Lindsey

 

Watching Jenson perform is like watching a man possessed. The music takes over him. His voice, jagged edges coated in honey, wraps around each word and delivers them with a force that lingers. It saws at the heart and draws out emotions, even those long buried. It’s difficult to see how a man could ever lose his way, with passion like that. From what little I know, I’m beginning to understand how distancing himself from the music is almost as much punishment as losing the things that drove him there.

Before I know it, it’s three hours later and the guys are packing up their things. Jenson’s wiping the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt, striding over to me, his expression indiscernible. I still feel the aftershocks of the music, but he seems . . . vacant. Like he’s leaving the stage with less of himself than he took up there.

“That was incredible,” I breathe. It’s a poor way to express how his songs moved me, but it’s the only sentence I can come up with.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asks. A quirk of a smile, no more than a reflex.

I look down at my camera and nod. If I wasn’t so intrigued by the music, my focus would’ve been glued to the photos. “More than enough. These are great.” I go to pull them up, but his focus is elsewhere. He slings his backpack over his shoulder, and when I stand from the couch to walk out with him, he gestures for me to wait outside the room while he proceeds toward the man he introduced earlier as his manager. I find a spot in the hallway to lean against the wall, absentmindedly watching some of the staff part ways.

“What’d you think?” Carter asks when he emerges from the room. He lifts his dreads and wipes his glistening neck with a towel.

“Amazing. I’m disappointed I haven’t spent more time listening to you guys. No offense.”

He tilts his head, glancing back at the room. “It’s been quite a year. Look after my boy, will you?”

I would’ve missed the question if he hadn’t been intently waiting for my response. “Um, yeah. I’ll do my best.”

He gives me one last appraising look, waves two fingers, and makes for the exit. Jenson emerges from Room A, arranging his slackened features into something resembling his usual smile when he sees me resting against the wall. “I’ll walk you out.”

I feel his moroseness as much as I can see it in his down-turned eyes, the lines around his mouth. After a session like that, one I felt went extremely well considering the amount of time they’ve taken off, I can’t understand why it exists. But it’s not my place to pry into his feelings and the reasoning behind them. Instead, I silently keep pace with him, pushing outside. The sun has mostly descended, casting the sky above in sienna and melon, and most of the cars have vacated the lot.

I wait as Jenson places his bag in his truck, and, after scanning the lot, his eyes settle back on me. “Did you drive?”

I lift the strap off my shoulder again. This bag clearly wasn’t made for hauling equipment around, but I roll with it. “No, I got a ride. Mind giving me a lift back?”

“Of course not.” Jenson takes my bag from me and opens the passenger door, storing it behind the seat. After I climb in, he shuts the door behind me. A gentleman, even when distracted.

Once he’s behind the wheel, he pulls out his phone and frowns at whatever he sees on the screen. “Give me one sec,” he says absently, clicking something and putting the phone to his ear.

“Hey mom. Yeah, we were just rehearsing some new stuff. No, my stuff. I’ve been doing some writing. I know. I don’t know, I’ve gotta give someone a ride back into town. A friend, yeah.” When he looks curiously over at me, I chew my lip and try to pretend I’m not listening. “I’ll see. Okay. Be there in a few.”

He drops his phone in the cup-holder and runs his fingers through his hair. “That was my mom.”

“I heard.”

“She’s upset I haven’t been to her place in a while. The move and all.” He waves nonchalantly as he turns the key and the Bronco roars to life. “She made dinner and asked me to bring my friend along. Probably assuming it’s someone from the studio. Anyway, I know that’s kind of intense, so—”

“I’ll go,” I say before I can think of all the logical reasons I shouldn’t. Earlier this week, there would’ve been a thousand protests running on a loop through my mind, but a few hours of satisfying work and good music have quieted all that.

“My mom. You’ll be meeting my mom,” he reiterates.

