I Always Will

Who Are You?

Row, Hawaii

Christmas in Hawaii is a big damn deal to del Marco's. None more so than this year because there are two brand new del Marco's en route to the family compound on their very first private jet ride.

Trace was released from confinement a week ago. They've spent the week in Atlanta, with Kat's family, and they will be here at the Hawaii house within minutes. We weren't sure they were coming, but when Trace texted and said Kat felt up to the trip, the whole family went into overdrive to prepare for our newest members.

I just finished wrapping the last two baby gifts—tiny baby sun hats embroidered with their names and electric guitars. I toss it to Street who puts each present beneath the tree on their newly installed surfboards. A radiating spoke of personal, monagrammed surfboards—that's how we organize our presents for an easy Christmas morning. There are eleven of them fanning the tree.

Mom. Dad. Street. Me. Bridge. Lane. Alley. Trace. Kat. Alder. Birch. The other Skid Marc's members have similar set-ups in their houses that flanks ours. For a half mile down the beach, we'll be celebrating Christmas with my dad's band family. With Trace and Kat coming for Christmas, the rest of Soundcrush has rented an impromptu house slightly inland, and they are packed to the gills with kids, but they are mostly keeping them entertained at our beach and oceanfront pool.

I survey the mounds of presents, trying to feel nothing for the fact that Riley's surfboard remains in the garage, for the second year in a row. I know that Bridge feels the same way about Dev's surfboard, but they've been broken up over so many Christmases, it's not the same. Riley was here for Christmas for four years in a row. I thought he'd be here now.

And he would be, maybe, if I had asked him to come.

The wave of ever-present sadness threatens to overtake me. It's always present now, when I think of him. It's been about five days since I heard him professing his love to Priscilla at her grave and confirming to Dev what I already knew: that I don't compare, that he will never get over her.

Part of me doesn't mind. Part of me loves him so much, that I would accept being second best. I would accept his refusal to share my stage. I would hide myself away with him in a bedroom filled with candles and our private songs, and I would pretend he didn't love her more. I would make it enough. I would love him fully and completely, even if he couldn't love me the same.

But then there's a weak but perhaps wise part of me that knows—in the long-term, I will resent him. If he had other reasons for not wanting to be in a band with me, I might accept them. But if he won't share my stage because of her, I know myself well enough to know that I will take my hurt and resentment out on him. In the worst way. I will bury my feelings in booze, in weed, in partying, in the things that trigger him. I am afraid of our love turning toxic again. I'm afraid I'll spend my life trying to make him fight for me, and we will lose ourselves in that fight.

I can't do that to him anymore. Either we have to be real and whole and healthy with one another, or if we can't do that—if he can't let her go, and I can't let my resentment go—then we have to let each other go.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's Riley, of course. He texts constantly. He's accepted my request that we postpone serious talks until after the holidays, but he texts me all day long, with little anecdotes and check-ins as if we were fine. It reads:

Shit. I think I forgot to turn the electric kettle off. Would you mind very much if I burned the house down?

I would. I love our house. But the idea of Riley forgetting to turn the kettle off? Laughable. He's the most responsible person in the world. Except he's playing rather roughly with my heart, lately. Therefore, I can't help being snarky instead of earnest.