Old Songs New Life

Author's Note: I imagine the video above is a fairly decent representation of what Bodie records later in the chapter...

Rowan

The shower rinses out some of my irritation with Riley.

Even though I hate it when he adopts that cynical resignation about his condition, I guess it's much better that Riley can poke fun at our challenges rather than be angry or defensive.

Although, he wasn't entirely stoic, was he? He did get a little pissed at me for faking the orgasm. Honestly I was surprised he could tell. I thought I did a good job. But there was just no way I was going to come when I could hear him strugglin in pain while trying to get me off.

I turn off the shower and stand squeezing my hair. He's right. We rushed that. His pain-free range of motion is not ready for sex. But I'm not sure our emotional range with each other is ready for it either.

When I woke to him touching me this morning, all I could think of was the last few times we had sex. How pissed off he was. He wasn't violent or anything, but he was just...mechanical. I could have been anyone, beneath him. I've been with a lot of guys and none had ever made me feel like...like a piece of ass. Except my husband. So when he first started touching me, I had this moment of hesitation. It feels like we are almost past all the anger and hurt, but how can I be sure he really can forgive me?

In that moment where he hissed out "stop" then said it he was talking to himself? Overthinking, he said? I know what he was thinking. He was thinking of me with Aidan. Like every time we've had sex since I cheated. And in that moment it felt like we were sliding backwards from last night's tenderness. Another big reason that my own rising passion fell to the floor and I faked the orgasm.

We were both in our heads this morning and neither one of us could give what the other really needed.

Yet he is trying, now. Even this morning the way he touched me so gently and kissed along the back of my neck and held me so close to him, before it fell apart. I can tell he's trying.

I step out of the shower and decide to diss the doubts. I have to hang onto the fact that Riley says he loves me. I have to be brave and believe we can work things out. I have to be patient with our challenges. And if I expect him to trust me again, I guess I need to trust his forgiveness process, too.

Christ. I also have to get a wax job, pronto. And my hair done. And my nails. I've been so wrapped up in Riley's routine that I've let all that stuff slide.

I peer at myself naked in the mirror for the first time in a long time, looking past the slightly frayed details to my actual shape., I think my body looks fine, although I know the Girl Band producers are going to freak the moment they see me. I'm not as thin as I was during Season Four. Even then, there were constants quiet murmurings during last season's filming, proddings for me to lose five more pounds as my character declined further.

It was impossible, without the diet pills. I was barely eating anything at allas it was. All I ate was grapefruit to kill my appetite and a little fish and spinach every day. But since I've been home—here—whatever...the house is stocked with fresh meals from a delivery service and Linda makes a homemade dinner for us twice a week. And to be honest, I've been eating in part because I need to—taking care of Riley has been a high energy activity although it's becoming less so every day—but also because I want him to know I'm not starving myself anymore. I really am trying to be more healthy, just as he's trying to recover his health.

But...I've gained about six pounds in two months. So now I'm at least ten pounds from where the show's director would like to Stella.

I turn sideways. I lean in and suck in my cheekbones. It's hard for me to tell I've gained weight, but the camera is going to pick up the difference if I do this promo tour. They'll show clips of Stella and I'll be sitting there on a couch looking like a puffed up version of her.

I never worried about my weight when I was a musician and not an actress. I was perfectly healthy. On the thin side, even. No one at the label every told me to lose ten pounds, although I have heard that it happens with the sexy-pop-star-pin-up artists. I know even Mac was told to get some definition in her muscles when Soundcrush signed, but that's because she has that sneaky ass side deal for features with rap stars. But that wasn't me. I was never pop star in a sequined body suit with background dancers or a Shawty in hot pants and a bra in a rapper's video. I was a rock star, and I looked strong and badass in my ripped up jeans and my t-shirts with the sides cut out. No one on the Strut team ever took issue with my weight or any of the Strut girl's weight for that matter.

But for whatever reasons, being an actress is different. My brand is partly about my voice, my camera presence, my acting—but in the end there's a certain way I have to look to be a "movie star" and the standard is different than being a serious rock musician.

Uggh, if I'm really not going to go back on the diet pills, I'm going to have to get a trainer and work these pounds off. And I'm definitely not going back on the diet pills. Now that I've broken the cycle with them, I realize that Riley was right. I thought they were giving me energy, but they were robbing my of my natural energy. I couldn't sleep, I didn't eat. I was running solely on speed.

