I Always Will

The Kinds of Love

Rowan

Bodie says nothing about Riley, his injuries, or my self-appointed nursing duties. He doesn't talk about his new baby either, because one of the weirdest and yet most binding parts of our friendship is the fact that he was with me in the hospital when I learned of my miscarriage. He also doesn't talk about Trace's wedding, because he's not sure I want to hear, considering all things.

This is what I hate about SCIC now. I love my brother, I love his bandmates, but they walk on eggshells around me. Even Bodie, and at one time Bodie and I were very good friends. We got past his old gang leader stabbing me, but we are struggling with me cheating on Soundcrush's manager and him divorcing me.

As Bodie pulls in at the Starbucks drive-thru, he's talking about the freakin' weather. He still rambling about it while we wait at a light, as he watches me remove the lid with my right, injured hand.

"You been holding out on everybody, del Marco," he says, sippin' his Americano, as I use the same hand to gather whipped cream on the straw. "Is it me, or is your hand better?" he says suspiciously.

"Maybe a little bit, yeah. About six months ago I started this new treatment." I shrug, hastily putting the straw back in the cup. "You know my dad. Anytime he hears of anything experimental, he insists I try it, even if it's stupid. And he was really looking for something to give me some hope when Riley served me with divorce papers. So he got me in this trial for long term nerve damage."

"So what's the treatment?"

"I put my hand in this machine and it emits high frequency radio waves to stimulate my nerves. It's crazy, but I think it might actually be working," I flex my hand. "At least this finger works better." I grin and shoot him a bird.

He cackles, reaches over the gear shifter in his Ferrari, and grabs my injured hand. "Squeeze."

I comply. He whistles. "Hell yeah, seems stronger. Definitely."

I smile. Bodie is full of bullshit. It's not like we hold hands on a regular basis.

He whips the car around a corner. "So...you finally got some strength back in the hand...that begs the question..."

"And the answer is no."

"Have you tried—"

"No." I say firmly.

"Row, come on. At least try an acoustic. If you can hold the pick you can strum."

I flip my sunglasses on and look at the window. "Yeah, but that's the problem, Bodes. I don't want to play some bullshit backup acoustic guitar. If I can't play the electric guitar, I don't even want to wrap my good hand around a fret."

"What if you could play electric again?" he challenged.

"It will never be the same. I won't ever be able to move that fast and precisely." I fling my hand with impatience.

"How will you know if you don't try?
Look even if you never play an electric guitar solo again, you used to be a damn good songwriter, Row. And you roughed out your songs on an acoustic, and if you do that again—"

I whip my glasses off, "Bodie, fucking drop it, okay?"

"Okay," he agrees amiably. "But you know who's not gonna drop it—"

"Yes. One obnoxious father, a worried mother, a twin who won't leave things alone, and two overprotective brothers, and I don't need you piling on about my life choices, too."

"You know, I really hate that you feel that way right now," he pulls through the automatic gate of his Belle Epoque Mansion and the circular drive is full of bright and shiny sports cars.