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The open mic night is kind of dumb. I mean, most of the kids just aren’t talented. It feels like bad karaoke, only no one is drunk. There are a few people, aside from Kylie and Oz, who have a modicum of talent. One kid did a pretty decent cover of Jack Johnson, and the rest is just blah. Shitty covers of crappy songs. So, by the time Oz and Kylie go on, near the very end, I’m antsy, irritated, and ready to go home. The coffee shop is packed, the tables and chairs pushed back to make a small circle of space to one side of the counter where the baristas continue to make drinks, slamming the espresso wand, steaming milk, making the blender whir.

The second-to-last act finishes butchering U2, and Kylie and Oz take their place in the center of the open area. Oz is holding Kylie’s black Yamaha by the neck, and a beat-up black and tan Stratocaster is slung by the strap behind his back. There’s a tiny black upright piano that someone shoved into the corner, and Kylie slides onto the bench.

I’ve heard them practicing in the basement over the last couple of weeks, and I have a feeling they’re about to slay it.

Kylie pulls the mic stand over to the piano, adjusts the arm so she can sing and play at the same time. Oz, meanwhile, drags a stool and a mic stand and sits near Kylie, partially facing her and partially facing the audience. He leaves his electric guitar hanging at his back and settles the acoustic on his knee, does some unplugged strumming and tuning.

Kylie glances at Oz, offers him a shaky smile, and takes a deep breath. Oz just nods at her as he plugs in, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, and this tiny excuse for a smile seems to reassure my nervous-looking daughter. “Hey, guys, ” Kylie says. “I’m Kylie Calloway, and this is Oz Hyde. I hope you’ll like what we’ve got for you. We’re actually going to do two songs for you guys. As long as you don’t boo us off-stage first. ”

She nods at Oz, who sucks in a deep breath, and then starts playing. It’s a slow, lilting melody, rolling like deep ocean waves. After a few beats, Kylie joins him on the piano, playing the same melody but with piano embellishments sliding above and below and weaving through Oz’s bass line. The crowd has gone silent, realizing they’re about to hear something good. Even the coffee shop employees have stopped working to listen. You can sense it, smell it, feel it. You can see it in the way Oz plays the acoustic guitar with easy skill, hear it in the rising beauty of Kylie’s piano.

And then Kylie starts singing:

“Watching this unfold, watching hours become moments Become weeks become days,

It’s all a game, all a trick, hopeless despite my intents.

I’m watching you close and I’m lost in your maze I can’t find my way, don’t have a map of your terrain.

I’m trying and I’m diving in, but I’m caught up in your pain, I’m lost and I’m looking for you, but your secrets are a stain, They leave a shadow on the clarity of what I feel.

Your secrets and the hidden scars

Are holes in your skin, but light shines through, bright as stars. ”

Her piano goes muted, quiet, and Oz’s melody continues, dark and deep and slow. Then he sings, and I’m blown away. His voice isn’t…good, but it’s rough and mesmerizing, something raw and fascinating.

“You wish you knew me,

You wish you could see me,

Maybe you think a few kind words will free me.

But darling, they won’t.

Darling, they won’t.

Your eyes betray your fear,

You come close to me, draw near,

Afraid, maybe curious, maybe thinking you can save me.

But darling, you can’t.

Darling, you can’t.

Your world and mine,

They’re a million miles apart,

And baby, maybe you think you can bridge the gap, But darling, you can’t.

Darling, you can’t. ”

Oz lets the melody play out once more, and then strums three harsh, muted chords, a waiting beat, one-two-three, and then with a sudden crescendo, they’re playing together, full volume, their melodies intersecting and weaving and complementing. Together, then, they sing, each singing their own chorus, overlapping and competing and harmonizing:

“I want to know you—”

“Baby, you don’t—”

“There’s no darkness too dark, no scars too deep—”

“You can’t save me, darling you can’t, darling you can’t—”

“I’m not afraid of you, I’m strong enough, if only you’d let me try—”

“Darling, I can’t, darling, I can’t—”

“Let me love you, let me love you, let me let me let me love you—”

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, darling I can’t, Darling you can’t—”

“Let me—”

“Darling, I can’t—”

“Let me please—”

“Darling, I can’t—”

This goes on, a musical argument, sung back and forth and back and forth, their voices rising in volume and intensity until they’re both shouting, pleading, singing exactly in unison, but singing different words. It’s an incredible performance. There’s an element of folk-style simplicity to the song, the way the notes themselves and the chords and the sequences aren’t complicated, but they’re haunting and compelling.

They end abruptly, mid-chorus, his guitar striking a muted chord.

