"You're a groupie." Contempt filled my mom's voice as she poked at her turkey.
My brother and sister let out a laugh, but my dad remained silent. I hated holidays; I hated them more when my life was the focus of the dinner table.
"No," I immediately corrected, thankful that Billy wasn't present to bear witness. "We're together. We've been over this, Mom." I split my look between my disapproving mother and my father's placid face while ignoring the smirks of my siblings.
"Well, be safe," my dad's tone masked his thoughts.
"Dad, I've been all over the country with Billy. I'm going to meet his mom; I'd classify this as very safe."
Part of me wanted to remind them I wasn't asking for permission. At twenty years old, I could make my own decisions.
"How old is he again?" My mother continued to sputter.
"Twenty-five," I sighed. The five-year gap had never been a thing until this moment.
"Twenty-five! Twenty-five?" Her spiral bounced around the room. "Sounds like he's old enough to have more than a hobby as a profession." My mother's words seeped through my skin, instantly boiling my blood and worsened by the stifled laughs of the peanut gallery.
"It's not a hobby. He's a successful recording artist that just released his third album." My words devolved to a stammer.
"I've never heard of him." My mom tossed out the words as she picked at her plate, consciously passive-aggressive.
"Well, Mom, if I were heading out on the road with Mick Jagger, I think you'd have other concerns."
Finally, my father broke. With a laugh, he added, "I certainly would."
My mom gave a lengthy glare at him before stomping from the room.
"Daddy..." A childish whine escaped from me.
"Give her time." He poked an olive out of his salad. "Why does she insist on putting olives in salads? No one enjoys them." He sighed to himself before lifting his gaze to me.
"Your mother means well. The worry comes out in different ways. I know he's a good man. You're mom just hasn't had the luxury of meeting him yet."
"Do you think that would change her mind?" I grumbled.
"Probably not," he conceded.
A lull in the conversation hung awkwardly in the air. My brother and sister chatted about nothing in particular.
"I have his albums with me," I added to only my dad.
"Albums," my dad chuckled to himself.
"Vinyl." I smiled at him and waited for his eyes to meet mine.
"Really?" A gleam sparkled in his eyes.
"Yeah, Billy prefers vinyl." I had him.
"Well, since your mother is occupied, how about some chess?"
I grabbed my bag and followed him to the clubhouse. The needle dropped on Billy's first album, and we set the chessboard in short order. His music swirled in my head in a dizzying manner. His singing voice stabbed as a distorted version of his familiar tone, but I found plucking out his inflection and cadence came easy. Even easier was hearing Billy when he focused on his guitar. The guitar presented an entirely different plotline. He made concentrating on the chess match difficult, as his music kept distracting me.
"What's him?" My dad broke through my thoughts as he flipped the record.
"Vocals and lead guitar. He writes everything that isn't a cover." I tried to mask my pride, reminding myself it was Billy's talent on display.
"He's a drummer," my dad asserted.
"Oh, um, he plays the drums, piano, and bass as well. But in the band, he plays lead guitar."
"He's very talented," my dad murmured as he assessed his next move.
"He loved meeting you. He's oddly interested in me." It came out wrong, and my dad raised an eyebrow at me. "Not in a creepy stalker way; he wants to know everything. Weird stories fascinate him, which is funny considering how boring I am."
My dad gave a smile in acknowledgment.
"How did you know he was a drummer?" I asked.
"How he plays. All great guitarists play to the drummer." My dad moved his bishop before adding, "checkmate."
I paused to assess the board.
"And it appears you are equally distracted by him." The novelty in my dad's eyes extended to his smile as he spoke.
"Why didn't you ask about his music?" I asked.
"I didn't ask about his music. I asked him about himself. You can tell a lot about a person from how they answer such a simple question," my dad smiled.
"Yeah, what did you learn?"
"He defines himself from his roots and his family. That's where his mind went first when I asked. He went to his hometown and his parents. I liked that; it shows he's loyal. He's not ashamed of his family or their struggles, which shows good character. He only mentioned his music in passing. At the time, that worried me. I was afraid it might be a stretch dream, but now listening to his music..." My father's words dropped as he pondered his thoughts.
"What do you think it means now?" I prodded.
"He's confident in his talent, but less confident in his career," my dad assessed. "Do you mind if I hold on to these?" He gestured to Billy's albums.
"Sure, they're yours."
When I got home, I flopped onto my bed and dialed Billy.
"Hello," a familiar voice answered, but the tone confused me.
"Billy?" I asked.
"Nah, who's this?"
"Um, Lily," part of me had the urge to disconnect the call.
"Oh, Lily..." A tease clung to my name before, "hold on." The phone muffled the yell. "Billy, your girl is on the phone. I think I scared her."
"Were you a dick?" Even muffled, the second voice was clearly Billy.
"Language," a woman's voice cut through the boys' chatter.
"Sorry, Mom," Billy apologized.
"Suck up," came through the phone with a chuckle.
"Lil?" Billy's voice was heavily focused, like his gaze.
"Hey, happy Thanksgiving!" The calm of his voice soothed my confusion.
"Happy Thanksgiving. Everything okay?" His worry filled his voice; he always led with concern.
"Of course. Who answered the phone? He sounded like you."
"My brother Pete. Sorry, he's an ass." His voice raised a bit to ensure that Pete heard.
"No, I thought it was you at first, but the tone was..."
"Rude," Billy finished for me.
"I'm not getting into the middle of whatever is going on there," I teased. "I played chess with my dad today, and we listened to your first two albums. He liked them." Silence blanketed the line. "Billy?"
"Yeah, I'm here." A sharp intake of breath sliced through the phone. "I'm not sure what to say. I'm glad he liked them. I... I'd like him to know me, not my music."
"I think he knows you. At least, he has a high opinion of you," I offered.
"Yeah?" Surprise filled his voice.
"Why are you shocked? I told you he liked you," I giggled.
"I enjoyed meeting him. For a little while, it was like talking to my own father."
A pang of sadness coursed through me. "You can call him if you want, like if you wanted to talk to him about anything. He's a good listener."
"No, I couldn't we've only met once," Billy reluctantly shot down the idea.
"I'll text you his number; in case you change your mind. And, just think, tomorrow I'll meet your mom," my tone came falsely chipper.
"You better; she's been cooking all day," he laughed.
"For Thanksgiving, not for me? Right?" Panic rose in me.
"Sure, we'll say that." The jest in his voice didn't dissuade my growing nerves.
"Oh no, not because of me!" I protested.
"It's how she copes with excitement," another laugh passed his lips.
"I'll be coping with packing."
"I wish I could help. You're still in at 10 pm?"
"Yep, I take off at 2 pm with a layover in Chicago before I head up to Duluth." I suddenly realized I needed to do laundry to pack. "I should go, though. Happy Thanksgiving."
"Happy Thanksgiving. I'll see you tomorrow. And Lil..." He paused, waiting for my response to make sure I focused on his words.
"Yes,"
"I love you." The intended gravity of his words stole my breath.
I opened my mouth, expecting labored words, but "I love you too" fell out as quickly as falling asleep.