Speaking of eating, I'm starving. I can smell something cooking in the kitchen, which is a little weird since it's only breakfast-time, but maybe the meal service sent some kind of hot breakfast options and Riley is heating something up. Whatever it is smells delicious.  As I pull on random, soft clothes, I decide I'm definitely going to need a trainer before the promo tour starts.

Wait, does that mean I've decided to do the tour?

I realize suddenly I'm thinking as if the decision has already been made.

And I'm thinking like that because Riley told me what he thought I should do, and automatically, I've accepted it.

But I have a choice. I could refuse to do the promotions, refuse to fulfill my contract. The show would sue the hell out of me, but the money woes would only be a short term thing. I'll have a trust that opens from my dad within two years.

It's not just about money though. If I bail, Chili would hate me forever and my reputation would be shit.

I don't want to lose a friend and I don't want to ruin my reputation. But is Riley wrong in thinking we could survive another round of interacting with Aidan Mosteller? How would it even work? Because I can't imagine going to New York, Chicago, Toronto with Aidan and without Riley. That seems like it would just be asking for the same old shit to start.

Not between me and Aidan. That's not what I mean.

We've definitely moved on from being attracted to one another. Once he realized how horribly I viewed the experience of being with him, he lost that loving feeling pretty quick. I'm not sure if he was disappointed because he thought I was going to leave Riley to mess around with him at will, or if he was just pissed that I overdosed and then confessed everything to Riley thereby making his circumstances uncomfortable, or maybe he was just offended that I didn't think he was worth it, or maybe he's fairly turned off by me now because he thinks I'm crazy. Whatever his reasons, he thankfully didn't try too hard last season to pick back up where we left off. I mean, he flirts with everyone, and he would make the occasional pass at me, but his serious attention was focused elsewhere.

No, I'm not worried about Aidan, but at the same time I'm not sure Riley and I have built enough trust for me to be traveling from city to city, same flights, same hotels as him, without Riley there. Truthfully I would feel better if Riley were with me, so that he could see Aidan and I are nothing. Then again...is that even right thinking on my part? Or am I back in the train of thought where I'm giving Riley too much control and oversight? Is it because I would feel better having Riley with me or because I think Riley would feel better overseeing everything?

Of course, the biggest unknown of all...will Riley even be well enough to return to work in those capacities in a couple months time? Could he handle the travel, the disruption of his routine, or even his therapy? Would he want to travel with me, if he still had to use his chair in public like he has to now? Or would that be worse—Riley feeling limited, watching from his chair behind the cameras while Aidan and I are all glammed up and laughing together like old friends on some host's couch?

We have to talk about it more. I don't want to, but we have to talk about it.

But before Riley and I talk strategy over my career, there's something I have to find out.

I have to find out what paths are still open to me. Because if all that's left for me is acting, I'm not sure salvaging my Girl Band run is worth the strain it might put on me and Riley.

But what if there's something more in my future?

I can't get Riley's new song out of my head. I can hear it, but I can hear an accompanying string and a harmony, too. And if there's any chance I can still do what Riley did, and if there's any chance there might be something for me besides pretending the life I once had...I need to know.

I pass Riley's office, and I wander in, as if compelled. I stand before the black case that holds my Gibson. I put it on his desk and flip it open. I trace the pink, black and blue paisley patterns.

A thirteenth birthday present from Street. It was actually his guitar before it was mine—his completely custom eleventh birthday present from our dad. He practiced diligently for a couple of years, and he was actually really good. Then I came into my own with music lessons. I was obsessed. Guitar, piano, voice, it was like there was music inside me that drove me to learn how to play it. I was never a great student at academics, but I studied music and practiced all the time.

Street took his guitar apart, painted every surface for me, and with my mom's help, had an instrument maker put it back together for me with some slight modifications. Giving it to me was like passing the baton...letting both me and my dad know, my skill and interest were greater than his. I was the protégé, not him.

I pluck one out-of-tune string. It's been so long. I close my eyes, and I can feel the intricate movements of my left hand in my brain, effortlessly playing an stripped down version of one of Strut's most popular songs. I can feel the rhythm that my right hand is supposed to play, but I also feel the deadness of my pinky and the stiffness of my ring finger. There's a disconnect, as my brain pushes out the memory, but my hand struggles to receive it.

I wonder if that's what Riley felt this morning. If his brain was drowning with desire but his body was betraying him.

