Page 14 of Playing the Backbeat

Iknow I’ve double—no, triple—checked every room. I haven’t left anything behind, but there’s this growing, eating, worry building in my subconscious that I must have left something here. Something important.

“About ready, man?” Dom asks, finding me in my living room, scanning every inch of the place for something I’ve left behind.

But there’s nothing.

Dom’s leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, ankles crossed, and a line across his forehead that tells me there’s an undercurrent of concern filtering his words.

“Just checking one more time,” I say. Even I can hear the defeat. How many times have I checked already?

“Want me to take a look around too?” he offers, his tone light, but after living with me for a few years, he knows better than most how much it helps me move on when I get that reassurance from someone else.

Relief has my shoulders sagging. “Thanks.” He nods before heading down the short hallway to my room.

I close my eyes and take a moment to remind myself that there’s no emergency. I’ve got everything I need. The guys helped me pack up the rental truck this morning. I’ve got a place to stay…my stomach drops.

I picture Dee, laid back in that lawn chair, face lit by the bonfire, eyes sparkling with the discovery of her solution to both of our predicaments. Trepidation spirals deep in my gut and I struggle to swallow, my jaw clenching with something else…anticipation, maybe?

I don’t have enough time to make sense of my thoughts before Dom returns to the living room of my now-empty apartment.

“All clear. We got it all.” He slaps me on the shoulder as he walks by. “We’re going to strap down some of the furniture and head over to Dee’s place. We’ll see you there in a bit?”

“That works. And Dom? Thanks.” He nods, and then he’s gone again.

Dom’s reassurance, another set of eyes confirming that I haven’t left anything behind, has me sucking in a full breath for the first time since I woke up this morning.

The hard part is done, right? I’m all packed up. Now there’s just the unpacking to worry about.

We’ll go to Dee’s place first to unload the things I’ll need while I crash with her. The rest—mostly furniture I won’t be needing since Dee’s apartment is fully furnished—will be going into Dominic and Ellie’s basement until one of the million apartments I’m on a waitlist for calls me to let me know they have a vacancy.

I allow myself to relax for a moment before my phone rings and my mom’s face appears on the screen. I accept the video call to find both of my parents huddled close together and talking in soft, muffled voices.

“You two are clearly up to no good,” I say.

“Who? Us? Never.” Dad plays dumb like those two are never conspiring against me, their only child. Except they always are. They’re professional meddlers.

“We were just checking in on this totallynormalday. Nothing major happening at all.” Mom lays the sarcasm on extra thick, and I smile. Yeah, the apple definitely didn’t fall far from the tree.

“Yep. Just slept in this morning. Made a cup of coffee. Sat around thinking about how nothing exciting ever happens.” I smirk and my parents laugh. “The guys are downstairs. Truck is all packed up.”

“It’s a big change. You’ve lived in that apartment for years. You feeling okay about everything?” Mom asks. I can tell she’s trying to play it off as a light comment, but her concern bleeds into every word. She’s like me. Not able to turn her brain off, even when it would make things so much easier.

“Eh, I think the hard part is over.”

Dad studies me and I bristle. My parents know me well, and sometimes I don’t want to hear what needs to be said.

“If it gets to be too much, give Nick a call and set up an appointment. The apartment, the Bridge. You got a lot on your plate, Dylan.”

“Yeah, Dad. I’m aware.” I struggle to keep my voice even. Any ease I began to feel before this call is going to be undone. They’ve seen me at my worst, so I know they say things like this with the best intentions, but when I’m in the middle of something stressful, the last thing I want is to be reminded of that fact. “How about I give you a call tomorrow after I’m settled. I know I’m going to be exhausted and crash into bed early tonight.”

“I’m just saying, don’t wait until you’re underwater,” Dad says, persistent as ever.

“I’m not underwater. I’m not even in the sand yet.” It’s not ahugelie…okay, I guess I’m at least waist-deep in the water. But Ican’t take care of myself if I’m worried about my parents who are worrying about me.

“Of course, honey. We love you. Just wanted you to know we’re thinking of you,” Mom adds, with a gentle smile. An attempt to soften Dad’s more direct approach to everything.

“I’ll send off a flare if it gets to be too much,” I concede. It’s not fair of me to write off their concern when the three of us all know I can get swallowed up and then it’s ten times harder for me to find my footing.

Mollified, my dad nods, his posture softening.