Page 67 of SnowBound

A few nights later, I was taking a break, sitting at a picnic table in the alley that was transformed into an extension of the establishment, enjoying the humid summer air. Tonight was my set at Rock ‘n’ Country, the bar Rufus’s father owned.

Scrolling through my phone, I opened the pictures my mom sent an hour ago. A bunch of shots from my early days until now. My lips tilted up at the sight of the tiny version of me holding my first guitar and another one of me dressed in a cowboy outfit for Halloween. Back when I dreamed of being a rancher.

I sent her a text message.

Me:Wow, I was such a tiny human. Feeling nostalgic?

She replied a minute later.

Mom:Time flies. I remember each one of them like it was yesterday. Was going through your picture albums. You’ve grown into a fine young man, Anderson. I’m proud of you. Always.

Me:I know, Ma. Gotta go. The second part of my set begins in a few minutes. Love you.

Mom:I love you too, son xx

Something didn’t feel right. My mother was not one for going down memory lane and getting all emotional about it. Sometimes, I wondered if she felt lonely since I moved out. Through the years, she had never brought a man home. I knew she went on dates—on occasion—but they never seemed to turn into something more. Or perhaps she was dating and not letting me know.

Whatever. It wasn’t my business. Still, I would love to see my mother happy. And know she had a special someone in her life. That she wouldn’t be spending her days all by herself now that I wouldn’t be living there with her full time.

The second half of my set went by quickly. An hour and a half that seemed like twenty minutes.

Rufus joined me for a drink afterward, and we sat on the deck outside. Bordered by wooden fences and with fairy lights hanging from beams over our heads, the newly renovated beer garden looked amazing. Picnic tables, navy outdoor couch sets, and small high-standing tables were peppered all over the space. We could hear the music playing inside on the speakers attached to the exterior wall of the main building. A mouth-watering scent permeated the air, thanks to a food truck serving a variety of tacos, nachos, and other Mexican food.

“I love the new setup. Your dad did a great job,” I told my friend as he sat opposite me with a full plate of food to share. “It’s a far cry from the plastic chairs and tables that used to be here.”

“Yeah. It looks hot. My old man worked hard to make sure it would open on time.”

“Well, he did great.” I picked a taco and devoured it in three bites, then started crushing the plate of nachos in front of me with a fork, pouring salsa and sour cream over it and mixing it all together.

“Geez, you’re still doing that?” my friend asked. “Murdering your food?”

“I never stopped. They’re called Mixchos now.”

Memories of my last few hours spent with Abby flashed like a movie in my head, but I pushed them away.

“Mixchos? What the hell, man.”

“Nothing. It’s stupid. Forget it.” I gestured around me with a hand. “I’ve missed this. Southern vibe. New York is fine, I guess, but it’ll never be home.”

“I’ll try to visit you next semester. We could catch a game together. Could be fun.”

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and sipped on my drink. “Joe’s uncle has contacts. I’m sure he’d be able to get us good tickets at a decent price.”

With a mouthful, my friend lifted his drink and clinked mine. “Deal.”

When I arrived home two hours later, I tiptoed toward my bedroom, but my mother stopped me before I could make it.

“Anderson, wait.”

I surveyed the dim-lit hallway, where framed pictures of us lined the cream walls. My attention landed on one from the first concert I ever played, and my lips curled up at the memory. “Why are you still up? Were you waiting for me?”

She nodded. “Listen, we gotta talk.”

“Can it wait till the morning?” I fished my phone from my back pocket. “It’s almost two, and I’m drained.”

She shook her head. “Not sure I’ll be able to sleep until we sit down and I come clean.”

I blinked. “Come clean? What are you talking about?”