There’s a fraught moment of tense silence, and then the audience loses it, howling and screaming, shocked and awed.

They don’t silence the screams and applause, they merely wait, and then Kylie gives Oz a nod. Oz unplugs the Yamaha and sets it on the floor by his foot, and then swings the Fender around, plugs it in. Slides off the stool, adjusts the strap to a more comfortable position, turns it on, and then touches the strings. I haven’t heard him play electric, and I’m curious. The way he strokes the strings at the fret board before he starts playing, the way he seems to fall inward, makes me think he’ll be pretty good.

He hits a chord, a low, discordant thrum, and he nods, jerks a thumb up. The guy at the little mix board recognizes this signal, turns a knob, and the thrum become a roar. Kylie is sitting at the piano, just watching. Oz renews the chord, and it fills the room, and he’s nodding as if to a beat no one else can hear. Then we’re all struck, assaulted, battered by a sudden frenzy of notes, all played up high on the neck, near the bridge, and it’s a kind of sustained hailstorm, relentless and chaotic, but there’s a rhythm to it, or there’s a rhythm falling out of it, the way the notes slow and lower, becoming a melody. It’s as if he’s dragging a melody by main force out of the chaos, and then Kylie’s piano joins the frenetic mass of sound, which somehow becomes tune, becomes melody, becomes something unexpectedly lovely. She’s playing fast, all tapped high notes, mirroring his flying fingers. I don’t think any of us can believe what we’re hearing. Oz is a magician, an artist. He’s lost, subsumed within the music. Kylie? She’s lost, too, but as much in him as she is the music.

Then Kylie sings, and it’s…perfect. And I again cannot believe how talented my daughter is, the beauty in her lyrics and the purity of her voice.

“Flaws are the fabric of a soul,

And yours are deep,

Twisted thick into the damask of who you are But I see past the flaws.

I’m not blind, I’m not blind, I’m not blind.

It may not be love,

It may be love,

It may be something else,

Maybe something in between love and not I don’t know, and I wouldn’t be writing these words if I did, I wouldn’t be lost and drifting and scribbling at three in the morning, If I did.

So your flaws, the tangled web of secrets and sins and scars, They’re you, you, you,

And I see you,

I see you

I see you.

You hide behind the hard and impenetrable flesh of your scars, You hide behind the things that make you human, And that’s all I want,

The human, the inside and the outside, and the good and the bad, It’s all I want,

The everything,

The ugly and beautiful and the gray in between All mixed up like a slush and a slurry of pieces.

I don’t miss the way you look at me,

The disbelief that I could see through the mask you wear, The truth you wield like a disguise,

The weapons of your fists and the ink of your tattoos, They’re you, you, you,

But not the whole, not the entirety, not the everything, And don’t you know,

Don’t you see,

Can’t you understand that all I want

Is only the everything,

Only the everything,

Only the everything

That is you. ”

While she sings, Oz is playing with the kind of desperation and fervor that tells me he feels the words, hears every single one, and he’s playing to sustain his disbelief. I’m watching him play and watching him deny. It’s an intimate moment between them, and I’m stunned by the bravery it takes to play something so revealing on stage, to sing so openly and, for Oz, to play along knowing the words are about him, for him, to him.

Kylie’s voice fades, and Oz’s guitar fades, and only Kylie’s piano remains, a repeating melody, something short and high, communicating wistfulness and longing.

The applause is deafening. There’s a huge crowd standing everywhere there is a space; people drawn from the hallways have come by to listen. When the noise doesn’t immediately die away, Kylie speaks into the mic, grinning. “Ya’ll wanna hear Oz play a solo? ” There’s a chorus of agreement, and Kylie’s grin grows brighter. “Yeah, me too. Oz, what do you say? How about that piece you played for me the other night? ”

This is a community college open mic night that has somehow become a concert.

Oz looks frozen, stunned, and uncomfortable. He stares at Kylie, who just gives him a nod and a smile. Oz lets out a nervous breath, and then sits on the stool, closes his eyes, strums the strings almost idly, thinking, falling under and into the zone.

If I was shocked before, I’m doubly so now. The guitar solo he plays needs no accompaniment. It sings for itself, plays its own backbeat. It goes on and on, and you just can’t breathe for the intensity of it, the way it spans the register of notes, high and low, wailing and shredding, low and slow, passionate and angry. He’s deep into it, the guitar on his thigh, held at a slight diagonal. His eyes are closed, his face a mask, not making any of the expressions you so often see in guitarists. He’s blank, except for a slight furrowing of his brow, and a tightness in his jaw. As if every emotion he has is being pushed and poured into the guitar.

