memorial
service. Uncle Drazic’s not big on flowers, but I helped him
pick a few tasteful wreaths in colors that I don’t think would
have offended Troy’s masculine sensibilities. We printed out a
few of our favorite photographs of Troy with the rest of the crew,
and we’re all clustered around the picnic table, swapping
stories and drinking Troy’s favorite brew—New
Belgium—while soft white clouds roll by overhead.
Drazic goes first. After a long pull of water—he’s the DD
for this afternoon—he cracks his knuckles and clears his
throat. “Well, you all know what a smartass Troy was.”
“He comes by it honest,” Nash says, seated beside me. I
glance toward him. We’ve only said a few words to each other,
but it isn’t as awkward as I’d feared. He’s family,
after all.
Drazic nods and grins. “Yes, he does that. Well, he hated when he couldn’t get in the last word.”
“Which also runs in the family,” Cyrus says, with a nod
toward Nash.
We laugh, and Jagger and Cyrus clink beers.
“My favorite time, though . . .” Drazic
tips his head back, remembering. “My god. It was when he
mouthed off to the head of the upstate crew about his shit taste in
music. Do you all remember that?”
We lean forward.
“Son of a bitch had just come in second to them in a circuit,
and they were gloating, like always. And Troy says, ‘Well,
hell, of course the rest of us lost, havin’ to hear your asses
crankin’ that garbage all the way around the bend.’”
Jagger snickers.
“Oh, but it got better,” Drazic says. “Tank Al
wasn’t having any of it. He walked straight up to Troy and
socked him square in the jaw. Pop. And Troy just grinned.
‘What the hell,’ Tank Al asked him, ‘didn’t
that hurt?’ And Troy says, ‘Nothing hurts as much as
listening to your fucking Eagles soundtrack!’”
Chuckles all around; I grab a refill of my beer and slide back onto
the picnic bench beside Nash. He presses his palm to the small of my
back, and I freeze. I don’t think he did it intentionally—he’s
still focused on the rest of the guys—but I don’t know
what to do. I don’t think I want this anymore, feeling like I’m
linked to Nash because that’s the way it’s always been,
like he’s a TV show I watch out of habit even though it lost
its charm. But this is Nash’s day—his and his brother’s.
I want to be strong for him.
I manage a weak smile his way before turning my attention toward
Jagger.
“All right, all right, here’s one of my favorites. The
time Troy tried to be a good wingman for me.”
“Oh, boy,” Cyrus utters.
“Scary, right?” Jagger hunches his wiry shoulders. “So
we were at the roadhouse and there are these two gorgeous honeys at the bar alone, obviously out for a good time, best friends
or sisters or something, whatever, they were smokin’ hot. Legs
up to here and—sorry, Elena—best tits you can find this
side of the mountain, honest.”
“No offense taken.” I jab the neck of my beer toward him.
“So anyway, Troy sees me eyein’ them, and he dares
me—this was back in my shyer days—he says, ‘Jagger,
I’ll give you twenty bucks to go chat those girls up instead of
eyeballin’ them like a fucking creep.’ I said sure, as
long as he’d be my wingman, no harm, right?”
Jagger rolls his eyes. “Well, of course, as soon as we join
them at the bar, they’re both just all over Troy. It’s
like I’m a fucking hat rack next to him. To be fair, he keeps
trying to dump one of them off on me, but they’re having none
of it. So that motherfucker slips me the twenty bucks he owes me for
the dare and takes them both home.”
More laughter. It feels good to laugh with the boys again. To file
off the edges of this tension I’ve felt jabbing into my spine
ever since Lennox was released. Nash looks more at peace, too, more
like the laid-back guy I remembered as a teen, even though back then,
I only had eyes for Lennox. I’m not ready to get
service. Uncle Drazic’s not big on flowers, but I helped him
pick a few tasteful wreaths in colors that I don’t think would
have offended Troy’s masculine sensibilities. We printed out a
few of our favorite photographs of Troy with the rest of the crew,
and we’re all clustered around the picnic table, swapping
stories and drinking Troy’s favorite brew—New
Belgium—while soft white clouds roll by overhead.
Drazic goes first. After a long pull of water—he’s the DD
for this afternoon—he cracks his knuckles and clears his
throat. “Well, you all know what a smartass Troy was.”
“He comes by it honest,” Nash says, seated beside me. I
glance toward him. We’ve only said a few words to each other,
but it isn’t as awkward as I’d feared. He’s family,
after all.
Drazic nods and grins. “Yes, he does that. Well, he hated when he couldn’t get in the last word.”
“Which also runs in the family,” Cyrus says, with a nod
toward Nash.
We laugh, and Jagger and Cyrus clink beers.
“My favorite time, though . . .” Drazic
tips his head back, remembering. “My god. It was when he
mouthed off to the head of the upstate crew about his shit taste in
music. Do you all remember that?”
We lean forward.
“Son of a bitch had just come in second to them in a circuit,
and they were gloating, like always. And Troy says, ‘Well,
hell, of course the rest of us lost, havin’ to hear your asses
crankin’ that garbage all the way around the bend.’”
Jagger snickers.
“Oh, but it got better,” Drazic says. “Tank Al
wasn’t having any of it. He walked straight up to Troy and
socked him square in the jaw. Pop. And Troy just grinned.
‘What the hell,’ Tank Al asked him, ‘didn’t
that hurt?’ And Troy says, ‘Nothing hurts as much as
listening to your fucking Eagles soundtrack!’”
Chuckles all around; I grab a refill of my beer and slide back onto
the picnic bench beside Nash. He presses his palm to the small of my
back, and I freeze. I don’t think he did it intentionally—he’s
still focused on the rest of the guys—but I don’t know
what to do. I don’t think I want this anymore, feeling like I’m
linked to Nash because that’s the way it’s always been,
like he’s a TV show I watch out of habit even though it lost
its charm. But this is Nash’s day—his and his brother’s.
I want to be strong for him.
I manage a weak smile his way before turning my attention toward
Jagger.
“All right, all right, here’s one of my favorites. The
time Troy tried to be a good wingman for me.”
“Oh, boy,” Cyrus utters.
“Scary, right?” Jagger hunches his wiry shoulders. “So
we were at the roadhouse and there are these two gorgeous honeys at the bar alone, obviously out for a good time, best friends
or sisters or something, whatever, they were smokin’ hot. Legs
up to here and—sorry, Elena—best tits you can find this
side of the mountain, honest.”
“No offense taken.” I jab the neck of my beer toward him.
“So anyway, Troy sees me eyein’ them, and he dares
me—this was back in my shyer days—he says, ‘Jagger,
I’ll give you twenty bucks to go chat those girls up instead of
eyeballin’ them like a fucking creep.’ I said sure, as
long as he’d be my wingman, no harm, right?”
Jagger rolls his eyes. “Well, of course, as soon as we join
them at the bar, they’re both just all over Troy. It’s
like I’m a fucking hat rack next to him. To be fair, he keeps
trying to dump one of them off on me, but they’re having none
of it. So that motherfucker slips me the twenty bucks he owes me for
the dare and takes them both home.”
More laughter. It feels good to laugh with the boys again. To file
off the edges of this tension I’ve felt jabbing into my spine
ever since Lennox was released. Nash looks more at peace, too, more
like the laid-back guy I remembered as a teen, even though back then,
I only had eyes for Lennox. I’m not ready to get
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