A sweat breaks lightly on my upper lip. I wipe it away as I flip the case closed.  I can hear Riley and our housekeeper who comes twice a week making small talk in the kitchen. Is she cooking breakfast? This is not a thing she normally does for us. She prepares dinner for us on the two days she is here and we use a delivery service or takeout or I make the very rare meal for the rest.

It's not good that she is here today. I can't come back to the house when I drop Riley off. I can't do this thing I have to do with her vacuuming around me.

Then I have another idea. I'm not brave enough to fail at this in front of Riley, but I don't have to do it alone. There's another person that, for a number of reasons, I'm not nearly as afraid to freak out in front of. Probably because I already have, more than once.

I snatch up the case and dash out the patio door, scramble all the way around the house, ease in the exterior door that feeds into the mudroom, tiptoe out the adjacent garage door, stow my guitar in the very back of the van, throw a blanket over it, and reverse my sneaky path.

I'm full on sweating by the time I make it back to the lower level. I wipe off with a damp towel and stare at myself in the mirror.

I give my reflection the hand.

"Yeah, yeah. I know what you're going to say. Be cool," I sneer at her.

My reflection gives the lamest pep talks ever, I swear. I turn out the lights on her and make my way upstairs.

I wasn't wrong. Linda is busy cooking breakfast. Did Riley ask her to? I give him a quizzical look and he shrugs as he sips from a mug of coffee. The way he is sitting on a bar stool in his back brace, with perfectly rigid posture, lets me know he's hurting.

I walk to him and gently massage his upper spine but nowhere near his injury. He gives me a serene smile of thanks while Linda presides over a large skill of sizzling sausage, peppers and potatoes.

"Linda, that smells amazing. What is it and why are you making it?" I tease her.

Her dark hair is in a topknot but heavy tendrils swing as she beats the eggs vigorously. "Breakfast skillet, Ms. Row. It's a celebration, yes?" She winks at us and turns back to push the sausage and potatoes aside, while pouring in the eggs. She turns on the violently loud industrial range hood, effectively sealing herself out of our conversation.

"What are we celebrating?" I whisper, drinking from Riley's mug.

Oh. Well then. He's put a little whiskey in his coffee.

Riley is not typically a day drinker, and I've never known him to drink before PT. I'm fairly certain the whiskey is more about pain relief than a drive to drink at 8am. He won't take narcotic pain meds and the anti-inflammatory stuff barely touches his pain. In his mind, a little alcohol numbness for relief is a better alternative than risking a pill habit.

He leans in conspiratorially. "We're discovered, you see. She's sussed out that you didn't sleep in the guest room last night. So she's celebrating our reconciliation," he murmurs.

"Oh. Just her?" I tease him.

He searches my face with a thoughtful expression. His mouth twitches in amusement. "Well, we might as well eat the celebratory eggs. It will offend her, otherwise."

"Well, I'm celebrating, even if you're not," I tell him, evading his extended hand request for his coffee mug and drinking another swallow.

I don't know why I'm holding back his drink. I guess I want to see how insistent he is on it. I remember my dad drinking at breakfast when I was little, and I feel a twinge of worry.

He doesn't insist on having the mug back, letting me sip it instead. "And what are you celebrating?" he says dryly. I take his meaning—that our disappointing attempt at sex is nothing to celebrate—but he's still giving me that old look of amused affection.

I lean into his ear. "That you love me. That I had the hottest, sweetest kisses of my life last night. That I slept better next to you than I've slept in ages. That being close with you feels amazing again."

That charming smirk spreads across his face and he looks down as he nods. "Darling, I think you'd make an excellent publicist. You're quite gifted with the spin."

"It's not spin, it's my truth," I whisper in his ear, still rubbing his upper back, trying to release tension. "But I know your reality might feel a little different this morning. You're in pain, I can tell—"

Slowly—painfully—he reaches out his left arm and draws me in by the waist. He presses a series of gentle, playful kisses to my lips. "Ah. Sweet relief..."

I return several more kisses. The last one lingers between us. Riley squeezes my ass and slips me tongue. I jerk back, shocked he's doing that in front of our grandmotherly housekeeper. He uses my surprise to steal back his coffee cup.

"Get your own, love. The whiskey is under the sink," he winks at me as Linda puts a plate before him. The skillet breakfast is couched in warm tortillas.