“Yeah, fine. I was photographing your rehearsal, it’s not a big deal. Not unless you think it is,” I amend. I don’t know any better, but I assume the last woman his mom met from his private life was Raven, and I don’t know enough to tell how emotionally weighted this could be. For Jenson and his mom. Losing Raven after the divorce couldn’t have been easy for her either.

“Do you think she’ll hate me? You know. . .”

Jenson pulls out onto the street, his brows pulled together. “No. She doesn’t have a hateful bone in her body. She likes caring for people. If anything, she’ll mother you too much. And just so you know, she won’t be offended if you turn down a third helping.” I grin to myself, the image in my mind one of a typical Southern mother.

Jenson’s mom lives on a picturesque street on the outskirts of Franklin, just south of Nashville. Flower beds overflowing with color border a yellow bungalow. While muted in shade, it’s the most flamboyant home on the street, though obviously well-tended. We pull into the driveway, parking behind a modest SUV, and Jenson’s whole body seems to sigh before he gets out. Not in preparation, that wouldn’t be right. To release something, maybe.

Before closing the door, he reaches over his head and pulls his shirt off, switching it with a button-down from his backpack. It’s wrinkled in places, but I’m not sure his mom, from what she sounds like, will care. It’s sweet that he thought to change. I get out before he can come around and make a display of opening my car door, suddenly conscious of my band tee, leather, and torn denim. As the mother of a musician, I assume she’s no stranger to unique characters, but I still feel the unexpected desire to impress her.

I don’t know why I worried. The middle-aged woman who greets us at the porch, front door propped against her hip, wears the relief of seeing her son along with an easy, worldly grace. I can see where Jenson gets it from. He shows no qualms against enveloping his mom in a big hug and kissing the top of her head. Then he stands back and introduces me before I have the chance to. I’m glad. After all, what even am I?

“This is my friend, Lindsey. She’s a photographer.”

“Lindsey the Photographer” must suffice because Jenson’s mom extends an arm and pulls me to her. She smells of spices and meat and love.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Lindsey. I’m Darla.”

“You too. Thank you for having me on short notice,” I say, following them inside.

“Oh, it’s nothing, darlin’. I always make enough in case of guests.”

A tidy but warm living area filled with overstuffed, cushioned furniture, receives us, but we pass straight through and into the kitchen.

“Still inviting your Bunco ladies over every other night, huh?” Jenson asks, raiding a candy dish of M&Ms on the kitchen counter.

“Well, why not? I’ve got plenty to cook from the garden, and it’s senseless for it to go to waste.” Darla removes the lid from a large pot, waving away steam to peer inside. She’s the kind of woman who wears her age proudly, with hardly a stitch of makeup concealing her lined face. “I know it’s not fully winter, but I had a craving for stew. Hope you’re hungry.”

“You didn’t put celery in it, did you?” Jenson asks, nudging me in the side and tilting his head subtly.

“That was one time, Jenson. One time I forgot you hated celery. I’ll never make that mistake again, you’ve never forgotten it,” she says with a huff, and Jenson presses his fist against his mouth to quiet his laughter. When Darla looks over at him, she breaks into an automatic grin. “You’re poking fun at me again.”

“It’s a trash vegetable, Mom. I needed to remind you.”

She brandishes an oven mitt at him. “I doubled up on the carrots, and you better eat every last one.”

“Deal.”

I observe their antics with amusement and fascination. There are relationships of all kinds, but fewer and fewer as easy as this one. Conversations with my parents are always accompanied by a layer of tension. Sometimes it’s quiet and sometimes it’s loud, but it’s always there—the suppressed questions about each other’s well-being, my dad’s resoluteness toward building a new life, my mom’s dismissiveness toward her disease. My own boiling resentment. They try to hide those things from me, but I feel them all the same.

This, being among Jenson and his mom for no more than five minutes, is like a lungful of fresh air. Jenson’s moment in the car makes a little more sense now, his unwillingness to bring the stress I saw earlier into this home. It was an oddly considerate gesture.

“All right, bowls are here, cornbread’s here, drinks are in the fridge. Anything else, Jens?” Darla asks.

