The Last Song Read Free Page A

outgoing and gregarious,
     he’d always been more reticent and blended into crowds. Though he had certain talents as a musician and composer, he lacked
     the charisma or showmanship or whatever it was that made a performer stand out. At times, even he admitted that he’d been
     more an observer of the world than a participant in it, and in moments of painful honesty, he sometimes believed he was a
     failure in all that was important. He was forty-eight years old. His marriage had ended, his daughter avoided him, and his
     son was growing up without him. Thinking back, he knew he had no one to blame but himself, and more than anything, this was
     what he wanted to know: Was it still possible for someone like him to experience the presence of God?
    Ten years ago, he could never have imagined wondering about such a thing. Two years, even. But middle age, he sometimes thought,
     had made him as reflective as a mirror. Though he’d once believed that the answer lay somehow in the music he created, he
     suspected now that he’d been mistaken. The more he thought about it, the more he’d come to realize that for him, music had
     always been a movement away from reality rather than a means of living in it more deeply. He might have experienced passion
     and catharsis in the works of Tchaikovsky or felt a sense of accomplishment when he’d written sonatas of his own, but he now
     knew that burying himself in music had less to do with God than a selfish desire to escape.
    He now believed that the real answer lay somewhere in the nexus of love he felt for his children, in the ache he experienced
     when he woke in the quiet house and realized they weren’t here. But even then, he knew there was something more.
    And somehow, he hoped his children would help him find it.
    A few minutes later, Steve noticed the sun reflecting off the windshield of a dusty station wagon outside. He and Kim had
     purchased it years ago for weekend outings to Costco and family getaways. He wondered in passing if she’d remembered to change
     the oil before she’d driven down, or even since he’d left. Probably not, he decided. Kim had never been good at things like
     that, which was why he’d always taken care of them.
    But that part of his life was over now.
    Steve rose from his seat, and by the time he stepped onto the porch, Jonah was already out of the car and rushing toward him.
     His hair hadn’t been combed, his glasses were crooked, and his arms and legs were as skinny as pencils. Steve felt his throat
     tighten, reminded again of how much he’d missed in the past three years.
    “Dad!”
    “Jonah!” Steve shouted back as he crossed the rocky sand that constituted his yard. When Jonah jumped into his arms, it was
     all he could do to remain upright.
    “You’ve gotten so big,” he said.
    “And you’ve gotten smaller!” Jonah said. “You’re skinny now.”
    Steve hugged his son tight before putting him down. “I’m glad you’re here.”
    “I am, too. Mom and Ronnie fought the whole time.”
    “That’s no fun.”
    “It’s okay. I ignored it. Except when I egged them on.”
    “Ah,” Steve responded.
    Jonah pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Why didn’t Mom let us fly?”
    “Did you ask her?”
    “No.”
    “Maybe you should.”
    “It’s not important. I was just wondering.”
    Steve smiled. He’d forgotten how talkative his son could be.
    “Hey, is this your house?”
    “That’s it.”
    “This place is awesome!”
    Steve wondered if Jonah was serious. The house was anything but awesome. The bungalow was easily the oldest property on Wrightsville
     Beach and sandwiched between two massive homes that had gone up within the last ten years, making it seem even more diminutive.
     The paint was peeling, the roof was missing numerous shingles, and the porch was rotting; it wouldn’t surprise him if the
     next decent storm blew it over, which would no doubt please the neighbors. Since he’d moved in,