Finally, he walks his fingers from the top of the fret board to the bottom, all the way down the neck, and when he reaches the highest note, he holds it, lets it hum and squeal and moan, sends it to wavering, echoing, becoming somehow mournful.

Slowly, he lets the note fade, and lets silence swell.

The silence becomes a single clap, then two, then thunderous applause. I’m with them, amazed.

They were the last act, and the MC, a young guy with thick glasses and a scraggly goatee, thanks everyone for showing up, and then that’s it. People who were only there for the open mic night leave in ones and twos, and the rest go back to studying and sipping coffee. I order lattes for Nell and me while we wait for Oz and Kylie to pack up.

They find us at our table, and I stand up to hug Kylie “I’m so proud of you, babe! ” I say. “That was incredible. ”

She blushes. “Thanks, Dad. I was so nervous I thought I’d puke. ”

“You’d never have known. ”

Nell joins the hug. “For real, sweetie, you’re amazing. That was one of the best performances I’ve ever seen. And I don’t mean that just because I’m your mother. ”

I look up at Oz. “You’re a talented kid, Oz. There’s maybe thirty people that can play at your caliber. No joke. ”

He nods and gives me an oddly shy half smile. “Thanks, Colt. ” He gestures at Kylie, who’s hugging friends and chattering excitedly. “She’s the real talent, though. She wrote all the music. Except for my electric guitar part, I mean. All the acoustic music, she wrote. All the lyrics, the arrangements, everything. It was all her. And she was the only reason I got up there at all. ”

“They encored you, pal. At an open mic night. You. ” I can’t help trying to emphasize this to him, trying to build him up. I see something in him, and it both scares me and makes me want to help him, the way no one did for me.

“Yeah. I might let her talk me into doing a couple more gigs. That was pretty fun. Scary as fuck, but fun. ” He winces. “Sorry, shouldn’t swear, I guess. ”

I laugh. “I’m not gonna bite your head off for dropping an F-bomb, Oz. Nell might, but I won’t. ”

We chat for few more minutes, and then she and Oz are walking, hand in hand, toward the exit.

I have so many questions about him, about them. About whether my daughter is safe, whether her heart is safe with him, whether I should ask if they’re sleeping together. If I even want to know. What I’m supposed to do if they are. Should I try and stop them if they are? As they walk away, Oz turns and nods at me, a gesture of thanks. I nod back, and I don’t miss the fact that he scratches at his left forearm.

It’s a move eerily similar to the one Nell makes, rubbing at her scars. When she was actively cutting, she’d scratch almost manically, frantically. Even now, almost twenty years later, she’ll rub at her forearms and wrists if she’s really upset, or if something reminds her of those days, those feelings.

Seeing that gesture in Oz, in the guy my daughter is interested in? It scares the fuck out of me. What frightens me even more is the fact that I don’t know what the hell to do about it.

SEVEN: Heaven Breaks Through

“Oh, my god, Oz! ” Kylie shrieks as soon as we’re outside. “That was amazing! ”

I set our gear down by the trunk of the car and then pick up Kylie by the waist, spinning her around. “We totally fucking killed it, didn’t we? ”

“We did. We totally did. ” Kylie leans against me as I let her slide down to her feet. “I knew we would. But holy shit, does that feel good. I love performing. I want to do it all the time. We’ve got to get a gig, Oz! ”

“We will, sweetness. I’ve got no doubts. ”

“I did, but not anymore. ” She lets out a long, happy sigh.

I open the trunk of Kylie’s car. It’s her mom’s, really, but they let Kylie drive it most of the time, unless both Colt and Nell have to go somewhere separately. As we put away our guitars—or my guitars, as Kylie keeps insisting I keep the acoustic—I ask a question that’s been nagging at me since we met. “Why don’t you have your own car, Kylie? ”

She slides in behind the wheel and starts the engine, which comes to life with a smooth purr. “It was a deal my parents and I made when I turned sixteen. They said I had two choices. They’d buy me something then, when I turned sixteen, but it would be, for all intents and purposes, a piece of shit. Older, used, and cheap. And most of my allowance would go to paying for gas and insurance. Or, alternatively, I could choose to wait to have my own car when I graduate. The payoff there was I’d keep all my allowance as spending money, I’d drive my mom’s car, which is pretty fucking sweet, I have to say, and they’d help me buy a car when I graduate. The closer to a four-point-oh GPA I get, the more they’ll spend on the car, especially if I don’t get any tickets or get in any accidents. I chose the second option, obviously. I’ve been putting a third of my monthly allowance into a savings account, so I’ll have money to put toward whatever I end up buying. It’s a good deal. There’s rarely a time when I can’t take the car, and in those circumstances, either Dad’ll take me where I need to go, or someone else comes to get me. ”

I’m impressed. “I don’t think most people would’ve gone for the delayed gratification. ”

She just shrugs. “No, probably not, but when Mom and Dad said they’d spend at most five thousand dollars on my car, I did some online research as to what five grand can buy, and decided I’d rather wait. ”

She’s taking us toward downtown Nashville, but I don’t know her exact destination. I decide to let it be a surprise.

