “No matter what I do or how I try to distinguish myself, I’ll always get compared to him. I’ll be trapped in his shadow.”

  That was the part that really bothered me. Knowing anything I tried to accomplish for myself would automatically and forever be connected to someone I resented so much. I’d never be able to detach myself from his legacy.

  “He’s not all that, you know. Just because he was lucky enough to join a band that got famous doesn’t make him that good.”

  “He’s that good,” I said honestly. I’d followed his career closely enough to know just how much of Ghost Ships’ success was due to Brady’s songwriting.

  “So are you,” Andie insisted. “Look, families produce famous siblings all the time. Jaden and Willow Smith. Miley and Noah Cyrus. All the Olsen kids. Maybe you won’t ever get to be more famous than Brady, but would it really be so bad if you were the Solange to his Beyoncé?”

  “Beyoncé didn’t cut Solange out of her life and ignore her existence for twenty years.”

  “So you’ll be more like Liam and Noel Gallagher, then.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t even want to be famous. I just want to play music.”

  “Then do that. Don’t let Brady be what stops you. Live your own life the way you want. Fuck Brady.”

  I smiled despite myself, grateful to have Andie in my corner, spitting mad and ready to fight on my behalf. I pressed my face into her hair. “You know he’s the one who taught me to play guitar?”

  “I know.” She took my hand and squeezed it. “And I know how much it hurt you when he left. And how much it still hurts that he never once reached out after.”

  A caustic lump clogged in my throat. “He could have fucking called or at least sent a goddamn postcard.”

  “He should have. You deserved that much and more.” Andie lifted her head to look at me and pressed her palm against my cheek. “He was in a bad place after Chance died. Whatever he was going through and whatever he felt like he needed to do to survive, you know it didn’t have anything to do with you, right? You were just a kid.”

  “Yeah, a kid whose mom was dying.” My face twisted as I spat the words. “And he walked away without even saying goodbye.”

  I’d worshipped Brady too. That was what hurt so bad. He was the only one of Trish’s offspring who’d shown much interest in me as a kid. When my mom got sick, Brady had given me my first guitar and taught me how to play. He used to come over every day after I got home from school to give me lessons. Ryan had his hands full taking care of Mom at that point, and Tanner had retr
eated inside his books as usual. Brady gave me a way to distract myself from the scary shit that was happening. He’d helped me get through those horrible months of watching my mom get weaker and sicker.

  And then right before the end, when I’d needed him most of all, he’d up and left without a word. No warning, no goodbyes, no forwarding address. He’d packed a bag but left his phone behind. No one knew where he’d gone or how to get in touch with him.

  I knew he’d been fucked up by what had happened to Chance. Not only had he lost his twin, but Brady had been driving the car. It hadn’t been his fault—they’d been T-boned by some drunk who’d gotten off with a slap on the wrist—but it couldn’t have been an easy thing for him to live with. Brady had started pulling away after the accident, but I’d been too young to fully understand what was going on or know what to do about it.

  I hadn’t expected Brady to pull away for good. I hadn’t been prepared to lose two brothers to that accident.

  When my mom died a few weeks after Brady disappeared, I kept waiting to hear something from him. Thinking surely he’d call and check in to see how I was holding up. When he didn’t call, I told myself he’d come back for the funeral. And when he didn’t do that, I started to think maybe he was dead too.

  I spent four years not knowing if Brady was alive. Until Ghost Ships started to take off and get some press. Then suddenly he was all over the music news sites and on the radio and playing at SXSW just an hour up the highway. By then I was too resentful to reach out to him myself. I just kept waiting for him to get in touch, but I never heard a damn word from him. Not when they had their first hit single, or when they headlined ACL Fest, or in any of the fifteen years since.

  So yeah, fuck Brady. Fuck him for cutting me out of his life and making me think I’d done something to deserve it.

  Andie’s hand hooked around the back of my neck, her expression fierce and tender at the same time. “He wasn’t there for you the way you needed, and that sucks. I know your dad wasn’t either, and that sucks too. But you’ve got a lot of people still around who care about you, Wyatt.”

  I sank my fingers into her hair gratefully and pressed my forehead against hers. “Like you, you mean?”

  “Of course me—and my whole family. But you’ve got your family too. Maybe you don’t get along with all of them, but you’ve got more good ones than most people do.”

  She was right. I complained about my family a lot, but aside from Dad and Nate, they weren’t so bad. A few of them were pretty great. And I had Andie. And Josh. I was actually pretty damn lucky.

  I managed a half-hearted smile. “So you’re saying I’m being a big old whiny baby?”

  “No, I’m saying you’re important to people, and you should try to remember that. Sometimes I worry that you forget it.”

  I did forget it. I’d spent a lot of years feeling alone even when I was surrounded by family and friends. I’d done some of it to myself on purpose, and I’d been doing it for so long that it had become a habit.

  Andie reached up and tapped me on the nose. “You’re a good songwriter. Do you hear me? You’re good. If you want to do this, then you should do it. Don’t make up reasons why you can’t.”

  Don’t make up reasons why you can’t.

  How long had I spent telling myself I couldn’t have Andie? Denying myself a chance at happiness because I was scared to take a risk. If she hadn’t needed my help with this house situation, I might have gone on that way for the rest of my life, numbing my feelings and pretending I was fine with feeling empty and alone.

  Wasn’t that exactly what I’d been doing with my music? Trying to pretend I didn’t want to pursue it because I was scared it wouldn’t work out like I hoped.

  Maybe it was time to stop pretending and take a risk.