“Nope. Looks great.”

We sit down with our food at a round, pine table in the breakfast nook, and any nerves I still harbored dissolve almost instantly. Darla handles making me feel at home like it’s her God-given duty, inquiring about my photography and the trials I’ve experienced since moving from Denver. I find out she works at a charming little diner in the center of town, though knowing who her son is, and looking around at her small yet well-decorated home, I don’t think the income is a necessity. She seems to love the work, though, animatedly recanting some of her latest encounters with customers. She doesn’t discriminate—from truck driver to housewife, they all get her undivided attention. When the conversation turns to her garden, my attention piques.

“Your garden looks incredible,” I tell her. “I’m sure even more so in the daylight.”

“You’re welcome to come see it anytime. I make an epic spiked lemonade that’s best enjoyed outdoors.” She winks at me, and my heart swells in my chest.

Living somewhere you don’t have family, or many friends, it’s easy to feel a bit alone and lost, no matter how adventurous of a soul you are. Her kindness raises a wave of homesickness.

“Do you like gardening?” she asks.

“Maybe. I’m not sure. I live in an apartment.”

“I think she prefers more of the dead variety,” Jenson offers, and I toss him a dirty look.

“I adore pressed flowers. They can be so pretty. But I can give you some ideas later for something low maintenance that does well indoors.”

Her attention returns to Jenson, and she reaches across the table and grips his hand, love evident in just that minute gesture. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s been too long since we’ve done this.” Her lips are pursed, eyes wet with emotion, then she’s standing and clearing the table, as if busying herself with the chore will detract from her emotion.

Sensing the moment, the obvious relief of her son’s presence, I rise to help her so she can make the most of her time with him.

 

 

Jenson

 

I’m about to make an excuse, say we need to get back or insist we eat quickly, but Lindsey beats me to it. “Actually, I’m a little full from dinner. Why don’t I finish cleaning up and you and Jenson go ahead?”

Anyone else would be quick to hand off the dirty work, but Darla King is too humble for that. “Oh no, I can’t let you do that. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

I expect that to be it but, relentless as she is, Lindsey gently takes the rag from her hand and gives her a smile that would be tough for anyone to argue with. “You probably don’t see Jenson very often, and I’m sure you both have a lot to catch up on. Go. You’ve really done enough for me tonight.”

I stand by, helpless, expecting to witness a standoff of epic proportions, but my mom holds up her hands, officially relinquishing the duties she’s always taken pride in. “This is not the way I usually do things, but I’d love to chat with my son. I appreciate it.”

Lindsey just nods and switches the faucet on, occupying the space in front of the sink in a way that makes it clear she’s got it covered. My mom sets to work unwrapping the cake she’s made—whiskey cake, my favorite—and serves a few thick slices, tucking one inside a plastic container. “For later,” she tells Lindsey before grabbing the two plates. I open the back door for her, sending a grateful glance in Lindsey’s direction, but she’s already up to her elbows in soap and fully focused on the dishes.

The back porch is small, the all-weather furniture set taking up most of the space, but it’s breezy and open and always smells of flowers. It’s the scent I’ve always associated with home. Even when we didn’t have much, Mom did all she could to keep the yard nice. Rarely was anything done around the house without love. It has, and will always be, that way.

Mom sets the cake plates in our places and pats the seat next to her, and I drop into it. Rehearsals took a lot out of me. I’m finally singing songs I believe in again, but there’s something looming that doesn’t feel right. It’s weighed on my shoulders all day. I’ve begun to make amends and look for the light, but I can’t help but watch for the storm clouds over my shoulder.

“Share your burden, Jenson,” Mom says softly. Some moms have certain catchphrases, things to send along with you when they can’t be around to give you reminders. That’s one of hers.

“I don’t know that I have anything to share.”

She takes a bite of her cake, working it around her mouth thoughtfully. “Your thoughts have always been heavy, but you never had a problem telling me things before. What is it that’s tripping you up?”

