as burdensome. I wasn’t so distracted by my virtuosity, though, that I didn’t hear the door finally swing open, and I looked up from my work as my younger brother announced his arrival.
“Heya Remi.”
Dylan came in with his guitar strapped to his back and an uncertain, almost hesitant look on his face. It wasn’t an expression I was used to seeing him wear, so I wondered what was on his mind.
By and large, my brother is a carefree guy. He lives to make music and doesn’t get upset about much; we balance each other well. We look a lot alike, though our coloring is as different as night and day. Dylan is a few inches taller than me, lean and long-limbed. Where my hair is dark, his is dirty blonde. He lets it grow a little long and shaggy, and often sports a worn baseball cap over it. His eyes are the same light blue as our mother’s, the color I envy so much. His skin tone is also several shades darker than mine, the kind of tan that barely fades during Texas’ short winters.
I wasn’t surprised to see Dylan in the shop; in the month since he had moved back to Dove Creek, he came by at least once or twice a week to browse the new guitars and other instruments we acquired – supposedly . I was still convinced that our mother was putting him up to checking in on me.
Whatever the reason – or reasons – for his routine visits, I suspected from his demeanor that this wasn’t the usual.
“Everything okay, Dyl?” I asked.
His look of uncertainty rearranged itself into a look of determination, as though he were readying himself for an unpleasant task. Dylan looked like a man who was about to sit in the dentist’s chair for a root canal.
He pulled the guitar strap over his head and laid the instrument on the counter between us.
“I wanna sell it.” He told me in a rush, as though getting it over with was the least painful thing to do.
“Seriously? Why?” I asked, realizing too late that my tone held more disbelief than sensitivity.
I walked around the counter and joined my brother on the other side. Resting my hip against the glass, I settled in to show that I was ready to listen.
“You know how it is now. People don’t have a lot of money to spend, so they’re not putting it in my tip jar.” He shrugged as if to show that he understood their predicament. “I can’t make my rent and it’s just gonna get worse. I know you can sell this for a good price.” He tapped the glossy Gibson, and I guessed that he was right. But for all his sensibility, I didn’t care that it was profitable. I wasn’t about to let my little brother sell the very thing he needed to make money.
I knew what it had cost Dylan to return to Dove Creek after not making it big in Austin, so I never busted his chops about it. Heck, a selfish little part of me was glad to have him back home. If he needed help, I was prepared to offer it.
My decisio n was instant but definitive. I knew I was doing the right thing.
“Tell you what, Dyl . . . You keep that,” I said, nodding toward the guitar. “And don’t worry about your rent. You can move into my house.”
Dylan began to argue, but I wasn’t having it. “Listen, I’m never there anymore, and I need someone to keep it up for me.” I figured I didn’t have to tell him that I just couldn’t bring myself to sell the place. “Keep up with the yard work and some maintenance, and you can stay there as long as you like.”
“Rem, that’s too much. I’ll pay you some rent when I can.”
“No way. You’ll be earning your keep, trust me.” I grinned. “And it’ll give me peace of mind knowing you’re there.”
I had moved out of the house I owned with Dominic more than two years before. I couldn’t live in it, but neither could I have strangers living in it. My husband had been a careful planner; he left me enough in life insurance money to pay it off and then some. It had been his intention that I would have a roof over my head without ever having to worry. But
“Heya Remi.”
Dylan came in with his guitar strapped to his back and an uncertain, almost hesitant look on his face. It wasn’t an expression I was used to seeing him wear, so I wondered what was on his mind.
By and large, my brother is a carefree guy. He lives to make music and doesn’t get upset about much; we balance each other well. We look a lot alike, though our coloring is as different as night and day. Dylan is a few inches taller than me, lean and long-limbed. Where my hair is dark, his is dirty blonde. He lets it grow a little long and shaggy, and often sports a worn baseball cap over it. His eyes are the same light blue as our mother’s, the color I envy so much. His skin tone is also several shades darker than mine, the kind of tan that barely fades during Texas’ short winters.
I wasn’t surprised to see Dylan in the shop; in the month since he had moved back to Dove Creek, he came by at least once or twice a week to browse the new guitars and other instruments we acquired – supposedly . I was still convinced that our mother was putting him up to checking in on me.
Whatever the reason – or reasons – for his routine visits, I suspected from his demeanor that this wasn’t the usual.
“Everything okay, Dyl?” I asked.
His look of uncertainty rearranged itself into a look of determination, as though he were readying himself for an unpleasant task. Dylan looked like a man who was about to sit in the dentist’s chair for a root canal.
He pulled the guitar strap over his head and laid the instrument on the counter between us.
“I wanna sell it.” He told me in a rush, as though getting it over with was the least painful thing to do.
“Seriously? Why?” I asked, realizing too late that my tone held more disbelief than sensitivity.
I walked around the counter and joined my brother on the other side. Resting my hip against the glass, I settled in to show that I was ready to listen.
“You know how it is now. People don’t have a lot of money to spend, so they’re not putting it in my tip jar.” He shrugged as if to show that he understood their predicament. “I can’t make my rent and it’s just gonna get worse. I know you can sell this for a good price.” He tapped the glossy Gibson, and I guessed that he was right. But for all his sensibility, I didn’t care that it was profitable. I wasn’t about to let my little brother sell the very thing he needed to make money.
I knew what it had cost Dylan to return to Dove Creek after not making it big in Austin, so I never busted his chops about it. Heck, a selfish little part of me was glad to have him back home. If he needed help, I was prepared to offer it.
My decisio n was instant but definitive. I knew I was doing the right thing.
“Tell you what, Dyl . . . You keep that,” I said, nodding toward the guitar. “And don’t worry about your rent. You can move into my house.”
Dylan began to argue, but I wasn’t having it. “Listen, I’m never there anymore, and I need someone to keep it up for me.” I figured I didn’t have to tell him that I just couldn’t bring myself to sell the place. “Keep up with the yard work and some maintenance, and you can stay there as long as you like.”
“Rem, that’s too much. I’ll pay you some rent when I can.”
“No way. You’ll be earning your keep, trust me.” I grinned. “And it’ll give me peace of mind knowing you’re there.”
I had moved out of the house I owned with Dominic more than two years before. I couldn’t live in it, but neither could I have strangers living in it. My husband had been a careful planner; he left me enough in life insurance money to pay it off and then some. It had been his intention that I would have a roof over my head without ever having to worry. But
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