Chapter 1 - The Soundtrack of Us
Man, that odor—all that stale carpet and Max’s lingering cologne—hit Gideon right between the eyes and pulled him straight back into Max’s room. Out in the kitchen, cinnamon rolls made by mom were invading the entire house, so sweet that it would hurt your teeth. Posters of Ozzy and other bands were everywhere, games stacked like Tetris blocks, controllers tossed on the bed and floor like little trophies—yeah, the aftermath of some serious battles.
Fifteen hits different. Gideon was feeling that odd, mature thing like, you’re supposed to be growing up, but you’re still just a kid with an imagination and big feelings. Max, with a smile that was like a prepubescent monster, tossed the controller into his hands, and Henry jumped on the bed, chuckling at everything. Nothing else matters anymore. The world could be ending outside, and they would not even blink. Max had a wild energy—a normal fourteen-year-old, always scheming, always moving. Henry was the baby, nine and soaking it all in, giggling over every dumb error or spectacular crash. Your turn, Gideon. You are not afraid are you Gideon?” Max taunted, jabbing him hard in the ribs. Gideon Turned his head quickly shooting Max a quick smile. “Yeah, sure, little brother. Eat my dust, losers. Mario Kart is my domain.”
And Henry, God help us. Henry just launched higher holding his controller as if it was his Excalibur. “Hey guys don’t forget about me I’m playing too!” I’m going to show the both of you! “Watch and learn.” Total pandemonium. Screaming, laughing, someone getting demolished by a blue shell, bananas flying everywhere. Max was the biggest sore loser on the planet, whooping and jeering, and Gideon would throw up his hands like he had been killed. Henry just lost it every time—would not stop laughing, even when he lost.
“Not fair!” Gideon bellowed after he lost again. “Dude, you shot a shell at me!” Max just winked, “Skill, bro. “Maybe you’ll learn something.” The kid was unbearable. Henry shook his head, still laughing, “Man, you guys are absurd.” “I’m too young for all this trash talking.” They’d continue playing, rematch after rematch, controllers flying, hours meeting. Now and then, Max would lock up for a second, eyes locked onto the door in anticipation of something. After a second, he would return to earth and jump right back into the mayhem.
In the background Dad is watching one of his favorite teams and he of course doesn’t agree with the referees. Mom’s manning snack duty, refilling plates, inserting those soft smiles. She was always there for her boys. She always took care of them and never had to say a word. She would just be there slipping them meals quietly so the boys would never be hungry. Sunday nights were for sports, family dinners and video games. The nights could turn into a blur: tv turned up, dad muttering at the referees and the three brothers using Max’s bedroom as their own coliseum. Gideon may have been the oldest, but in all seriousness, he still felt like a kid—safe, loud, and home.
Time’s a jerk, though. High school came and went. It seemed like it was over in a blur, and Max’s chasing dreams in Louisville, Henry’s off in Nashville, and Gideon’s still in Indiana.
This is not how it always was. There was a time when the boys and their mom were on their own. She worked hard to give her boys everything she could. She would always remind them that it is them against the world. She would always quote the Three Musketeers, but change it up a little. She would always say, “We are the four musketeers.” “One for all and all for one.” This is something the boys will never forget, but now hallway banter is replaced by slow phone calls, marathon nights of gaming lost to memory. Ozzy’s No More Tears gathers dust on the shelf now, a sad little time capsule. From time to time, Gideon takes out those old CDs and games to chase the elusive. He’d think of the sound of Max’s laughter in his head, feel Henry’s little eyes always watching and learning, remember when all of them felt invincible. And sometimes, at night, when the house is dead quiet, he insists that he still hears those Mario Kart battles echoing down the hall—his parents’ voices tangled in the sounds, the whole thing like some deranged family orchestra but beautiful.
The brothers might be scattered all over the place now, keeping themselves occupied and miles from each other, but those memories? Untouchable. Unbreakable. No matter how swiftly or how far they travel, those moments don’t quite escape him. Not quite. He still misses it sometimes—the wild, endless laughter, the feeling that nothing could ever change.
