Random Acts of Hope (30 page)

But I was a dead man now, as Sam and Charlotte found gouges in the wall that were suddenly fascinating to stare at, while Trevor and Joe looked at me with lasers set to kill.

Darla, on the other hand, was in mid-handshake with my Dad as his words sank in. Her smile widened, eyes glittering. “That’s one way to put it, Garrett.” She bit her lower lip, pulling it up in a seductive curl as she looked at me with a cocked eyebrow that said,
Uh, thanks?
 

“But,” she continued, “I just like to think that there’s so much of me that it takes two men to keep me happy.”

Joe crossed the room and grabbed my arm, hard. “You
told
him?”

“He figured it out.”

“Parents don’t figure this shit out!”

“My dad does. He’s pretty laid back, and—”

“And now that he knows, the whole fucking town will know, and my parents are next!” Joe snapped.

Dad had a canny way of reading people. It’s probably why he was so good at selling cars, at running the biggest dealership in the area for his make, but it also meant he could head off conflict like no one I’d ever seen.

“Joe, no worries,” he said, making a lip-zipping gesture. “Secret’s safe with me. I’m not going to tell.” His eyes roamed over Darla with friendliness, setting me on guard. Last thing anyone wanted was for Dad to turn into a lech over our chicks.

“Thank you, Mr. McCar—er, Garrett,” Joe said in a panicked tone. “Not every parent is as understanding as you.”

Darla just snorted and made a sour face.

“Not every parent is wound so tight,”
Dad said as he reached out to clap Joe on the shoulder, but Joe was so fucking brittle he looked like he’d shatter into a thousand pieces.
 

You asshole
, Joe mouthed at me, then flashed my dad a people-pleaser smile. Weasel.

“On that lovely note,” Darla interrupted as she whispered with some sound tech carrying a filthy clipboard, “we need to get on stage.”

I escorted Charlotte and Dad out to the seating area, ignoring the dagg
e
rs Joe was throwing me with his eyes. Whatever. My dad really had figured it out. Sort of. He assumed Darla was dating both of them in some
kind
of open relationship. The words “threesome” and “menage” hadn’t been uttered, so I don’t think he
really
got that they were together in triplicate.

Which was just fine.

We admired the stage from
the
box area, where tables for four were set up, bar service available throughout the entire show. Dad and Charlotte chatted while I eyed the stage. This place was fucking huge, like Blue Hills Pavilion in Boston, right on the water. About the same size, but completely indoors. Raised stage, and the spot for me was on the far right, Joe far left, with Trevor’s microphone and guitar staging area in the middle, right up against Sam’s drum set-up.

People were paying $19 a ticket to come see us. Hundreds of them.

Five hundred and seventeen, so far.

The room shook a little as my eyes landed on Charlotte, laughing at some joke my dad made, the faded lettering on his grey t-shirt up against the table where they now sat, a cocktail server delivering what looked like a Shirley Temple for the love of my life and Dad’s standard drink—a scotch and soda. They were casual and cool, breezy and fun, and some part of me released inside, under the layers of hope and fear and driving hard work.

It was going to be just fine.

Everything was going to work out.

“
Liam!” Darla screamed from the stage. “Get your hot ass up here right now! We got sound checks to do and an hour to showtime!”
 

“Hot ass?” Charlotte said in an arched tone. I gave her a quick hug and a kiss.

“No one’s told me I have a hot ass in ten years,” Dad said with a wink, admiration in his voice.

I gave his seat a quick look and said, “You’ve got a hot ass, Dad.” His laughter followed as I lunged on stage and became Darla’s puppet.

Time changed as the rush to get everything ready kicked in. Darla
went into this crazy flow state where she knew exactly how to manage the thousands of tiny details that all came together to make performances work. After all the tests came back just fine, and we’d blocked out our moves, we went into the backstage rooms and worked on settling our nerves.

It hit me, like being sucker punched, that this was my second-to-last performance with the band. Ever.

And they didn’t know it.

