The Bad Decisions Playlist (24 page)

I park my bike on the driveway, walk through the front door, and stop. There are balloons and flowers everywhere. Literally everywhere. Balloons mounded on the floor, flower petals, helium balloons tied to chairs and tables, gently waving in the air currents.

“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath, kicking at some of the balloons blocking my path.

“Are you home?”

Rick's voice, happy, eager, pleasantly surprised. Until he bounds into the kitchen doorway and sees that it's me. Then he's unpleasantly surprised. Like I am.

“Oh,” he says.

“Oh,” I say.

We regard each other. He's wearing an apron and holding a hand mixer.

“Didn't expect to see you,” he says.

“Yeah. I was just stopping in to get some stuff.”

I look around at the balloons and flowers. Rick watches me.

“I take it you didn't read any of the several texts I sent you,” he says.

“Nope.”

“Okay. And I furthermore assume you forgot.”

“Furthermore assume I . . . ?”

“It's your mom's birthday.”

“Oh. Oh, crap,” I say, with a familiar sinking feeling. “Right. Sorry.”

He shrugs. “Don't apologize to me.”

“I'll get her something.”

“Uh-huh.”

I look around some more at all the decorations. Only now do I notice the giant sign on the wall that says
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KELLY!!!
in thick marker. Rick has drawn hearts and smiley faces on it.

“Well, I'm glad you're okay, at least.”

I don't say anything.

“I guess you quit the lawn crew.”

“I'll still going to pay you back. It's just going to take a bit longer.”

He nods. “Okay. Well, I have a cake to make,” he says, and disappears back into the kitchen.

I stand there for a minute, expecting him to come out again, but he doesn't. So I go upstairs and start rifling through my disorganized drawers, trying to find the Replacements shirt. I can hear the whirring of the blender.

“‘I have a cake to make,'” I mutter. “‘I have a
cake
to make.'”

There. I grab the shirt​—​
THE REPLACEMENTS: SORRY, MA, I FORGOT TO TAKE OUT THE TRASH
, which, irony, and head down the stairs, wondering whether I'm supposed to say anything to Rick​—​
Well, I'm going now. See you later.
Or do I just leave? But the decision is made for me. When I get to the bottom of the stairs, Rick reemerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.

“Austin,” he says, “I wasn't going to say anything, because it doesn't feel like my place to do so, but then I thought, no. I'm going to treat you with respect. I'm going to speak to you like I would any person in this situation. First off, despite everything that is going on, I think that it is inconsiderate of you not to at least spend time with your mother on her birthday.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Okay, can we back up a bit? To the part where you said it's not your place? You were right. It's not your place.”

“Fine. Then forgive me for overstepping my bounds. But you know how important birthdays are to your mother.”

“‘How important'​—​really? Ask her how important my thirteenth birthday was. That's the one she missed because she was in friggin' rehab. Was that one important?”

“Ah. Yes, that sounds awful. But how long are you going to hold on to that?”

“You a lawyer or a therapist?”

“What is it, then? You need to get revenge on your mom? That what this is?”

“Revenge? I don't want revenge. I just don't need you standing here and transmitting life wisdom to me.”

“Doesn't take a huge amount of wisdom to see that it's your mother's birthday, and she loves you and she's been very concerned about you, and she
misses
you​—”

“You know something? Just because you two are screwing doesn't make you my dad.”

“Oh, spare me the clichés. That's also rather disrespectful toward your mother, and she doesn't deserve that.”

“Really? Isn't that what she is to you? Someone to screw?”

“I'd say that's a pretty fundamental misreading of our relationship.”

I don't know why that came out of my mouth, all bile and spite and venom. Rick is absolutely calm, not a trace of anger in his voice. That's what it is, he's so completely unruffled, and it makes me even angrier.

And as if he's reading my mind:

“Austin, there's not much you could say that will hurt me or upset me. I don't think you can even imagine the things people have said to me over the years.”

“Probably because you're an asshole.”

I think he actually smiles slightly.

“Probably. The point is, and I've said this before, you can say anything you want to me. Really. I don't like you insulting your mother, but let's put that aside. I think our relationship would benefit if you'd start being more honest with me.”

“Gosh, Rick, thanks, but I don't see that we actually have a relationship,” I say. “I have a dad.” Which sounds absurd the instant it passes my lips.

“I know you do,” says Rick. “He was also pretty adamant about that.”

“What?”

Rick shakes his head. “Nothing. It doesn't matter. Austin, I have no desire to​—”

“You called him? You called Shane?”

“Called him? Why would I call him? He came over here.”

That makes me pause.

“No he didn't.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He came over here.”

“To talk to
you?
”

He gives me a
Don't be daft
look.

“Why do you think he's in town, Austin? He could have recorded his album anywhere.”

“There's an engineer here he likes!”

“Okay. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I should not have mentioned it. Listen . . . maybe we can move beyond all of this, everything that has happened over the past few days. I think it would be wonderful if you would be here tonight for your mother's birthday party. I know she would really appreciate it. And I know you don't believe this, but I'd be happy to see you as well.”

I'm not listening. “You're jealous, aren't you,” I say. “That he's talking to her.”

He cocks his head. “Am
I
the one who's jealous?”

“You're such an asshole,” I say. “Such an asshole.”

Then to show how mature I am I roughly grab the nearest helium balloon, holding it like I have it in a headlock, and jab it with my motorcycle key. Then jab it again, once, twice, three more times before it pops.

I look at Rick defiantly. He's impassive.

“Asshole,” I say again, and leave.

∗  ∗  ∗

“Asshole, asshole, asshole,” I mutter the whole way back to Shane's. “Asshole!” I yell out at forty miles an hour. “Asshole!”​—​this time directed at another squirrel that darts in front of me at a stop sign, probably a cousin of the one I screamed at when I was mowing, and now they can compare notes, say,
Wait a second​—​what did the guy look like? That is so weird!