"Mother of god! Breakfast tacos!" he exclaims as he eats and I doctor a coffee with almond milk and the tiniest drizzle of honey. "This is incredible! Linda make three plates, please, breakfast with us..."

She waves him off, declaring she already ate, as she hands me a plate. "But I do have some extra time today. Is there anything extra you would like me to do, Mr. Riley?"

Riley makes a self-deprecating shrug.  "Oh, I'm all right, but the lady of the house might have some tasks in mind...I think she's considering an rearrangement of her personal effects..." He can barely eat his breakfast taco for smirking at me.

I beam at him. "If you don't mind, Linda, you can help me move my things this afternoon, when we get back from Riley's PT appointment."

She nods, then says slyly, "Maybe we can arrange the closet in a way to keep it neater than before..."

"That would be terrific," Riley agrees.

"Did you pay her to say that?" I accuse Riley.

"Of course not," he scoffs. "I don't have to, Darling. She's the one that knows the difference in this place when you are home and you are not."

Linda makes an amused sound of agreement as she scrapes the leftovers into tupperware.

"Oh hush, I'm not that messy," I protest.

Linda smothers a smile.  Riley gives me raised eyebrows as he chews.

"Fine, I'm really messy," I admit. "But honestly, Riley, I don't understand why it annoys you so much. You don't have to clean it up."

"Because your creeping horror of fashion detritus regurgitates itself onto my side of the closet, claiming my shoes, ties, sometimes even Rolex watches—

"That was one time—"

"That was a twelve thousand dollar watch, which I would have let go long ago, except you won't concede you and the stylist threw it out by mistake with your castoffs—"

"Okay, yes, I think I threw it out by mistake. I'm sorry. And you're right, I used to be pretty inconsiderate about letting my mess overtake your stuff. Soooo... Linda if you have any organizational tips that will help me keep things neater and on my side of the closet that would be great."

"Really?" both Linda and Riley say together.

"Yes! Really!" I lift my taco and it eat in three swift bites, chewing then speaking as soon as I'm able. "Look at me. Eating breakfast! Organizing! Reminding you, Riley, that we are about to be late for PT! Let's go!"

It's chilly for a SoCal fall morning, so I help Riley put on a lightweight athletic jacket, since he's stiff and I think he could use both the help and the warmth to his muscles.

Linda nods approvingly at me then shakes her spatula at Riley.

"You are a very lucky man to have such a beautiful woman take care of you. You must not tease her so much this time."

"She likes it when I tease her," he assures Linda.

"Only about some things," she warns him. "You listen to me because I have been married for thirty five years, and I know some things. A good husbands learn what thoughts to keep to himself. His wife does not always want his opinion."

"Very good advice, Señora," he says to her as he pulls his walker to him and rises more slowly than normal.

We keep the chair by the garage door now. Riley doesn't like to return to it. I notice the grimness of his features as he eases down. As we stand on the lift, which lowers us the few feet into the garage I lightly massage his shoulders and his neck.

He reaches back for my right hand. He kisses it. "Thank you, that helps. Every time it amazes me...it feels almost the same as the other. Your grip, I mean..."

We'll see how strong my hand is today, Riley. Well, no. Not we. Me. No way in hell am I attempting this in front of you.

On the drive, I keep up a stream of nervous small talk with Riley. I'm nervous because my head is about to explode with a million worries and fears. Behind me, Riley is in a wheelchair and our love is a little paralyzed. Behind him, my guitar is hidden beneath a blanket and my hand is a little paralyzed, too.  Riley can see I'm agitated, but because we both have a million worries and fears.

When we park, he unlocks his chair from the dock and rolls forward slightly, slipping his hand in mind.

"Row," he says softly. "Your mood has rapidly descended again, now that we're alone. What's going on in your head?"

"So many things," I say hoarsely. "But now is not the time. Later."

He searches my face. The old Riley would have called a halt to everything and pressured me to disclose whatever my problem was. And he would have set about fixing it, because he wasn't just my husband, he was my manager and that was his job—to keep the talent happy, to keep the talent productive. Working-hard-to-change-Riley nods softly. "Later," he repeats. "Alright."

I walk him to the door.

He gestures at me, his expression a little perplexed. "You're going to the track, then?"

I look down and realize I'm wearing compression tights with a cropped sweater. Not exactly proper workout clothes. But walking the track around the facility while Riley is at PT is what I do now.

"Yes," I say automatically.