“
What’s the count?” I asked Darla, who had turned into a blond blur.
 

“Seven hundred seventy-two
now
!”

Whoa.

“Five minutes!” someone said, and my nerves decided to make an appearance, as if coming out of hibernation and damn ready for some action. What was this? I didn’t get nervous
like this
.
I stood and quickly wended my way to stage left, peeking through the curtains, spotting Dad and Charlotte, heads together. The place wasn’t packed, but it was full.
 

We were going to have some fun.

“One of the stagehands says the owner okayed a little prop action r
i
ght at the opening,” Darla said, scaring the fuck out of me by appearing out of nowhere.

“What? What’s the prop?”

“Uh, Mavis the Chicken.”

We both started giggling. “A live chicken?” I asked.

“Yep. Mavis and Esme.”

My laughter died in my throat. “Oh, c’mon.
Nobody wants to see a sex doll and a live chicken on stage with us.
”

Her eyes bugged out like I was the stupidest man on earth.
“That viral video of you was the best fucking promo for the band. Ever.”

“
Too bad no one strapped a helmet cam to Trevor’s head the day we took all that peyote and he stole Mavis.”
 

Darla chewed on the end of a pen and pu
l
led it out, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper on her clipboard. “Good idea,” she muttered, walking away.

“One minute!” someone called out.

We scurried into positions, stage lights nice and low, theater lights flickering with warning. The crowd began the slow, rumbling warmup of fire and excitement, and I felt it in my bones.

In my heart.

And then:

Showtime.

Charlotte

Garrett turned out to be fabulous company, smooth and eager to impress me. Sybil’s exact opposite. I assumed Liam had told his mom about the pregnancy, and if he had, she hadn’t said a word. Not one word.

You would think…

“You doing okay?” Garrett asked, as gentlemanly as Liam about my condition. “Would a ginger ale help? The morning sickness phase is really rough on you girls.”

Ignoring the “girl” reference
(
do girls have breasts? No. So I’m not a girl
)
, I nodded. “I’d love one.”

He hailed a server like it was nothing, managing to snag the attention of an overworked young woman, and within minutes two sodas appeared. “I got you two in case it gets too busy,” he explained.

“Thank you.” Sweet. Like Liam. I hadn’t spent much time around Garrett when we were younger. He was always so busy with his dealership, but he’d been friendly enough. Shallow was the word my mom had always used, and I could understand
why. He came across as a bit fake. Insincere.
 

But right now? He was trying. Hard.

Just like Liam.

The opening song got the crowd to their feet, catcalls, whistles, and deafening applause making me weep with joy, driving out my nausea.

This was the life we were meant to live, me and Liam. And while the baby had been a complete accident—long shot of long shots, as Liam often said—it was going to be al
l
right.

It was going to be be
t
ter than that.

The second song was a soulful ballad, one Liam told me Trevor had written for Darla. My heart cried
as the chorus rang out:
 

When a naked soul finds you

You don’t have a choice

You have to stop and pause

You can turn away and never look back

But it will yank you back, because

Random acts of crazy draw you in

Random acts of kindness draw you in

Random acts of love draw you in

I was shaking, and it wasn’t from nausea. Fat, round tears dropped down the curves of my face and I reached
for a cocktail napkin, one half soaked with condensation from my drinks, but it had enough dry spots to help.
 

“Wow,” Garrett said with a shaky out-breath, his hand washing over his chin in a contemplative gesture. “I had no idea they were this good.”

I just smiled.

“No, I mean it.” His face went serious, eyes troubled. He looked old, like a Dad, and less like an aging rock band follower. “I haven’t seen them perform since they were kids in the garage. They’re…good. Really good. They could break out and really make the big time.”

I stayed silent. Liam hadn’t told his dad anything about this performance, or the other one in December. He’d chosen to buckle down and work at the dealership, insisting to me that he needed to have a salary, health insurance for the baby, and for me if I would consider marrying him.

Marrying him.