I rest my elbows on the table, fist my hands in my hair. Yeah, I had less of an issue telling her things when they were less important. But that was when my decisions didn’t carry as much weight. Today’s rehearsal wasn’t just a rehearsal, it was the beginning of something. I just haven’t decided what that something is, and having the power to determine it solely in my hands is both a blessing and a curse. Some people would revel in that, but it’s not the kind of thing I take lightly.

“I thought everything would fall into place when I started writing again. That once I got through that block, everything else would align. It was stupid.”

“Life isn’t very good at falling in line, is it? What did you expect to happen? What paths are you torn between?”

I spin my ring distractedly. I always thought giving a voice to my fears would make them more powerful. But even after keeping them in silence, they’ve still wreaked havoc on my life. What do I have to lose? “I want answers. I want to know whether I’m supposed to pick back up where I left off, in the middle of my tour, or just let it all go. If I do that, what’s left for me? Where do I belong?” God, I’ve become a motherfucking cliché. I guess the quarter-life crisis I dodged has caught up to me and is hitting me extra hard for evading it.

“Do I keep performing—keep the fans happy and my band employed? Or do I say we had a good run and call it quits?”

The lights strung between posts on the porch shine in her watery eyes. She blinks, looking upward to chase away tears. “You’ve been very blessed, Jenson. I know that, looking into the past, it sometimes doesn’t seem like it. And I know looking back is especially painful for you, but it’s also necessary. Don’t ever forget what you’ve done to get yourself here. You weren’t handed anything. Remember that.” She offers me a weak smile.

“You’ve always been a musician. Down to your soul, since the day you were born, that’s what you’ve been. But you’ve never quite been a performer. Anyone who watches and adores you can see that when you go up there, the connection is between you and the music. That’s what it’s always been about, and that’s what it should always be about. You and the music. But I’m afraid this industry is killing that. I’m afraid it’s slowly killing you.” Her voice breaks, and when she looks down at her lap and squeezes her eyes shut, emotion gathers in my throat. This woman beside me is the strongest person I know. To see her so torn up will always put a spear through my heart.

I wrap an arm around her and pull her to my chest. It’s not often I get to be the one offering her strength, and I’m angry at myself for not having much left to give. But I try. God, do I try. And although I want to reassure her, to say her worries are misguided, I can’t. Because this industry is killing me. Not the music, or reliving the emotions necessary to write an impactful song, but the business. It’s my fault I picked up the bottle, but it’s the ugliness and my inability to deal with it that drove me there.

“I’ll pull through this, Mom. You don’t have anything to worry about.” I’m lying through my teeth. The music, the alcohol, it’s all the same in this situation. I’m not dealing with either. Both can destroy me, but only one will give me the power to redeem myself. If only I could control my impulses, find what it is worth redeeming myself for.

She straightens, dabs her tears demurely on her sleeve. “Don’t I? I thought everything that happened with Raven was your big trial, the thing you needed to overcome to grow and move on to the next phase of your life. But I think it’s this. This is your ultimate trial. It’s usually the thing we love most that we lose ourselves to. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” I tell her, and when she looks at me, searching for answers, I say it with more conviction. “You won’t lose me. I promise.”

“Okay. I’m trusting you’ll let me know if you need help.”

I nod, forcing myself to take a bite of my favorite cake, and somehow manage to swallow around the lump in my throat.

“Now, when are you going to tell me about that girl in there, huh?” When she musses my hair, I know I’ve got the old Darla back. The one with less worries.

I think about Lindsey and I want to smile. There’s uncertainty there, but also relief. The sense that I’m no longer alone, though she has no allegiance to me. “There’s nothing much to say, but I could talk about her for hours. Does that make sense?”

She bites back a smile and nods. “Yeah, it does.”

I grasp for the words to describe her and fail. People tell me I have a way with words, but that doesn’t seem to be the case when it comes to Lindsey. “There’s nothing going on with us. Her focus is on her career. She’s working hard to make big things happen for herself, and that’s basically it.”

