Page 68
“The asshole who beat his son black and blue?”
“My parents let us set up a rehearsal space in the garage. Leaf practically lived there, spending all his free time and even sleeping there sometimes. We didn’t realize it until one day, I found him hidden behind the amplifiers. I offered him my room, but he refused. He was always quiet, sometimes to an extreme. He thought he could hide the truth with silence, but I could see it in the way he moved. He must have had bruises all over; he never wore short sleeves. Music was his sanctuary. He escaped into guitar playing, idolizing musicians like Joe Pass and delving into jazz for a while. Through my father, he discovered tango and mastered intricate pieces by fourteen. Around fifteen, he started going to Chinatown more and more, though I didn’t know anyone in that area or how he got there. I heard rumors about opium smoking.”
José searched for his beer. “He was hooked on it. Kind of understandable,” he said, taking a big sip.
“Why didn’t anyone do anything about it when everyone knew?” Tristan asked, shaken.
“We did what we could.”
“But his father—”
“Was a cop. Believe me. We did what we could. The first time he ran away from home, he was fifteen. And it wasn’t the last time. The police kept bringing him home. I couldn’t and didn’t want to imagine what awaited him there. Then he would show up again a few days later. Strangely, I never felt like he regretted running away.”
Tristan took a sip of his beer. “That doesn’t exactly give me the assurance that we’ll overcome this chaos.”
“Sorry,” José replied, raising his eyebrows. “And what about you?”
“What about me?” Tristan leaned back. “I’m completely out of sorts.”
In a conspiratorial deep voice, José said, “We’re going to live mostly on a bus for the next few months. Tickets have been sold, and a lot of people are waiting to see us play. That’s a reason to be excited. There’s nothing better than that.”
“Maybe,” Tristan murmured. “I really don’t know anything anymore right now. And your confidence is kind of annoying.”
José pursed his lips and looked at him with an open gaze. “Can you do me a favor?”
“What?” Tristan asked, a note of suspicion in his tone.
“Before you freak out again, talk to us. I’m here. We’re all here. We’ve got your back. But please, don’t just run away again.”
Tristan felt guilty about it. “That was … not panic, but pure despair.”
José frowned at his candor, staring at him with a mix of disbelief and horror. It was difficult for Tristan to meet his gaze, so he fiddled with the napkin and gazed out the window.
“I went to my parents’ grave and brought back Milo’s pendant to them. I can’t remember anything that happened after that.”
“Tris …”
“I wanted to come back and remind myself how much music meant to me. Nightstalker. Leaf. But the day after tomorrow is already the concert and …”
“You can’t expect everything to go back to how it was within six days.”
“If we don’t make it by Saturday, I foresee dark clouds ahead for the tour.”
“You’re putting way too much pressure on yourself.”
“I lost so much time in that clinic. I could have spent it better on …”
“Stop it, Tris!” José exclaimed. “You’re painting doomsday scenarios here. Do you think Dr. Snider would have let you go if he wasn’t convinced you could handle it? I heard you were apathetic in the first week after the accident.”
“I was probably in shock.”
“Redirecting the conversation to your brother was impossible.”
“It’s not like that’s changed much.”
“But it did. You’re sitting here with me, talking about how you were at your parents’ grave. I don’t need a degree in psychology for that. I’m sure even Snider would call it progress.”
Tristan rested his elbows on the table, his thoughts returning to Leaf. “We were so close yesterday. And then he disappears and … He’s not talking to me anymore.”