That was another secret we were keeping from people.

He’d proposed. No ring, but…

I hadn’t given him an answer yet.

My mind went blank every time we talked about it.
No firm
yes
, no firm
no
.
 

“He shouldn’t be behind a desk,”
Garrett
murmured to himself as the final, soulful chords rang out. “He should be up
there
.”

The house lights went down, and then a single spotlight lit on stage.

It showcased…a live chicken? Wearing a sign around its neck.

Bawk! Bawk bawk bawk!
it clucked.

The crowd tittered.

“New keyboardist?” someone shouted. The band didn’t have one; it was a running joke.

A second spotlight lit up Trevor, who was gulping from a huge bottle of water. He froze.

“Speaking of random acts,
T
revor, we’re so proud to bring you the reunion of a lifetime.”

He set the water down and got an
Oh, shit
look on his face, but smiled and played along.

“Mavis the Chicken”—oh, that’s what the sign around its neck said!—“is back,” the announcer explained, “and she wants you to make an honest woman out of her.”

Liam’s laughter rang out above the crowd. Darla walked up to Trevor and put her arm around his waist.

“And Liam, we found your lost love, too!” the announcer added in a revved-up voice.
A third spotlight flashed on Liam, who held up two fingers and grinned. Sweat poured off him, his tall legs flexed in tight jeans.
 

“What’s he talking about?”
Garrett asked.
 

Esme 2.
0
appeared at stage left, a fourth spotlight on her.
Same helmet of plastic, brown hair, same cockhole for a mouth, same irreverent, passive self.
 

“You never saw the video?” I asked, clapping along with the crowd.

“What video?” he shouted, but what happened next drowned out everything.

“Esme misses you, Liam,” the announcer shouted. “So we have a reunion to beat all reunions.”

A stagehand came out from the dark of the stage as Sam and Joe crowded around Trevor and Darla, Liam slightly to the right of them. The dude carried something in a big cat carrier. He bent down and opened it, pulling out an enormous, fat snake.

The crowd went crazy, jumping to their feet and chanting “RAOC
rocks! RAOC rocks!
”
I realized it was a play on #RAOCROX.
 

Garrett and I joined them, my howling laughter rendering me speechless.

A giant movie screen clicked on above the stage, showing the various YouTube videos of Esme’s violation by the boa constrictor and Liam’s high-pitched screams.

“That’s the video!” I shouted to Garrett, who watched with great amusement.

“Haven’t heard sounds that high from him since before puberty!” Garrett said with a belly laugh.

While the audience went nuts, half laughing and cheering, half transfixed as they watched the video, three t
h
ings happened at once:

1. The band on stage, and Darla, all suddenly leaped backwards by a few feet, faces changing from amusement to horror.

2. The stagehand was met by the rush of two men wearing khaki outfits, all shouting at each other in low, tight voices.

3. Mavis the Chicken made a series of
squawks
, and then a flurry of feathers appeared as she scrambled around on stage, squeaking.

The television screen cut to a live feed and grainy, out-of-focus camerawork showed what was going on, the cheers dying out as isolated screams of terror punctuated the night. We were close enough to hear scuffling, and then Darla screeched:

“
What the hell kind of snake is that?
”

The live feed showed a large, slithering snak
e
creep up to Mavis the Chicken and, in what seemed like less than a second, open its jaws imposs
i
bl
y
wide and strike, curving up and over, the burnt-orange and red beak gone in a flash, covered by slick, shiny grey and two slitted eyes.

“
Mavis!” Trevor cried out with a little too much emotion. Joe reached for him and wrapped his arms around the guy as Trevor struggled and Darla gave him a vicious look of such
w
hatthefuckery
that I burst out laughing, even as my stomach clamped down and a wave of nausea hit.
 

I reached for my ginger ale and drained it dry, sipping from the second one, grateful to Garrett for his careful planning.

“She’s
just
a chicken!” Darla shouted
as Trevor broke free and ran to the chicken-snake wrestling competition
.