“She’s young,” Mom says, nodding to herself like it makes sense.

“And wholly unimpressed by me.”

She bites back a smile. “That’s good.”

“In what way is that good?”

“She won’t be won over by the usual grand gestures. She’ll be impressed by what really matters.”

“I don’t think you understand who it is I’m dealing with. I don’t know if she can be won over at all,” I say, licking sticky glaze off my fork. “But we connect in a way Raven and I didn’t. Artist to artist. She understands that manic need to create.”

“That’s important,” she says, then points her fork at me. “And I also think you underestimate her feelings. She cares a great deal about you. I can tell. A woman wouldn’t voluntarily come to your mother’s house if she didn’t.”

I release a slow breath. I can’t allow myself to think like that, placing hopes in things that are unpredictable. And Lindsey? She’s about as unpredictable and relentless as a summer storm.

Mom stands, patting me on the back before gathering our plates. “Tread carefully, baby, but don’t be afraid to let yourself feel again. How else do we find the things that move our souls if we leave our hearts hard?”

“I think you’ve spent too much time talking to Miss May,” I say, though I know there’s truth to her words. Miss May, an elderly widow who frequents the diner, makes it her job to mend the emotional wounds of everyone she meets. She had a field day with Mom, but she had her work cut out for her with me. I wasn’t yet at the point where her words could root themselves in my mind, though, I was too busy blocking everything. And probably drunk.

“She’s pretty wacky, but every now and then she makes a good point,” my mom says with a bemused laugh, and Lindsey looks up as we reenter the kitchen. When she reaches for the cake plates, my mom shoos her away. “My work with my son is done, I think. And you’ve done a wonderful job in here.”

Lindsey’s cheeks stain crimson, and she looks down at the toes of her battered Chucks. “I’m glad I could help.”

I stretch my arms over my head, feeling the day catch up to me. “I think we’ll probably head out,” I announce. “Thanks for dinner, Ma.”

Mom packs a few plastic containers of stew in a bag she hands to me, before walking us to the front door. “I divided it up in case Lindsey wants some,” she tells me, pretending to be stern.

“No need, Mrs. King, I was already planning on taking it all,” Lindsey teases, giving her a hug. “Thank you for having me.”

I watch my mom embrace her with the familiar fondness she uses with all my childhood friends and can’t help the grin I’m now wearing. They like each other, and that makes me feel enormously pleased. I don’t know if bringing Lindsey here was “right,” or the best idea, but it’s nice. It can get strangely lonely keeping my two worlds separate, like I’m caught somewhere in the middle and don’t quite belong here or there.

“No Missus, just Darla.” Mom gives her a kiss on the cheek, then reaches for me. She stands on the porch while we pull away, waving until we can’t see her anymore.

Much of the drive is spent in silence, aside from the music, until the lights of Nashville come into view and Lindsey breaks it.

“Your mom is really great,” she says. “Thank you for taking me along.” She’s speaking toward the window, but I can discern the appreciation behind her words. Like she didn’t expect to be as welcomed or comfortable as she was.

“Of course. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“It’s a shame people don’t see that—the other side of musicians. I think I understand you better.”

“I’m not much of a mystery,” I deadpan.

“That’s what I assumed at first, but I misjudged you. You’re much more than the face you put on when you perform. I’m glad I got to see it.”

I shift in my seat, pretend to drum my fingers to the music, although I’m completely off beat. All I wanted to be was more than Jenson the Performer, but now that Lindsey sees past that, it makes me uncomfortable. Whatever we have going on has been easy so far because there are no expectations, no strings. I haven’t yet had to worry about her finding the parts of me she’ll hate.

But I can feel her beneath my skin. Delving deeper. It was never supposed to get this far. Lindsey, all adventurous and daring and just a bit naïve, doesn’t need someone who’ll weigh her down when she decides to take a leap. Maybe I satisfy some part of her for now, but she’s a wanderer, and her curiosity tells me she’s set on discovering all my dark corners.

And she will.

And when she does, she’ll hate them.