Page 48 of Dream On

Me: How’s your Thanksgiving going?

A few minutes later, a response pings as I sink down on one of the kitchen barstools.

Stevie: Who is this?

Me: Guess.

Stevie: Lex?

Me: Good guess.

I wonder what she’s doing right now—feasting on turkey legs and apple pie while pumpkin-scented candles flicker from every table and countertop. Playing the piano, rolling dough for homemade biscuits, smiling and laughing because she means it. Because she’s happy.

A smile hints as I watch her dots dip and pause, dip and pause.

Stevie: Oh hi! I was really hoping you’d text me. I haven’t seen you since school let out for break, and I wanted to tell you how eternally grateful I am for the car. I don’t even know what to say…except thank you. Thank you so much.

I frown, my thumbs stalling over the keypad.

Her text makes it sound like she’s about to sob buckets of happy tears into her cranberry sauce. But hell, replacing her car was theleastI could do. Her family barely makes ends meet, then scrounged up a couple of grand to get her a beat-up car from, like, 1985, only for me to come along and smash it to bits, all while pinning the blame on her in the process.

I was an asshole.

Me: Sure. It wasn’t a big deal.

The bubbles shimmy up and down, disappear, then dance to life again.

Stevie: Are you kidding? My dad was crying. I was crying. Mom wouldhave been crying, but I think she went into shock. No one’s ever done something like that for me before. So thank you.

My eyes skim over the message a few times, taking in her words. Her genuine gratitude. I’m not sure what to do with it, how to spin it into something comfortable or familiar.

Me: You’re welcome I guess. Seriously wasn’t a big deal. The accident was my fault.

Money is money. It’s paper and coins and debt and greed. I have a shit ton of money saved up from my TV show. Mom and Dad are holding most of it hostage until I prove I’m “responsible” enough to manage it, and I often forget it’s even there. In my experience, all money has ever done is suck the humanity out of people who were once decent. It’s life’s most time-hallowed poison, always there, always seeping inside us and altering our priorities until everything’s about accumulating more, more, more, then protecting what’s already been gained. It twists genuine intentions into transactions and makes every gesture feel hollow.

But I suppose it’s important to her, to those who aren’t accustomed to it.

Stevie: What are you up to today?

I look around at the stark and joyless house, wishing the walls would morph into chipped red siding, the roof into storm-beaten shingles, and the empty space beside me into her.

Me: Nothing.

It takes a few minutes for her to reply. There’s not much to say after a response so jaded. So sad. But then her message comes through, and she fills the void a little.

She fills my void.

Stevie: Happy Thanksgiving, Lex.

I send her back a smiley face and whisper to nobody at all, “Happy Thanksgiving.”

***

Opening night.

I’m kind of dreading it, if I’m being honest. And not because I’m not amped up and flying high on adrenaline, nicotine, and espresso but because it’s almost over. This is it. We perform a few shows, and then life goes back to what it was.

I’m not ready for that.