Damn. I try not to do that anymore. Lie to him. But he's already late for PT and I really don't want to get into where I'm going and why. Besides, it's a lie I will scrub clean with truth later. Probably. I hope.

"Alright, enjoy."

"You too," I say automatically.

He raises his eyebrows. "Sorry," I say hastily. "I don't guess it will be that enjoyable today. Riley, you will tell Blake about your pain, right? And why," I say softly. "I mean, it's because you're not used to sharing a bed with me, right? You slept differently..."

"Yeah," he says hastily. "Don't worry, it will get better," he smiles at me.

"It will," I say, leaning down to kiss him. He grimaces as he maneaveurs he chair to change directions and go through the PT department doors.

About eight minutes later, I'm pressing the call button on Bodie's gate. He meets me at the door, a burb cloth over his shoulder, his baby daughter Violet in his arms as he feeds her a bottle.

"I need your help," I say.

He grins at me, but his grin fades as he sees my guitar case.

"What'd he do?" he nearly growls.

"What? Who?"

He rolls his eyes.

"Nothing," I say defensively. "Riley didn't do—he's—why in the fu—fluke would you even ask me that?" I say as he makes way for me to enter.

"That's not a guitar case full of clothes because you've left him but you don't want to go home to your parents, so you want to stay here?" Bodie says slowly as he turns his attention to his Violet and makes cooey noises at her.

I smile at them. I'm not baby crazy or anything, but a rock star enraptured with his baby girl is a sight to see. Adam, Bodie and Leed do tug at the heart strings at bit.

I give him a shoulder pat as I lean in to admire her. My sweetest baby voice, I say "Hey, pretty girl. If your daddy weren't holding you, I'd punch him right now for assuming I would just walk on the SCIC MVP in the shape he's in."

Bodie snickers at the way I'm talking to Violet. "Well, we all know Riley can be like an English bull dog if he gets his teeth in something. And you two used to fight a lot..."

"This is a guitar case full of guitar, dumb-a...dummy," I correct.

"Oh, shi—shrap," Bodie bites his knuckle.

"Shi-shrap. I like it. You should keep that one. Maybe...shi-shrapple?" I ponder as I follow him to the kitchen, my guitar case in hand. He's pressing the intercom. "Like fo' shizzle?"

"You brought your guitar?"

I nod. "I need your help. I need...a backbeat," I smile at him.

He knows what I mean. I need a hand holder. A confidence booster. A friend.

Bodie is low key bellowing into the intercom. "Jazz! You out the tub yet? I gotta go to work, baby..."

"Bodie, for real!?!?! You can't watch her for half an hour? Do you know how long it's been since I had a bath and not a five minute shower!?!? And you don't have to go to work. I would know, I run your dang show!"

"Row is here. With her guitar," Bodie says meaningfully.

Marley is quiet for a minute. "Of course. I'll be right down."

"Thanks, Mama," Bodie says with such love I feel like crying. They are always so easy with one another. It was never really like that with me and Riley. It's always been a little start and stop with us. We never really hit our stride like Bodie and Marley.

"You guys need a nanny," I say, as Bodie continues to feed Violet with the same hand he's using to hold her as he pours himself a cup of coffee and offers me one.

How does he even do that? Is he double-jointed?

He makes it look easy, though. Between Darius and Violet the dude has got cool dad completely mastered. He reminds me of my dad. Despite the problems between my parents, my dad has always been the most awesome parent on the planet. To me, at least. Street remembers being scared of our dad because of his long absence when Street was  four or five years old. But that wasn't all my dad's fault, since apparently my mom kicked him out and wouldn't let him see us.

"We have two nannies, but Marley only wants to use them three afternoons a week or when we have a date night or have a work thing," Bodie says. "And I'm down with that." He puts down his coffee and feeds Violet with both hands now. "She's everything. I missed Darius' childhood. I'm not gonna miss hers because it's easier to pass her off to an employee for every little thing."

"And how is Big Brother D," I say, sipping my own coffee.

"You know, it's a transition," Bodie sighs. "He's grown enough to love her for his own sake, still kid enough to feel the difference in his raisin' and hers. Marley thinks it bothers him a little, though he's far too cool to show it."

"That's the way Street feels about Lane and Alley, you know," I say. "I don't really feel like he does, but I guess because he was the oldest kid, he saw more tension between my parents than Bridge and I did. And he understood more, like how bad my dad's drinking was. But my dad has been Super-Dad since a little before Lane and Alley came along. Street says they are getting a whole different childhood than we had."

