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This apartment is cozy. It's not Manhattan cozy, but it's not exactly a big expanse of space. With the walls covered in beige soundproofing foam, the room is even smaller.
There's something nice about how DIY this room feels. It's not the fancy studio of a stuck-up millionaire musician. It's this thrown together I need to play here and I need to play now thing.
Joel motions to the stool behind his drum kit.
I sit.
He kneels behind me, his chest against my back, his cheek against my neck. His breath is warm on my ear.
It's incredibly difficult to concentrate. Somehow, I manage to listen as he shows me how to hold the drumsticks with a loose grip. How to tap the drum or the cymbal. How to smack the leather hard enough to make a lot of noise but not so hard it snaps.
"It would be very fucking rock and roll of you to burst a drum, but I don't want to be without my kit if I can help it." His hands curl around my wrists. It's a tight grip.
He's looking too close.
He's going to feel those scars.
He's going to know.
He can't know.
I look back to him. His expression is the same. He's an eager teacher. He's either not noticing the scar tissue on my wrists or he doesn't care.
"Angel, I know it's hard to think about anything but fucking me when I'm this close—"
Okay. I have to shake this off and joke back.
Only that isn't what I want with Joel. I want to tell him. I want to tell him everything.
His voice softens. "Hey. You okay?"
I want to tell him everything. I do. But not right now.
I make my voice light. "Are you trying to talk me out of thinking about you naked?"
He laughs. "I know you have an active imagination with all the reading you do, but if you want me naked, you only have to ask."
"That's not good teaching. You should make it a reward."
"Are you trying to talk me out of getting naked?"
"No. But…" I press my back into his chest. He's warm. And I can feel his chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. "I guess I want to channel my inner rock star."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." That is true. I want to learn this. If only to prove I can. "I want to try things even when I'll be terrible at them."
"You're sure you'll be terrible?"
"When the odds are good I'll be terrible." Right now, I don't try things if the odds are good I'll be terrible. Or even just okay. But I want to get there. I want to stop closing myself off to every experience that might end in pain or failure. I look to Joel and nod. "Let's go."
It takes nearly three
hours for Joel to teach me the Billy Idol song White Wedding. I'm pretty sure the choice has everything to do with Joel's love of 80s music and nothing to do with our quickie nuptials. Hell, I even manage to put the what the hell is happening with our marriage question out of mind while we practice.
Drumming is hard. I'm terrible at keeping a beat. I miss a ton of notes. Every time I take a misstep, that little voice in my head screams give this up and do something you know you're good at. But I fight it.
I fight it enough to learn the song… well, I know it okay.
