Page 9

S team still clung to my skin as I stepped out of the shower, the scent of my oatmeal body wash mixing with the lingering heat.

Water trailed down my back as I grabbed a towel off the rack and rubbed it across my shoulders, my mind already drifting toward the beat I was playing with last night.

Something soulful, raw, and sexy was being created from my frustrations.

I walked into my bedroom, the old wood floors creaking under my bare feet like they always did. No matter how much I renovated this place, some things I left untouched on purpose. That creak? That was a legacy.

Back in my room, the moonlight seeped through the blinds, laying stripes across the floor.

I slid open the top drawer of my dresser and grabbed a pair of boxers and black basketball shorts before pulling them on.

Snagging a clean pair of Nike socks, I slid them on and slipped my feet into my slides.

I walked over to the tray on my nightstand where I kept a few cigars. Picking the fattest one, I rolled it between my fingers, then tucked it behind my ear. Before making another move, my phone rang. It was Grandma. I braced myself and answered.

“Took you long enough,” she said before I could speak. “What… your fingers broke? Are you allergic to phones now? I could’ve knitted a whole blanket waiting on you.”

I chuckled, already picturing her pacing the floor with a cute mug on her face, and her hand on her wide hips. “Hi, beautiful. Good to hear from you too.”

“Don’t butter me up, boy!” she snapped, though I could hear the warmth of her voice. “I’ve been calling you for two hours. I swear, if you weren’t out there in the boondocks, I’ll come and put this belt to your behind.”

I laughed. “Grandma, you were not calling me for no two hours. You called me once, and that was ten minutes ago,” I said, looking at my phone. “I was in the shower.”

“Shower, huh? With what, molasses? You move slower than cold grits in January.” She laughed at her own joke, and I smiled.

“I was going to call you, beautiful.” I looked over at the clock on the wall, and it read noon. “What are you still doing up? Ain’t this your nap time?” I sat down on the edge of the bed. I knew she would have me on this phone for a minute, so I decided to get comfortable.

“Pfft. Don’t try and get me off this phone. Did you talk to your mother for her birthday?” she said, and now her tone had dropped a notch.

“Yes. I wish I could have seen her, but the place is still locked down until further notice.”

This morning, just like I did every year on this day, I went to spend some time with my mother on her special day. I even had her a cupcake, only to get my visit denied due to the housing area she was in being on lockdown because someone set the kitchen on fire.

I got quiet. The guilt that was eating at my soul crept in, making me feel like shit. The day I pulled that trigger changed my mother’s life and mine as well. I guess my silence got my grandma’s attention.

“Boris, hey... You have to stop carrying this like it’s yours to bear. Your mother did what any parent would do, what I would’ve done. She chose you. And I know, deep down, she’s never once regretted it.”

“That doesn’t stop the shame nor the nightmares, Grandma. I should be the one sitting in that cell. Not her.”

“She wouldn’t want that for you. None of us would. You think your mother saved you just so you could waste your life drowning in guilt?”

I ran a hand down my face. My jaws were clenched, and my vision was blurring at the edges. “I don’t know how to live with it, Grandma. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face the moment they took her away. I hear the sirens. I smell the blood. It doesn’t go away.”

“Then don’t try to forget it. Carry it. But carry it in a way that honors her—not in a way that destroys you.”

Her words sat heavy in the air. I wanted to believe her. I needed to believe her, but the truth was, I didn’t know what honoring my mother looked like anymore. Everything felt tainted after all these years.

“She told me once,” Grandma continued, her accent soft like a lullaby soaked in sorrow, “That you were the best thing that ever happened to her. That no matter what she lost, as long as you were breathing, it was worth it.”

I looked up at the wall, barely holding it together. “She said that?”

“She did… right before the trial. She knew what was coming, Boris. And she faced it with her head high because she knew her child was worth saving.”

The tears finally broke through, burning down my cheeks like acid. I dropped my gaze to the floor, ashamed and broken. “I don’t feel worth saving.”

She sighed. “Then maybe it’s time you start trying to be. For her. For yourself. For the life she gave you. Promise me, Boris,” she whispered. “Don’t let this destroy you too.”