"That's life, sometimes," Bodie agrees.

"No shi-shrapple, my friend," I sigh. He grins.

Five minutes later we are in the booth in Bodie's home studio. My guitar case is flipped open on the floor and we are both staring at it.

"You got this," he assures me. "I didn't touch an instrument for about four months when I was in custody and new to jail. But when I got permission, it was just like ridin' a bike."

"It's been more than four years, not four months."

I flex my right hand, performing the strengthening exercises that are part of my new trial therapy. I can move the first three fingers perfectly now, and I can flex my ring finger, although it doesn't move as easily. My pink only curls slightly because the other muscles are drawing it along. I can't feel it. As always, it curves awkwardly above the others as I make a fist, because I can't clench it tight with the rest.

Bodie stares at my hand. "We ain't talking classical guitar. You don't need that pinkie. You can still kick ass with the three, maybe four mobile digits you got." He picks up my guitar and quickly tunes it.

"Did you put these new strings on?" he asks.

"Riley," I say hoarsely. "He's been playing."

"Therapy. Nice. And now this makes since. Why you are suddenly inspired," he beams at me. "You two are so competitive."

"It's not a competition," I say. "It's a...collaboration. Maybe. If I can..."

"You can..." Bodie holds the guitar out to me. It feels completely natural when I take it by the fret.

I sit on the stool. The weirdest thing about my favorite guitar is that I love the way it smells almost as much as I love the way it sounds. It smells like home and Street—well it smells like paint and lacquer and maybe a whiff of weed, which is what my brother and our wing of the house smelled like in our late teens.

It still has the strap on it with so many buttons that fans have given me. I like the strap, even when I sit. I loop it over. The weight feels good.

Bodie hands me a pick. I pinch it between the three fingers of my right hand. It also feels good.

Fuck. It feels completely normal.

Bodie grabs bongos. "Don't overthink this and don't go in like you are learning all over. You know how to play. Just pick a chord progression. Simple quarter notes. Feel my rhythm." He begins to pat out a simple beat on the skin of the drum speaking in time to his pattern "Imma count you in...one, two, ready, go and—"

My fingers are already on the C chord like a default position. When Bodie calls me to my mark, my right hand strums down automatically, releases, strums down, again, again. My left hand goes effortlessly to Aminor.

Then strum, and strum, and strum, and strum.

And F for four beats. Then G.

"That's it," Bodie encourages. I repeat the progression.

The third time I strum C, Bodie says in rhythm, "Bring.Up.That.G."

I put the G chord before the Aminor. "Yeah, I like that one," Bodie says as he rolls out a more complex rhythm.

I play the measure in G then Aminor, through F closing my eyes, feeling Bodie's beat.

Fuck. I'm nearly damn doing it. I'm playing something nearly akin to music. Was is this easy all along? No. It wouldn't have been.Not always. Not right after the injury.

"Awwww, switch it up," Bodie nods in time to his beat.

Effortlessly, I begin with Aminor, then F, then C, the G.

I pick up my notes to eights and strum out the finish.

"Holy fuck," I whisper.

I can play. At least, I can strum. And it feels perfectly normal.

Bodie is grinning but he turns it into an unimpressed look. "What'd I say girl? Just like riding a bike. You're a world-class guitarist. Your brain knows it and now your hand is remembering..."

"Yeah," I say hoarsely.

"This time, let's do something fun. You're were strumming that kind of shit in the cradle. Let's do our singalong song..."

I know what song he means. It's a classic, extremely simple yet satisfying to play. He and I improvised it easily on the beach at Martha's Vineyard years ago, and we've played it together a number of times over the years. It's my beach bonfire jam with Bodie.

He reaches down into my case and pulls a capo out. He shakes at it me. "It's all you, baby..."

He means for me to raise the pitch to my singing range.

Can I still play and sing at the same time?

I take the capo from him and clamp it on my fret.

Do I remember the words to this one?

Yeah, I do.

"One, two, three, four..."

We strike our instruments together.

I'm laughing after the second measure. It's so fucking good to make music.

Five.More.Measures.

One-and-two-and-three-and-four.

Rest. Bodie and I grin at each across the silence of one beat.

Then I start to play again, and sing.

When you were here before

Couldn't look you in the eye

You're just like an angel

Your skin makes me cry...

