She stomps out of the room and slams her bedroom door. I go to the fridge for another beer and settle on a couch in front of a big-screen TV. I consider turning it on, but I’ve already woken Madison once.

Instead, I reach for the Gibson sitting by a chair and admire the scribbling near the bridge. Big, bold black letters: Madison inside a heart. I know Len well enough to know he just smiled when he found her name there.

I remember the first time I pulled out of the case Jack’s Lily, that famous CF Martin he’d taken to Woodstock, and found Chrissie’s name carved into it. According to Jack, she’d used a nail to make sure it would never go away.

I hear a rattle, shake it once, and turn it over. A Barbie shoe falls from the sound hole to the floor. It reminds me why I am here.

I’m just finishing my beer when Len returns, sinks into the chair beside me and turns on the TV. Nice touch, Len, making me wait out here.

We watch in silence.

“You’re a real dickhead,” Len says. “Do you know that?”

“What can I say?”

“How about, ‘I’m sorry for busting into your house at night, breaking your tile, pissing off your wife and putting us all through hell for over a year’? You might want to start with that.”

“Well, regrettably, I was thinking more along the lines of ‘fuck you.’”

“I love you like a brother, Manny, but I’ve had enough.”

I let out a long, aggravated breath. “So that’s what we’re going to do. Have another grievance session. I’ve got problems here. Go grab me another beer.”

“I already did that, you asshole. That’s your third. And no grievance session. Just a statement. I’m through.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You quitting the band?”

“No. The band is quitting you. Listen, we all love you, but we’re all through. April is going to be the last leg of the last tour. We’ve had enough. We are all too old for this shit.”

“If you want time off the road, we’ll do that.”

“Fuck, Manny. Don’t you ever listen? I want off the road for good. I’m tired. I’m ready to spend some time playing golf, watching my daughter grow up, hopefully figuring out how to make my son not hate me and trying to make up the years to Linda. We all feel this way. We all have other things we want to do.”

“So now you’re going behind my back and having meetings with the band without me. Exactly when did you all decide this?”

“A year ago.”

The TV changes channels all on its own and goes from twenty-four-hour news to some late-night cartoon.

“We made the decision a year ago. We were going to tell you at the end of the tour,” Len informs me gravely.

“That was fucking generous of you or do you just get off lying to me?”

“I omitted. There’s a difference.”

“Try using that one on Linda.”

“Never. It’s different with your wife. Omission is a divorce offense.”

Len mutes the TV and leans forward with elbows on knees. “You know, from where I’m sitting, somehow you’ve managed to get a pretty remarkable life do-over. Not that you deserve it. But that’s what you have here. A do-over. The last exit door before you are locked on the ride you need to stop riding. Get off the booze and whatever else you’ve been doing this last year. Then go to Chrissie and don’t fuck it up this time. A woman will forgive a lot from a man she has a child with.”

“That’s great fucking advice, Len. You should think about writing an advice column.”

“We’ve had a long run. And we’re all still here. It’s time to slow things down. It’s the fucking truth what they say: British rockers never die. We just become fathers and fade away. I’m ready to fade away. You have to figure out what you want to do.”

It’s a moot point, but I’m saying it anyway. “I didn’t fuck it up last time with Chrissie. She walked out on me.”

“Yeah. Right. Keep telling yourself that and you’ll fuck it up again.”

The flashing images on the TV draw my attention away.

“What the hell are we watching?” I ask.

Len laughs. “Some Asian cartoon that Bobby likes.”

“Your eighteen-year-old son watches fucking cartoons?”

“It’s a fucking nasty cartoon. Was worried about the boy for a long time. Linda thought he might be gay. But he’s definitely not gay. He and Kaley, I still can’t get my head around that. For some reason Linda finds it creepy. I don’t know why. When was the last time you saw the girl? She’s drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, built and beautiful, but a real ball-breaker. Not at all like Chrissie. Definitely the one in control. Bobby’s definitely not gay.”

Kaley has changed, but Len’s description doesn’t match my image of her.

“I saw her today. At Chrissie’s.”

“What a pair.”

“Pair?” I repeat in revulsion. Jesus Christ, Len, did you check the girl out?

Len frowns at me, and then sharply rebukes me with his eyes.

“Bobby and Kaley. They are an interesting pair,” Len explains pointedly. “I’d tell my boy to run if he wasn’t loving every minute of her leading him around like a bitch. So I save my breath and beg him to keep a cap on it so I don’t have Chrissie pounding down my door here. They definitely went for a record in our pool house. Woke up to Linda screaming, ‘Christ, couldn’t you at least open a window so the room doesn’t smell like sex when your mother goes to pick up your dirty laundry in here?’”

Fuck, why he’s telling me this shit? “I don’t want to hear this.”

Len flushes. “Oh, sorry. I’m sure you don’t.”

There it is again, that fucking whisper of innuendo. I turn my head to stare at Len. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? After eighteen fucking years spit it out finally.”

Len shrugs. “It doesn’t mean anything, Manny.”

“No, what the fuck did you mean by that?”

“Let it go, Manny.”

The channel changes this time to a late 1950s black and white western. I’m relieved that the channel changed. As humiliating as it is to admit it, watching the cartoon caused a slight erection. No wonder the boy watches the damn thing.

“Christ, Len, what am I supposed to do now?”

“Fix things with Chrissie. Start there.”

“I was talking about the band.”

“Has it even registered that you have a daughter?”

“It registered.”

“I hope you weren’t a prick to Chrissie.”

“I’m an asshole. It’s made us wealthy. How do you think it went?”

Len shakes his head, aggravated. “Don’t you think it’s time to stop being an asshole?”

“Why? So I can sit around in Pacific Palisades watching late-night dirty Asian cartoons, and shoot a couple of rounds of golf a week?”

“It beats what the fuck you’re doing with your life.”

“You and Linda have everything all worked out, don’t you, Len?”

“If you screw up with Chrissie this time you’ll lose her for good. Over. Permanently. A mother is a sacred and dangerous thing. I haven’t won a round with Linda since Bobby. Why do you think I live in Pacific Palisades when California is the worst possible state for taxes? Fuck over a mother and she’ll cut off your balls. I remember telling you that fifteen years ago. Maybe you’ll listen today.”

I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I know I’m sprawled on the sofa in an empty room, shortly before dawn, and my keys are on Linda’s counter. Someone propped my feet on a stool and put a blanket over me.

I go to a bathroom, rinse out my mouth, grab a cigarette from my pocket and then remember I’m not allowed to smoke here either.

I go to the kitchen. The clock says 4:41 a.m. I need a blast of caffeine. I look for a coffeemaker. Nothing. Fuck, who doesn’t have coffee?

I down a glass of orange juice, and then grab my keys and head to the front door. Fuck, I did crack the tile. There is a long, angry line through two squares. I spot a washable marker on the living room carpet and write “sorry” on the broken tile. It won’t help. Linda has every right to be pissed off at me, but the apology seems appropriate.