“Five grand can buy a really nice car, Ky. ” It comes out kind of judgmental.

She doesn’t miss it. “Yeah, well, maybe so. But…look. I’m privileged, okay? I know it. All my friends drive nice cars. Their parents bought them basically whatever they wanted, no conditions. That friend I told you about, the one whose house I got lost in? She drives a Mercedes-Benz. A G-class. It costs more than a lot people’s houses. And she’s already wrecked it once. My point is, yeah, I know I’m used to certain level of…luxury. It’s what I know. My parents are trying to instill a sense of values in me, and that’s a good thing. I mean, sometimes I get a little irritated, like, they could afford to buy me my own BMW if they wanted to, but it would be their car. Not mine. I haven’t earned it. They’ve worked for what they have. I guess even the fact that I understand why my parents won’t buy me a fancy car makes me weird, for a teenager. ”

“I think it’s awesome, ” I tell her. “For real. Most people don’t appreciate shit. Like, the house they live in, the car they drive. They don’t understand how much they have. You do, and that’s…it’s amazing. ”

She glances at me. “Honestly, Oz, I didn’t really appreciate it very much until I met you. ”

I laugh, and it’s not a little bitter. “Until you saw how I live, huh? ” She doesn’t answer right away, and I know I’ve gotten it right. “Hey, like you said, it’s all I’ve ever known. It’s not like I went from rich to poor, like I know what I’m missing by not living like you and Ben and your pals do. I’ve always been dirt poor. ”

“Are you, like, resentful? ”

I have to think about that. “I don’t know. Resentful? No. Mom’s busted her ass to provide what we do have. We’ve always had to scrape to make ends meet. I’ve been working since I was fourteen to have my own money. And now I stay with her and help out with rent and whatever. It’s why I’m still living with her. She works herself ragged, Kylie. It’s a vicious cycle she’s stuck in. She never went to college that I know of, and because she had me, she couldn’t. She had to keep working to take care of me. She just kept working and couldn’t ever seem to scrape together the time or money to go to college or anything. So she’s been a cocktail waitress her whole life. For me. So am I resentful? No. I’m glad to have had what little we did. But do I wish we had more? Yeah. Do I wish for better for her and for myself? Yeah, obviously. I’ve seen how hard Mom’s worked just to keep food in the house and a roof over our heads, and I want more than just the bare necessities, more than just paycheck to paycheck. ”

The conversation shifts to other topics as Kylie parks in a lot just off the main strip of downtown Nashville. I pay for parking, and she takes my hand. She leads me to Broadway, where the bars and the lights and the shops are, the famous stretch of Nashville. It’s a busy night, despite the chill in the winter air. Couples stroll hand in hand, families, groups of guys and clusters of girls, everyone laughing and going from bar to bar and shop to shop. She’s taking me somewhere specific, I realize, and I go along with her. She finds the door she’s looking for, and I start to balk.

“No, Kylie. Hell no. ”

She grins at me. “Come on, Oz. Please? Just look? ” She doesn’t bother to wait for my response, just drags me by the hand into the boot and hat shop.

The door is rickety, and an old-fashioned bell sounds as we open it. The floor is covered in old wood planks that squeak and dip as we walk over them, almost as if we might put our foot through a board at any moment. It smells of leather, and the walls are lined with a dizzying array of cowboy boots. There’s a line of benches running through the middle of the store, with piles of boxes between the benches, single boots displayed on top. There are cowboy hats, fedoras, huge belt buckles, a glass case displaying spurs and string ties and expensive gold-and-silver belt buckles. I have never in my life felt more out of place. I’m wearing my beat-up combat boots, a pair of baggy black jeans, a black November’s Doom T-shirt with a gray long-sleeved shirt beneath it. My hair is bound at the back of my neck, and for once I’m not wearing my hat, at Kylie’s insistence. I look every inch the metal kid, and I’m getting looks of confusion from the guy behind the counter, an older man with an actual handlebar mustache and an enormous white cowboy hat, tight jeans, and a flannel shirt tucked behind a thick leather belt and shiny oval buckle.

“Kylie, what are we doing here? ” I ask, trying to inch away toward the door.