  I pulled Andie closer and hugged her tight as I kissed her temple. “Thank you.”

  She nestled into my chest, holding me just as tight. “For what?”

  “For knowing me.”

  18

  Wyatt

  This week had been the best of my life. Hands down. No contest. I’d been floating around in a moony-eyed daze since last weekend, so happy I didn’t know what to do with myself.

  I’d stayed over at Andie’s place every night, and hadn’t been back to my apartment since Monday. The sex wasn’t even the best part—although it was seriously, mind-blowingly excellent. The parts I loved most were the quiet, comfortable moments we were together. Having coffee in the mornings before we started our days, playing my guitar for her after dinner while she worked on those funny needlepoints she did, or cuddling in bed after we’d screwed each other’s brains out.

  We’d stayed up way too late most nights, our bodies tangled together in the dark, talking about everything and nothing while I ran my hands over her bare skin—or she’d run her hands over mine—getting to know each other inside and out until we finally drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms.

  Before Andie, the post-coital cuddle had always been my cue to leave. It wasn’t that I didn’t like cuddling—I fucking loved it—it was just that it tended to give women the wrong impression. If you stuck around too long, they started to get ideas. It set expectations I hadn’t been able to meet. I’d tried sticking it out a few times with a few different women, but I’d never had the staying power for a relationship. I always got bored and restless and started looking for an exit pretty quick.

  This thing with Andie was something wholly different and new.

  I couldn’t imagine ever getting tired of spending time with her. When we weren’t together, I thought about her constantly, and when we were, I could barely tear my eyes away from her.

  I’d never had these kinds of feelings when I was with a woman before. Mushy, gushy, sappy feelings. I didn’t just want to jump Andie’s bones—although I absolutely wanted to do that as much as possible. I also wanted to hold her hand and fall asleep spooning with her and just generally gaze at her adoringly all the time.

  Like I was doing right now.

  Fuck.

  I had to remind myself we were supposed to be keeping our relationship a secret. Staring at Andie with hearts in my eyes while I was up onstage at the Rusty Spoke singing The Cars’ “Just What I Needed” was pretty much a surefire way to blow our cover.

  We were playing our regular gig out on the back patio for the bar’s Friday night patrons. At practice earlier this week, I’d finally told the rest of the band about the songs I’d been writing. I’d played a few for them, and they’d seemed excited at the prospect of having original songs to perform at our gigs. Our drummer, Matt, who’d been taking piano lessons since he was five and was the best musician in the band, had volunteered to help me flesh out what I had, adding bass, percussion, rhythm guitar, and maybe even some synth to a few.

  That was going to take some time though, so for now we were still just a cover band playing at our favorite local icehouse.

  It felt good to be talking about my songwriting with people, finally. To share what I’d been working on and tentatively start making some plans for the future. And it had been Andie who’d given me the encouragement I needed to do it.

  Shit, I was staring at her again. If I didn’t cut it out, people were going to notice.

  I dragged my gaze away from her and caught our bass player, Tyler, giving me a funny look. I needed to get my head in the game before I fucked something up. We were only halfway through our set, and it’d be nice if I could keep it together and not make us sound like amateurs.

  The guitar solo provided a brief distraction to occupy my attention, but it was over too quickly and after that the rest of the song was pretty repetitive. Before I knew it, my eyes were drifting to Andie again, sitting at a picnic table with some of her friends.

  We’d come to the Rusty Spoke separately tonight. She’d gotten here before me with her friend Rain, and when I walked in they’d been talking to a couple of guys they’d gone to high school with.

  My blood had
gone hot at the sight of Andie with another man—even if it was that doofus Evan Thayer, who I knew for a fact she’d never been the least bit interested in.

  I hadn’t gone over to talk to her, although I’d seen her glance my way a few times. I didn’t trust myself to play it cool, so I’d kept my distance.

  Now that I was onstage, Andie was right in my eyeline. Watching me. Staring at me at much as I was staring at her.

  Evan was sitting next to her, and he leaned in close to say something in her ear after the song ended. My gaze went hard at the sight of him breathing on her and sticking his nose in her hair. As soon as he leaned away, Andie’s gaze met mine again, and she arched an eyebrow as her mouth curved in a smirk.

  Goddammit. She knew it was driving me nuts, and she was enjoying it.

  While Matt and Tyler started us on the opening bars of “Are You Gonna Be My Girl,” I scanned the patio for familiar faces. Most of the people who frequented the Rusty Spoke were close to my own age, so I knew a lot of them by face if not by name.

  There was a younger group sitting at a table close to the stage who had the look of college students, and I guessed they probably went to Bowman. One of the girls had her eyes glued to me as she tapped her fingers along with the bass line. I winked at her and watched her cheeks turn pink.

  When my guitar part came in, I glanced Andie’s way and saw her eyes blazing and her mouth set in a hard line. I offered her a smirk of my own, enjoying the turnabout.

  Once I started singing, I let my gaze fall on the college girl again. I was supposed to be acting normal, after all, and paying attention to the nearest pretty girl was my normal. It wasn’t my fault the lyrics to the song sounded like a proposition. Or that she was mouthing them along with me and blatantly undressing me with her eyes while she coyly twirled a lock of her hair.

  Well, maybe it was a little my fault. I had winked at her.

  I felt Andie’s glare on me the whole song, and it took everything I had not to look her way. When I finally did slide my gaze past her in the middle of the next song, she lifted her eyebrows in an expression that said I’m going to make you pay for that, asshole. Then she pointedly turned her whole body toward goddamn Evan Thayer, who was only too happy to have her attention.