Page 10

“For Karl,” I say, like it’s a battle cry. I suck in a deep breath and grab the guitar before I can talk myself out of it.

It’s just one song. I can strum just one song.

Can’t I?

Track 2

Ode to Oak Street

Kash

August

I’d always imagined my return to Nashville would be similar to a hero’s welcome, coming on the heels of a wildly successful tour. My ego wasn’t so blown up that I was expecting a mob of paparazzi or eager autograph-seekers, but I’d thought I’d get some recognition from strangers in Publix or an old teacher who’d have an “I remember when…” story. But here I am, stepping onto the shady, tree-lined curb on Oak Street, greeted only by the near silence of suburbia. Not even the USPS mail carrier glances over at me. This is nothing like I’d pictured.

From the first time I invited the guys to jam in the shed behind our old house, I’d known we were destined for something bigger. There we were, capturing lightning in a bottle with our music. It wasn’t always easy, but it always felt right. Until it didn’t.

The band was my idea.

The thought stabs me like a knife. If it wasn’t for me, Six String Justice wouldn’t even exist. Maybe I should have fought harder to stay. Maybe I should have kicked Justin out of the band. Maybe I should have…

It doesn’t matter. There’s no going back now. My fingers clench into a tight fist.

It’s not that I’m not good enough for the band. It’s that they’re not good enough for me. I don’t need them. So what if I’ve returned to Nashville with nothing more than a ratty guitar case, a pair of worn-out boots, and all of twenty bucks in my wallet? Sure, my stubble’s grown out and scratchy. My stomach’s hollow from a diet of convenience store food. And my pride’s taken a serious beating. But I’ve still got my guitar and the songs I’ve been working on. I’ve still got plenty of ambition and drive.

I’ll show them.

I’ll show everyone.

The righteous fire in my belly dies away the moment my boots scrape over the worn wooden steps that lead up to Granddad’s front porch. It’s bad enough I’m back in Nashville before I’d planned. It’s even worse that I have no place to go. When Six String Justice started taking off, I had less and less time to chill with friends who weren’t in the band. There are still a few guys who stuck around after graduation, but it’s not like I can just text them to ask for a place to crash for a while.

Other options are limited. Dad’s company transferred him to Austin last year, so he and Mom sold our house and moved to Texas. That meant I lost my bedroom and Six String Justice’s practice shed. Luckily the band had just signed the deal with Wild Burro Records, and they hooked us up with a temporary apartment and rehearsal space until it was time for us to go on tour. At the time, I wasn’t worried that I didn’t have a home base to return to. That was a problem for future-Kash.

Thanks a lot, past-Kash.

A few months ago, I didn’t dream any of this would happen. I was picturing packed auditoriums and sold-out gigs. Groupies and autograph signings. Heading into the studio to record some new stuff with the band. I thought I had plenty of time to figure out a living situation later. But later’s already come and I’m out of time.

My knuckle connects with the wooden door, the glossy forest-green paint cool beneath my skin. Knock, knock.

I step away and take a deep breath.

Granddad’s a cool guy, but he also sided with my parents whenever they tried to push me away from music toward “a more stable job” in corporate accounting. Like my dad, Granddad was in finance until he was forced into early retirement a few months ago. I’m not sure what’s so stable about a job that leads to forced retirement or cross-country transfers. But then, who am I to talk? I just got punted in a fast-food parking lot by the band I founded.

The door swings open. Granddad gives a slow, surprised blink as he takes me in. While I probably look like I’ve hit rock bottom, Granddad looks like he’s been living his best life. His salt-and-pepper hair is trimmed, he’s clean shaven, and he’s dressed in a pair of pressed khaki pants and a polo with toucans printed all over it. He looks like he just finished a round of golf at the local members-only country club.

“Hi, Granddad,” I manage before I have to force a swallow down over the uncomfortable lump in my throat.

His lips press into a tight line for a moment; then he opens his mouth to speak. “You’re a few months early, aren’t you, sport? But then, you were never one to stick to someone else’s schedule. You look hungry,” Granddad says with a grunt.

“I could eat.” With all the couch surfing I’ve been doing the past few weeks, it’s been a while since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. Or anything resembling a square meal, for that matter, because I’m pretty sure soggy gas station hot dogs and blue raspberry Slurpees don’t count.

Granddad steps back and motions me to follow him. “C’mon in, then.”

I heave a relieved sigh. While I hadn’t expected Granddad to turn me away, I’ve lost trust in the people I thought I could count on most. Shouldn’t I have known that the guys I considered my band of brothers were nothing more than a bunch of good-for-nothing backstabbers? All the blood, sweat, and tears I put in to the band. And to have it just tossed away, as if I hadn’t played an integral part in getting them—getting us—a deal with Wild Burro Records.

My teeth gnash together and I force myself to take a deep breath. The whole experience has messed me up. Will I ever be able to trust anyone else again?

In the entryway, I kick off my boots so I don’t track miles of disappointment into the house. Before I can set down my guitar and suitcase, Granddad says, “Take it upstairs. Don’t want all that stuff cluttering up my front hall like this is a bed-and-breakfast.”