She just laughs. “Oh, don’t be a sissy, Oz. We’re buying you a pair of cowboy boots. ”

I snort. “The fuck we are. For one thing, I don’t have the money for boots, and for another thing, hell, no. I’m not wearing cowboy boots. What about me says I would ever wear something like that? ” I point at a pair of boots. They’re black with orange and red flames, gaudy and dizzyingly bright. “Or those? ” These are silver, actual snakeskin, with metal scrollwork at the toe and heel.

Kylie just waves at me. “Of course you wouldn’t wear those. We’ve got to find something that suits you. ”

“Um, newsflash, sweetness: you ain’t gonna find it here. ” I stuff my hands in my pockets and stop in place, refusing to follow her farther into the store.

She keeps going, perusing the selection. At the far end of the store, she seems to find something, and hustles back to me, a box in hand. “Sit. ” She pushes me backward until a bench hits my knees, and I sit automatically. “Shoes off. ”

I cross my arms over my chest. “No. ”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Okay, be stubborn. But you know you can’t say no to me. ”

“No. No. No. ” I fake a glare. “See? ”

“Doesn’t mean you’re going to really say no. Now, boots off, or I’ll take ’em off you for you. ”

“What am I, three? ”

She lifts both shoulders. “Well, yeah. You are sort of acting like a three-year-old about this. ” I just stare at her, and she huffs in irritation. “Just look at them, would you? ” She opens the box and hands me a boot.

It is pretty cool, actually. It’s more of a biker boot, square-toed, black, with a strap of black leather running over the top and around the heel, buckled at either side with chunky silver.

“Goddamn it, Kylie. ” I glance at the small white price tag sticker with the $300 scrawled on it. “No way. No way I can afford those. They’re not bad, but no. ”

Kylie kneels in front of me, grabs my foot, and reaches for the laces. “Who said I was letting you buy them? ” She tugs my combat boot off, and for some reason, I let her. “Oz, please. Just try the boots on. ”

I sigh. “Fine. But you’re not paying for them. ”

“Yes, I am. We fucking killed it, Oz. I’m proud of you. ”

I stop with my foot partway into the boot. “You’re proud of me? ” I’m not sure whether I’m pissed off at the implication of condescension, or pleased. A little of both.

Kylie glances up at me; my mixed reaction must show on my face, because she says, “Not like…god, that sounds condescending, doesn’t it? I’m just…I’m happy you did it. I had fun. And I know you were as nervous as me, and you did it anyway. ”

I stomp my foot into the boot, and then the other foot, and I hate the fact that they’re the most comfortable boots I’ve ever worn. “I get what you mean. And thanks. ”

“How do they feel? ”

I lift an eyebrow. “Expensive. Really fucking expensive. ”

“But good, right? ”

I sigh. “Yeah. Comfortable as hell. But you’re not—” I’m cut off by Kylie taking the box up to the counter and whipping out her debit card before I can blink twice.

I watch helplessly as she signs away three hundred dollars and then returns to me, shoves my old battered boots into the box, and grins at me.

“Am too, ” she says, with a shit-eating grin.

“Kylie—”

She takes me by the hand, and I let her lead me out of the store. The boots are really, really comfortable, and they look badass. When we’re on the street, she shoves me against the wall between the store and a bar, and presses into me. “Just say thank you, Oz. It’s a gift. It’s me repaying you for giving me the best night of my life. Performing? With you? It was magical. It’s not charity, it’s not because you can’t afford it. It’s because I want to see you in a pair of badass biker boots. It’s because I want to. Because I can. It’s a thank-you. And it’s a ‘please, please will you gig with me again? ’ bribe. ”

I can’t help but let my hands wrap around her back, resting just above her hips. “Kylie. ” I let my forehead touch hers. “Fuck, you’re impossible. ”

She smiles at me, her lips nearing mine. “I know. It’s a talent. ”

“One of many. ” I kiss her, and even on a crowded city street, I feel my resolve wavering.

I’ve refused to sleep with her thus far. I want to, and she wants to, but…I just won’t. She’s waited. She’s still a few weeks from her eighteenth birthday, and she’s a virgin. I’m…not. Decidedly not. Very much not. She thinks she wants her first time to be with me, but she deserves more. She deserves romance. Love. And I’m not sure I can give her that. I like her. I appreciate who she is. Her talents. Her beauty. Her innocence. And it’s for all those reasons that I keep pushing her away, keep telling her no, keep ripping myself away from her when all I want to do is bury myself in her, kiss her and never stop, strip her naked and leave her limp and breathless and ruined for anyone else but me.