"I don't even know where to start," I whispered.

"You start by breathing," she said gently. "Then you get up tomorrow and breathe again. And the day after that. Until one day, you wake up, and the guilt is gone.”

I let the silence settle for a moment, letting her words thread through the chaos in my mind. My chest ached, not just from the memories but from the unfamiliar feeling of hope—small, brittle, but alive.

“Why is it… you always know what to say?”

“That's what Grandma’s are for. Got me over here crying. I’mma G out here in these skreets! Can’t be crying and shit.” She cackled, and I laughed at her crazy ass.

We chatted for another five minutes before disconnecting the call.

After talking to my grandmother, I felt a little better, but not much.

I stepped into the hallway, passing the family portraits lined up like memorials frozen in time.

There were so many of me as a kid. Many with my mother.

Some of my grandma and great-granddad, who was standing strong and proud; always looking like he had a plan.

I chuckled as I stood, smiling at the old photos, before continuing my stride.

This house used to belong to my great-grandparents. Grandma couldn’t stand coming here. “Too many memories,” she said, so she handed me the keys and told me, “Make something of it. Make it yours.”

So I did. Now, I would come here to decompress, get away from the hustle and bustle, or whenever I needed to clear my head.

I kept some of the bones of the place. Elements like the creaky floors, but I gutted everything else, choosing to only keep a few things the same.

I built the back den into a studio. I tore out the dusty bookshelves, reinforced the walls, laid in fresh acoustic panels like armor, and wired some new lighting.

Next, I added new equipment, tables, and a couch for late-night sessions.

What used to be Granddad’s quiet room became the music room.

My temple: a space built with my hands but still rooted in his foundation.

The house is now an 8,500-square-foot stone and timber retreat with decks overlooking the hills, ponds, and dirt fields where I ride my horses.

It had high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, five timber-framed bedrooms, and six bathrooms. A private office, a spacious library, a billiard room, a full bar, a wine cellar, a theater, and a gym were the list of my amenities.

The kitchen is fully outfitted with granite counters and top-tier appliances, and the great room boasts a 20q-foot stone fireplace.

A covered log walkway leads to a 4,500-square-foot heated garage that held a few cars I’d purchased over the years.

This ranch house was specifically designed for a country boy like myself. It was a dream that I’d fulfilled but never truly enjoyed due to my dilemma with my mom being locked away.

I pushed open the door, and that smell hit me.

Oakwood, old vinyl, and the faint scent of the cigar I smoked the night before wafted in the air.

Right in the center, where anyone else might’ve hung a flat screen, I kept my grandpa's old turntable. It wasn’t in perfect condition, and it cracked and skipped, but I wouldn’t dare get rid of it. That was history spinning in circles.

I dropped into the chair behind the keyboard and turned everything on before picking up my guitar.

The beat began to play; the bass thumped deep, pulsing through the padded walls like a second heartbeat.

I let my fingers find the strings, coaxing out a few slow, aching chords—notes that lingered like smoke curling off the last ember of a dying fire.

I wasn’t playing anything real, not really.

Just letting the guitar speak its peace.

Some days, it knows the words better than I do.

As the rhythm began to carry me, my thoughts drifted to Olivia like they always did when my world slowed down.

Right then, Chris Stapleton’s “Tennessee Whiskey” came on, low and soulful.

I smiled, feeling her presence in every note.

Without thinking, I started to sing, the lyrics rolling off my tongue like a promise.

The way I would say I love you when she’s half-asleep in my arms or when she was naked in the middle of my bed, legs on my shoulders while my head was buried between her thighs as I tasted her sweet honey pot.

Hardly anyone ever sees this side of me. At first, it was just my grandparents—quiet witnesses to my talent. I would let the guitar do the talking when the nightmares hit, the tunes taking me to a place where everything was good in my life.

Then came Olivia.

She stayed over one night, and I thought maybe having her there would hold the nightmares back.

I was wrong. They would still come—loud, violent, like my mind was trying to claw its way out.

I would grab my guitar, sit in the dark, and start playing like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

I didn’t hear her footsteps. I didn’t even know she was awake. But suddenly, there she was, still in the doorway, eyes half-closed but alert.