Bodie does his thing on the chorus, where he makes a round of the lines, repeating "But I'm a creep," and "I'm a weirdo"  and "What, what, what, what what what what the hell" and "I don't belong here," after I sing the words, and bleeding into my next lines.

We fade into dead silence as the song ends. Bodie gives me an extremely serious look.

"How's the hand feel?"

I slip the pick into the strings and flex my hand. It feels...fine. Maybe even...a little less stiff. I look over to my left finger pads. "The right's okay, but my left fingers are gonna hurt like a son of bitch until I get my callouses back..."

Bodie yells in delight, dumping his bongos, jumping up, whooping as he slings my guitar around behind me and picks me up, flinging me in a big jubilant circle. He puts me down, whoops some more while I laugh at his crazy, then reaches up his hands for a high five. I grab his hands.

"You're back, baby!"

"On my way," I whisper.

"That's fucking right!" He hugs me again. Then he releases me and pulls over a mic stand in front of stool.

"Sit," he orders me. "Spiff up that real pretty song of yours."

He means Strut's only ballad. Rhyme My Next Line. There's a power version and a simple stripped down version I would sometimes play alone, but the acoustic version is entirely picked, not strummed.

"Bodie—"

"It ain't that hard, if I can play it," he insists.  He holds up his thumb, forefinger and middle finger. "Pretty sure that's all you need. At least the way I play it."

He's right. I could easily drop the little riff of complexity as the chorus feeds back to the verse and play it with three fingers.

"Work it out," he says, as he goes to a video camera in the corner of the room...

"Hell no, you aren't filming me!" I yell, just as the light comes on.

He laughs. "Don't fuck with me girl, you ain't camera shy..."

I glare at him. "Okay, just...turn it off for a minute..."

He does, but he's not giving up on the idea of recording this. He's adjusting the lighting. Now he's adding a filter on the voice mic and tilting the secondary mic to the right height for my guitar.

I ignore him, finding my fingering on the intro, working out the only mildly difficult transition.

It feels a little weird, because my pinky is dragging me down a little, but after playing through the intro, verse and chorus measures several times, I've almost forgotten what it used to feel like when I could feel my fifth finger.

I guess like Riley, I'm adjusting to my new normal.

I close my eyes and pick the chorus again. I wrote this song after the first time Riley and I broke things off, back in the early days. We'd been a secret, then I outed us, then I broke up with him because my dad was so disapproving that I was dating my manager. Riley was steady and professional to a fault. But on my end, I felt completely lost when he shut down on me and became just a manager again.

Well, that's not fair. He didn't shut down on me, it was my choice: Riley as my boyfriend or Riley as Strut's manager. I chose my career interests. Just like I chose them again when I signed my second Girl Band contract. I did what I thought was smart, but it still fucking hurt like hell. Especially the first time. This song was one of many that came from that heartache.

Bodie is now in the mixing room.

"Alright, test the mic for me."

"I'm not doing this," I say into the mic.

"Yeah, you are. It's why you came here, girl."

"Bodie, I haven't even practiced it all the way through in five years and you want to record it cold? Are you insane?"

"You have played it probably a thousand times, girl. Give me the first chorus measure..."

Something about Bodie in a booth compels people to go along with him. I finger the guitar and sing the line.

"Again." He's balancing the two mic's.

He gives me a thumbs up, scrambles out of the mixing room to start a new recording on the video camera, backing silently out of the booth. I watch him at the mixing computer. The soundbooth light comes on.

Okay. I guess I'm doing this.

Bodie is right. I've played and sang this song a thousand times, I can do this.  Every time, I was singing it for Riley.

I think I'm okay with Bodie recording, because I have the thought that Riley would like to see this. I wasn't brave enough to try for the first time in front of him, but now that I know it's possible—easy, even—to play a simple acoustic pattern...he'd like to see the first time I play his song again.

I watch my fingers as I begin the intro, but by the time I breathe to the belly for my first line, I'm no longer watching them.

Wasted on my floor tonight

I strum a chord and sing for you

Out of tune and off the beat

I can't find a decent groove

So lost

Miss you

I got no next line

Something...regret...and wine...

Won't you come and help out

This mess I'm making

And rhyme my next line?

I know you'll find the words

While my heart's breaking.

Rhyme my next line.

Please...

Rhyme my next line.

And so it goes. I'm finished before I realize that the guitar was just what it used to be—the foundation I could count on. I didn't think about it as much as I thought about the vocal performance. The skill with the strings was there for me like it always was.

