Page 68 of Naked Coffee Guy

Your mouth tells beautiful tales

I believe, I believe, I believe.

I end the song looking at Mac, fighting the tears brimming my eyes. He touches his heart, then his lips, and then points to me. I do the same for him before swiping at my moist eyes.

“I’ll be back in five,” I say quickly into the mic, then set my guitar on the stand. He’s there at the bottom of the stairs to the stage and engulfs me in a hug once I reach him.

“I think I remember that one a little differently,” he laughs in my hair. It was only a few short months ago that I spat those lyrics from the stage, but a much more spiteful version.

“I think you’ve ruined the coldhearted bitch part of me.” I press my lips to his, lingering before pulling back to look at him—at his crinkling blue eyes, the curve of his smile, his delicious long beard that I love running my fingers through. I do this now, but he captures my hand in his.

“Oh, she still exists,” Mac says, “I have to punish her out of you.”

“Promises, promises.” I offer him a wicked grin before lightly biting his lip.

“Uh, Maren?”

The soft, familiar voice jolts me back to reality, and I turn to find Lydia—and behind my sister, my parents.

I move from Mac’s arms to face them, and I find comfort in the way he touches my back, letting me know he’s here. But still, a seed of unease grows inside me now that I’m facing my parents again. The last time I saw my father, he was pointing a gun at me, accusing me of being a thief.

The look on his face is different now. Humbled. He rests a hand on my sister’s shoulder, and I recognize that he’s depending on her strength in this moment.

“Hi Dad, hi Mom,” I say. My mother’s face crumbles, and she rushes forward, engulfing me in a hug.

“Mi amor,” she says, “My Maren.”

The ice melts in my heart, something breaking inside me as I’m shown the first form of love from her in years. But my arms stay at my sides, and I remain aware of Mac’s touch still at my back. I’m here, it says, I will always be here.

“Isabella,” my father murmurs, and my mom releases me with a shower of apologies. She looks to my dad, and he nods at me.

“Maren, you look good,” he says.

I could take this moment to point out that I look no different than I have for years, he’s just refused to see me. I could point out all the ways he hurt me. How they refused to let me come home. How they couldn’t see that I’d changed. How they once told me they loved me, but proved their love was conditional.

“Thank you,” I say, “You do, too.”

I’m lying; they both look tired. Older. Full of remorse. I wonder if they had as many sleepless nights as I have over the years.

“Your music, your singing, you’re quite good,” he continues, “But you always have been. I told your mother when you were young, that girl has talent. And look at you now.”

I laugh, in spite of the heaviness that surrounds us. “Hardly. But the tips and free soda don’t hurt.”

My father looks at Lydia, then back to me. He squeezes her shoulder.

“I told him everything, Mare,” my sister says. I offer a confused look. “About that night you saved me,” she continues, “You were right about my so-called friends.”

I jolt with alarm. “Did they—”

“No,” she says quickly, “but this other girl at school wasn’t so lucky. Ended up in the hospital. Her family pressed charges, and three guys I thought were my friends are now in juvie.” She ducked her head. “I testified at the trial,” she says, “I tried to think of what you would do, and I did it.”

I fold my sister into a hug, clutching her tightly as my heart bursts with pride. In this moment, I know my love for her has never stopped. She’s no longer the sweet adolescent I left behind, but she’s a young woman who has a better path in store for her than I did at her age. And for that, I am so grateful.

“I told Dad he was wrong about you, too,” she says, pulling away from me. She glances at our father. He closes his eyes briefly, but then speaks.

“Lydia says you’ve been clean for years.”

I nod, my hands finding their way in front of me as I fiddle with my fingers. I’ve dreamed of this day for so long, but now that it’s here, I don’t know how to act. In my fantasies of this moment, I tell my father exactly what a bastard I think he is. But now in reality, I see the man who raised me, who had stern ways but also treated me with tenderness in my younger years. I see a man who was dealt a hand he didn’t have the tools for. I realize now how human my parents are, and that while I was making mistakes, they were making their own. I say as much to them, knowing it’s an olive branch I don’t need to offer.