Silver” move, as if to physically display how taken aback he was by the news. Rick wasn’t fooled.
“And not at all a surprise to you.”
“Well.” Paul gave a sheepish grin. “Ilana babysits Abbey now and then. She and Kat
do
talk.” He folded his arms, still tipping confidently back in his seat. “I figured I’d let you bring it up. You okay?”
“Of course I am okay! He’s my best mate. And Kat is wonderful. I’ve her to thank for reconciling us in the first place. It’s just . . . timing, that’s all. Dig’s at the top of his game right now.” Rick bit into one of the sticky buns Paul had insisted upon ordering. He felt his jaw lock in protest and worked to wrench it back into place. “Musically,” he said with a wince.
“And emotionally, wouldn’t you say? It’s all woven together.”
Rick concentrated on chewing. He fixated on Paul’s fingers, staring as they tapped against their owner’s elbows now.
He has my hands,
Rick marveled. Long capable fingers, a dusting of dark hair at the knuckles, flat square tips. “Doctor’s hands,” Rick’s mother often remarked, as if she could channel a self-fulfilling prophecy with an oft-repeated compliment. He turned his own hands over to study them now. Where Paul’s were probably kept smooth in academia, Rick’s were permanently calloused, grooved from years of hard play and heavy-gauge steel. They weren’t doctor’s hands; they weren’t helping hands. Sure, they had helped themselves to a fair number of women over the years. But they had no power to heal. To Rick they felt heavy, useless now. Scraping the bottom of the barrel. Nowhere near the top of his game anymore.
“I just thought . . . maybe they’d wait a while longer. Hold off till we really got the band back on track and sorted. I guess it would be too much to ask . . .” He drifted off, shifting his jaw back and forth.
Crikey,
he thought.
I’m like the bloody Wizard of Oz tin man in need of oil.
“Ask him to give up what he loves, to choose between the two?” Paul supplied the words Rick didn’t dare speak. “What purpose would that serve? Mom never made you choose.”
Rick did little to hide his pained expression. Having the rusty jaw of a tin man didn’t hurt as much as knowing the cavity where his heart used to beat was empty by his own making.
“Dad. Fourteen years is a long time. More than half my lifetime.”
“Don’t.”
“It’s okay to hold on to your memories . . . but don’t let them hold you back.”
Rick gritted his teeth, swallowed hard. “Again, how did you get so bloody brilliant?”
“You and Mom raised us well,” Paul replied, gently righting his chair to solid ground. “You did a good job.”
Rick opened his mouth to speak, but only elicited a pop as his jaw cracked out of alignment again.
“Jeez, is that your
mouth
? You’d better have that looked at. Sounds like TMJ.”
“I just came off the road and we’re in the studio for the next two months. It can wait a little longer.”
“You look ropy. Carrying all your tension here.” Paul rubbed the back of his own neck. “When was the last time you had a massage?”
Rick gave a laugh. Women from every
arrondissement
in Paris were clamoring to touch him just a short while ago. Did that count?
“Seriously. Have you ever thought of taking yoga?”
“Okay. Now I think
you’ve
been talking to Kat. She’s into all that poxy new age mumbo jumbo, too.”
“So try it. Here.” Paul pushed his faculty ID across the table. “Ilana swears by these classes at NYU. She says people line up around the block during the semester, but I’m sure you’d have no problem getting in during the summer. But you have to be faculty, staff, or alumni. I won’t need this back till September.”
Rick practically choked on the last swallow of coffee from his mug. “You want me to impersonate you?”
Paul gave his father a piteous withering look. “No, I want you to fit in with all the
“And not at all a surprise to you.”
“Well.” Paul gave a sheepish grin. “Ilana babysits Abbey now and then. She and Kat
do
talk.” He folded his arms, still tipping confidently back in his seat. “I figured I’d let you bring it up. You okay?”
“Of course I am okay! He’s my best mate. And Kat is wonderful. I’ve her to thank for reconciling us in the first place. It’s just . . . timing, that’s all. Dig’s at the top of his game right now.” Rick bit into one of the sticky buns Paul had insisted upon ordering. He felt his jaw lock in protest and worked to wrench it back into place. “Musically,” he said with a wince.
“And emotionally, wouldn’t you say? It’s all woven together.”
Rick concentrated on chewing. He fixated on Paul’s fingers, staring as they tapped against their owner’s elbows now.
He has my hands,
Rick marveled. Long capable fingers, a dusting of dark hair at the knuckles, flat square tips. “Doctor’s hands,” Rick’s mother often remarked, as if she could channel a self-fulfilling prophecy with an oft-repeated compliment. He turned his own hands over to study them now. Where Paul’s were probably kept smooth in academia, Rick’s were permanently calloused, grooved from years of hard play and heavy-gauge steel. They weren’t doctor’s hands; they weren’t helping hands. Sure, they had helped themselves to a fair number of women over the years. But they had no power to heal. To Rick they felt heavy, useless now. Scraping the bottom of the barrel. Nowhere near the top of his game anymore.
“I just thought . . . maybe they’d wait a while longer. Hold off till we really got the band back on track and sorted. I guess it would be too much to ask . . .” He drifted off, shifting his jaw back and forth.
Crikey,
he thought.
I’m like the bloody Wizard of Oz tin man in need of oil.
“Ask him to give up what he loves, to choose between the two?” Paul supplied the words Rick didn’t dare speak. “What purpose would that serve? Mom never made you choose.”
Rick did little to hide his pained expression. Having the rusty jaw of a tin man didn’t hurt as much as knowing the cavity where his heart used to beat was empty by his own making.
“Dad. Fourteen years is a long time. More than half my lifetime.”
“Don’t.”
“It’s okay to hold on to your memories . . . but don’t let them hold you back.”
Rick gritted his teeth, swallowed hard. “Again, how did you get so bloody brilliant?”
“You and Mom raised us well,” Paul replied, gently righting his chair to solid ground. “You did a good job.”
Rick opened his mouth to speak, but only elicited a pop as his jaw cracked out of alignment again.
“Jeez, is that your
mouth
? You’d better have that looked at. Sounds like TMJ.”
“I just came off the road and we’re in the studio for the next two months. It can wait a little longer.”
“You look ropy. Carrying all your tension here.” Paul rubbed the back of his own neck. “When was the last time you had a massage?”
Rick gave a laugh. Women from every
arrondissement
in Paris were clamoring to touch him just a short while ago. Did that count?
“Seriously. Have you ever thought of taking yoga?”
“Okay. Now I think
you’ve
been talking to Kat. She’s into all that poxy new age mumbo jumbo, too.”
“So try it. Here.” Paul pushed his faculty ID across the table. “Ilana swears by these classes at NYU. She says people line up around the block during the semester, but I’m sure you’d have no problem getting in during the summer. But you have to be faculty, staff, or alumni. I won’t need this back till September.”
Rick practically choked on the last swallow of coffee from his mug. “You want me to impersonate you?”
Paul gave his father a piteous withering look. “No, I want you to fit in with all the
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