Free Exit Strategy by L. V. Lewis

with an arresting smile and hands me his cup. “One more for the road, querida .”
True to his word, Carmelo leaves after our second cup of coffee with a warm hug that makes me pine for Tristan all the more.
As I prepare for bed, I think about the time after my first panic attack. I knew I was falling in love with Tristan then, and I should’ve ended things before they got so complicated—before my mother decided he was the first boyfriend I’d brought home she might consider son-in-law material. Clara Lee had made this clear over the holidays.
I should’ve known Mama was scheming when she insisted I invite Tristan over for Christmas, where she proceeded to give him the royal treatment, making all kinds of remarks about us being young and in love. That was probably the closest I’ve ever seen Tristan to massive-coronary territory, and I was ready for a hole to open up in the floor and swallow me.
Mama surprised us by presenting Tristan with a gift after all the fussing she did over him. “Merry Christmas, young man, and thanks for accepting my invitation on such short notice.”
Tristan looked genuinely pleased. “Thanks, Mrs. Beale. May I open it now?”
Mama beamed. “You go right ahead.”
Tristan untied the ribbon, holding the handles of the gift bag together and slides out the contents wrapped in red tissue paper. When he reached into the folded tissue, he pulled out a silver frame and smiled widely. I’d been sitting directly across from him, so I didn’t see what it was yet.
“Thank you, Mrs. Beale. This is very thoughtful of you.” Then Tristan turned it around and held it out so the pastor and I could see. Mama had printed the photo she’d taken of us when we’d arrived and framed it. Tristan acted like she’d just given him a new Rolex.
“What do you give the man who has everything?” Mama asked. Then she answered her own rhetorical question. “Memories.”
     
~*~
     
The third week without Tristan begins normally at KSR. Carmelo shows up as promised, and I introduce him to the rest of the tiny orchestra I’ve assembled, comprised of friends and friends of friends I’d known at DePaul. Carmelo fits right in with all of us former Blue Devils, and we make the most beautiful music imaginable.
I’m paying them all to scale, so I need to get as many tracks laid as possible this week. We practice all the pieces we expect to lay for the day, and I’m all over the place. I’m changing the scores where required, helping musicians with timing, and having fun for a change. Carmelo’s presence, I have to say, has lightened my mood considerably.
While the group practices an intricate part of the next track, I amble over to Carmelo. With the music playing, I have to move in closer to his personal space to be heard.
“What we’ve done thus far without your ax is a mystery to me,” I say.
Carmelo sets his guitar on its stand and gives me his undivided attention. His legs in a wide stance, arms folded, he grins at me. “You want me to record a few do-overs?”
“I’d love to rerecord every damn track we’ve done, but I know we can’t.”
“Looking out for that bottom line?”
“I have to. Jada would have my head.” And Tristan would have my ass, but I don’t tell Carmelo that. Tristan is still our backer, and we have to work together. This conversation reminds me of that with startling clarity. If I don’t manage things appropriately, he’ll be around sooner than later, busting our chops over the bottom line. Will I be able to resist him?
“Let me have a listen later. If there’s anything I can improve, I’d be willing to overdub some of it.”
“You would do that for me? Free of charge?”
Carmelo leans in and whispers, “I’d do anything for you.”
I smile. “Within reason, though. Right?”
“I dunno. You kinda rob a brother of all rationality when you get into conductor zone.”
“Somebody else said that to me recently,” I say as I struggle to keep my cool. Something tugs hard