I'm crying as Bodie comes out to stop the tape.

He walks toward me. "Looked good. Sounded even better."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Easier than you thought, huh?" he says quietly.

"So much," I whimper.

"Yeah," he says sadly.

"I think maybe...I could have done it a while ago..."

He takes the guitar from me, like a roadie. "Yeah."

"At least, like a year or two, gone."

"Yeah," he says again.

"I've lost so much time. Time where only bad things happened." I rub my hands in my eyes. "I've wasted my real life on that goddamn show and if I had done this years ago, maybe I would have never renewed and Riley and I would have never gotten so far from each other and I never would have met Aidan Mosteller and I never would have cheated with him......and Riley and I would have never split up and he wouldn't have gotten in the car drunk and—"

He takes both of my hands in his and shakes them.  "Listen to me. Second guessing the past will drive you fucking crazy. I know. I did a lot of that in prison. I would lay in my bunk and think...how it might have all been different. How many times was I in the same room with Marley while we were in college? If she had simply spoken to me, maybe...everything about my life might be different. I wouldn't have missed my son's childhood. Darius would have grown up with two married parents. We might have a two or three more half-grown kids but maybe not Violet and I can't imagine that. I can imagine might very well be a lawyer. Soundcrush would probably have another drummer and Darius might not have the life he was meant to have—the life of a musician. But, then again, I wouldn't know you. We wouldn't be friends and this wouldn't have happened to you..." he's holding my right hand, and he's tearing up now, too. "Fuck," he growls, wiping his eyes. "See what I mean? Second guessing the past will drive you fucking insane, Row. Trust me. I know. All we can do is live in the now and hang on like hell to who and what we love."

I nod, crying into his chest. Sobbing really. I let all the tears that I haven't cried for my injury wash over the much stronger undertow of all the crying I've held back for Riley since he got hurt. I dump it all on Bodie like a tidal wave of emotion. He murmurs to me like I'm some kind of scared domestic animal—a horse maybe—and pats down my back in smooth motions as I grip his shirt and wet it with tears.

Eventually I stop. Bodie takes off his t-shirt and hands it to me, as a snot-cloth, I guess. I refrain from blowing my nose but I scrub my face. Bodie messes around with the bongo's while I compose myself. Then we hear Violet's mew and Marley's coos as they come toward us. Marley has my phone in her hand.

"You left it on the kitchen counter. It's rung several times. It's Riley. I almost picked up, but...I didn't," she says with an unsure expression on her face.

I grab my phone and look at the time. I'm a full thirty minutes late to pick him up. He's called four times and texted twice as many. I throw my guitar in the case while I call him.

"Where the bloody fuck are you?" he growls in greeting. "Is everything alright?"

"I'm so sorry, I lost track of time..." I say. "I'll be there in eight minutes. I swear."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then, "It's fine. As long as you're alright."

"I'm fine. I'll explain..."

"Okay. I'm in the cafeteria at the medical campus..."

"I'll find you...I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"Yeah. Okay," he says but he hangs up as I try to say good-bye.

I'm on my knees, closing my guitar case. "He's at PT, I lost track of time..."

"It's okay," Marley says. "There's no reason to get upset. Either one of you."

"Of course there's a reason for him to get upset. He's in pain today, probably more after PT, and I just left him sitting there, not returning his calls-"

"Row—"

"He has a right to be annoyed, Marley! Jesus Christ, will you and Chili get off my back! Just because some bad guys messed you both up does not mean Riley is going to...I don't know...stab me or something just because I do something inconsiderate," I snap.

"Hey, easy," Bodie says.

"It's okay," Marley smiles at him as she passes her daughter off to him.

Marley opens her hands to me then clasps them in front of her. "I'm not on your back. I'm on your side. By that I mean, I thinks it would be amazing if you and Riley can work things out while finding your balance."

"Okay," I nod, hoisting my guitar case. "I know. Thank you. Sorry, I just had a big argument with Chili yesterday. But Riley and I— we're fine."

She and Bodie exchange a look. "We're fine," I growl.

She smiles. "Okay. I'm glad."

I kiss Violet on the head and Bodie on the cheek. "Thank you. So much."

"Anytime," he nods. "Hey, I'm gonna mix the track with the video and send it to you in a half hour or so..."

"Thank you!" I yell as I fly through their house and out to the van.