help matters. At the time of our meeting I was still recovering from some emotional devastation of my own. Needless to say, we were quite the pair when we first met. Damaged, battered, but hopeful. While it happened less as time went on, I still had to coax Georgia out of the thickly wooded forest of her fears from time to time.
Boiled down to its simplest parts, it’s not that she didn’t trust me —she didn’t trust that she was worthy of the love we have between us.
“Sorry ’bout that earlier,” CJ finally said as we fooled around with our set at the studio that night, pulling me out of the silent psychoanalysis of my wife.
“With Georgia and your flaunting of condoms? Don’t worry about it. Just … you know how she is.”
He set his sticks down and crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought she’d gotten better about all that. You’re married for Christ’s sake.”
It had gotten better, he was right. Until recently.
“And we thought you had gotten better,” I shot back as lightly as I could.
He just rolled his eyes, ignoring me.
“We’re talking about having a kid,” I blurted out. “She’s been more insecure since then. Like we’ve gone backward in the trust department.”
CJ eyed me carefully. “Does it have to do with all her mom stuff? Worried that she’ll end up like her?”
“I think so. Or that she’ll pass it along to our child …”
“What are the actual odds of that?”
“Higher than zero,” I admitted. “I don’t know the numbers because I know it’s quite small. At least for the schizophrenia.”
CJ huffed. “Yeah but not alcoholism.”
“That’s the truth …” I didn’t know the genetic likelihood of passing addiction down to our theoretical child, either. And, I wasn’t sure of the best way to bring any of this up with Georgia in a way that wouldn’t have her thinking I was accusing her of being a genetic liability. Because I didn’t think that at all.
In truth, I often tired of having to play out our potential conversations in my head before having them. I know, relationally speaking, that wasn’t the healthiest behavior to engage in, but it was a tough habit to break.
CJ lifted his eyebrows, smiling. “But a fucking kid? Really?” His face broke into a smile and, inexplicably, he rose to his feet and grabbed me into a brief, but tight, hug. “Me! An uncle!”
“Calm down.” I chuckled, shuffling my sheets of music together and stuffing them into a folder. “We’re talking about it. We’re just going to see how it goes. Let nature do its thing.”
“You better do your damn thing, Kane.” He pounded on his chest like a caveman, talking like one, too. “We Kane men are strong. We bring the sperm.”
I broke into laughter, realizing that despite his faults—and maybe because of them—CJ really would make one hell of an uncle. Someday.
***
Our first gig of the tour was at a local concert hall. Small compared to the ones we’d see later on tour, but a huge step up out of the bar scene CJ was used to. Sure, he’d played to bigger crowds before, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to him getting through a little stage fright here and there. No harm in knocking a cocky bastard down a few pegs.
Grounded Sound put together a fantastic lineup and tour, further proving Yardley’s strength as a businesswoman in her own right. Her family is well-entrenched in the music industry, having started in Country before expanding into other territories. Yardley had a hunch that the independent and folk-rock scenes were on the rise, and got her claws into this division as soon as it became available. According to Yardley, her parents sent her off to California half-expecting that her “little project,” as they called it, would end soon enough and she’d have to sell to the highest bidder.
Much to their surprise, Yardley’s instincts were right on. Groups like Mumford & Sons, The Lumineers, and The Civil Wars—until