I park near Shane's, sit for a while doing a little more Tourette-y
asshole asshole asshole,
then restart my bike and motor the rest of the way to his house.

I march up to his front door and jab my finger at his doorbell​—​and jerk it to a halt a quarter inch before actually pressing the button. What do I say? What am I going to ask? Do I
want
to know the answer?

So I stand there, go to press the button, stop myself, do it twice more.

I reach up and touch the horseshoe, trace my fingertips along its pitted, rusted surface. As I'm doing that the door opens suddenly and there's Shane, holding his guitar by the neck, starting in surprise to see me in front of him, then breaking out into a smile.

“Hey! What are you doing here?”

“I don't know, I just​—”

“Good to see you!”

He uses his free arm to give me a quick hug.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I​—​you going somewhere?”

“I was going to that spot​—​what do you call it? Whitfield's?”

“Whitmore's.”

“Yeah, there. I was just gonna go sit there a bit. Come with me!”

“Okay, sure.”

“You okay? You look spooked.”

“No, all good.”

∗  ∗  ∗

In the car he's talking about the show and about our songs and he's so happy I want to let go and ride the wave with him, let it carry me along and forget the anxiety that is swirling beneath. Knowing that saying anything, asking anything, would mean paddling against that tide, breakers crashing down on me . . .

When we get to Whitmore's it's the same, the two of us sitting against a tree, Shane playing something, the day so beautiful . . . but there's still the red-flag part of my mind telling me,
Say something, say something, you have to say something,
and just as I'm building up to it Shane says, “Man, I was thinking about our conversation the other night. I wish you could come to New York with me.”

“For the show?”

“Yes. And more.”

“More?”

“I wish​—​I mean, it's crazy​—​but I had this vision of going on tour with you, like Jeff Tweedy did with his son. Go around the country, the two of us, play shows together. Write songs. The two of us.”

“Are you serious?”

“Hell yes. The two of us.”

The two of us.

Just like that the world expands, a giant deep breath. This is the answer I was waiting for all along, the way to extend the enchantment of this week forever.

“Shane,” I say, “I would love that. I would
love
that.”

He laughs and pounds me on the back, and we start talking over each other about where we could go, places we'll play, people we'll meet. It's all crystal clear now: the vague Big Secret Plan of the future has just become the Big Not Secret Plan of right now, the Big Plan that's actually happening. Shane and me, traveling together, performing together, writing songs together, the two of us the missing pieces that we've both lacked. So painfully obvious all the time and I never dared to think it.

“We could be based in Nashville.”

“How about New York? Josephine's gonna be in New York.”

“Sure, New York! Bushwick, Greenpoint, some place like that . . .”

I can see it​—​touring with Shane, coming into town now and then to visit Josephine, and then when she goes to school in New York, we can live together!

“Shane, that would be so awesome . . .”

“
Will
be so awesome.
Will
be. We're doing it!”

A train is coming, and as it rumbles by and blows its horn Shane clambers to his feet and whoops along with it: “WOOOOOO!” and I jump up and join him, “WOOOOO!!”, both of us raising our fists to the sky.

Back in the car, jabbering on excitedly, Shane telling me about what it's like to play in Austin, how the crowds are in New Orleans, how Tucson is better than you think it would be. It's only then that I glance up and realize we're in downtown Edina, near my house, near where my mom​—​

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, why are we stopping here?” I ask Shane. We're pulling up to the curb right outside the nail salon.

“Just stopping in to say a quick hello to KD,” says Shane, putting the Range Rover in park. “And goodbye.”

“Shane, wait​—​are you sure?”

“Yeah, c'mon, it's just a quick visit. Want to come?”

“Shane, no.”

There she is, my mother, seated at a small table across from some rich Edina lady, concentrating hard on her nails. Shane is already opening his door and climbing out. My stomach knots and double-knots, all that joy and optimism vanishing.

“Shane, I don't know that this is such a great idea . . .”

“Nonsense. Come say hi.”

“No, Shane, please, don't do this.”

“What are you so upset about?”

“Shane . . .”

He's looking at himself in the sideview mirror, pretends to fix his eyebrows, gives me a wink, then strides toward the entrance.

“Shane, no, don't​—”

Then he stops, turns on his heels, and comes back to the car.

“Goddammit, Shane, I thought you were serious,” I say as he approaches.

“Just forgot this,” he says, and opens the rear passenger door and pulls out the guitar.

“Shane, c'mon,” I say. “Shane. Shane!”

I'm talking to his back, which is receding rapidly. He gets to the door of the salon, and I slump down in my seat, unable to watch​—​
Oh, God
. . .​—​and then I can't bear it and I straighten up just enough to peek over the edge of the car window.

He's inside. He's talking animatedly to the woman at the reception desk, who has a confused, cautious smile on her face, and he's indicating my mom, who just now is looking up and noticing him. I can't hear anything, but I clearly see her saying, “Shane!” Then she tilts her head back toward the ceiling and slumps her shoulders forward and I see her say, “
Auugh!
” and then she straightens and says, “What the
hell
are you
doing
here?!”

He's in profile to me, so I can see the smile on his face, and he's holding out a hand to placate her​—​
Hold on, hold on,
he's saying, and I can see her saying,
Shane, no. NO.
Get out of here,
but instead he starts strumming the guitar and singing to her, and I'm flashing back to a day on Cedar Lake when I got brained with a mandolin.

The people in the salon are giggling or confused or stunned, and my mom is apologizing to the woman in front of her and standing up to deal with Shane, who by now is down on one knee singing with enthusiastic abandon.