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So I’m at the studio again, bright and early, muttering to myself about getting up at this ridiculous hour just to “prove” something to a girl that probably doesn’t give even a fraction of a damn. I’m empty-handed this morning, not knowing where we stand, not wanting to push it. Of course I’d love to do more with Chelsea, but if this is where she draws the line, I need to know before I make our working relationship unbearably awkward and uncomfortable.
I’m doing my actual warmups when she walks in, looking as beautiful as ever, even if her eyes do have a hint of purple ringing their undersides. I nod at her, but otherwise don’t stop my warmups or pay her much attention. I know how these things work. The first person to break the silence is the vulnerable one, the one open to rejection. So I’m keeping my mouth shut and focusing on the job.
By the time Chelsea’s in the recording booth with me, her eyes are narrowed and her mouth is set in a thin line. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her watching me, her eyes flicking in my direction every so often as another pointed sigh rushes out of her. She can huff and puff all she wants; she’s the one that ran out and she needs to explain herself. I’m not a fucking mind reader. I don’t know what her mixed signals mean. She kisses me, then she runs. Then she looks annoyed that I’m not friendlier with her? Disappointed even? What does she expect? An apology? I didn’t do anything wrong. She kissed me as much as I kissed her. I’m pretty used to taking the blame for shit, but for once, I’m going to stand my ground. She doesn’t just get to have a convenient junkie scapegoat.
Honestly, it’s probably for the best. She’s been nothing but a distraction from the first moment I saw her. At least now, with this tense silence between us, I can distract myself with being annoyed rather than aroused.
Small steps, right?
Chelsea pulls out her phone and frowns at it before flipping it around to me. “Rosa said to start without them; they’ll be here soon. Label business.”
“Fine,” I say. “‘Twisted Heart’?” I ask, naming one of my songs, the next on the line to be recorded. She nods and I strum the first chords with far more force than necessary, the notes coming out even angrier than usual.
She comes in on the wrong beat and I stop, and start again, not saying anything though I can see the tension tightening her shoulders.
The second time we start, the harmony is shit. I’m not sure which one of us is doing it, but it sounds bad and we both abandon it before the first chorus.
The third attempt isn’t any better because now I’m forgetting the fucking words to a song I’ve been touring with for seven years. It’s ridiculous and we’re both frustrated, but we keep at it, trying again and again, and again without any real success. I’ve lost count of how many attempts we’ve gone through when the lights in the lounge come on to show Merrill and Rosa frowning at us.
Rosa looks entirely dismayed, like she’s just watched her puppy get caught in traffic without being able to do anything about it. Merrill looks disappointed, which is somehow worse. He’s had so much faith in me when no one else did and now I’m letting him down because some flighty little country star’s gotten under my skin. It’s bullshit.
“Should we take a break for a few hours? Perhaps we’re moving too quickly on th
is,” Merrill says, and I can see him measuring each word carefully, still earning a shocked look from Rosa, which quickly turns resigned.
“Maybe he’s right. If this one’s not working, we can’t force it.”
“How about we come back around three? Enough time to gather your thoughts and some food,” Merrill suggests.
I nod. “Yeah, sure, whatever.” I shrug, hanging the guitar up on the wall. Chelsea just gives a silent nod and slips out of the studio. I want to go after her, to ask her what’s wrong, to hold her because she looked like she’s on the verge of tears, but I just stay in the studio, casually putting away all the things I’ll just be taking out again in a few hours. It gives me something to do.
I send an apologetic look to Merrill on the way out and head to my car with no real destination in mind. Whatever this funk is, I need to shake it off. Chelsea’s just another girl. Another person who will expect too much of me, then act like it’s my fault when I can’t ever possibly deliver. She’s a useful tool to repair my image, but beyond that, she’s nothing but headaches. I’m better off forgetting about her.
Somehow, without thinking about it, I’m at the beach. The sun’s moving higher in the clear sky, the ocean below almost white with sparkling light. I open the car door and the roar and crash of waves hits me immediately. Salty air tickles my nose as I breathe in deep and head for the nearby bench.
I’ve been here more times than I can count. Maybe it’s weird to some people, but the ocean calms me. The ebb and flow of the waves feels like the pulse of the entire planet. I read once that if you have trouble sleeping you should try to match your breaths to a sleeping person or animal, to slow your heart rate and trick your body into sleeping. It’s kinda like that meditation thing, but I’ve found that the same method works with the ocean instead of a person or animal. Breathing in time with the waves soothes me, it brings me back to the present, clears my mind in a way that nothing else ever has.
A shadow moves over me and I practically jump out of my skin at the sight of Chelsea looming over me.
“Did you follow me here?” she asks, pointing a shaking finger at me.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I was here first, if you didn’t notice. It’s my bench.”
The seaside wind is blowing through her hair, making it catch the sun like it’s woven of actual gold. I have to ball my hands up to remind myself I can’t reach out and touch it. I can’t let my guard down with this girl when she’s just going to walk out on me at the first sign of trouble. No, scratch that. She bolted before any sign of trouble, the coward.
But as much as she looks like a goddess framed by sunlight and ocean, I can tell she’s pissed as she huffs and slams down on the bench next to me.
“It’s not your bench. You can’t just own a public bench,” she spits snottily.
Any other time I’d probably be amused to point out how wrong she is, but there’s no satisfaction in it right now. Just anger. Just annoyance and a need to rub her face in what a jerk she’s being.
“Sure about that?” I ask, pointing to the memorial plaque between us on the back of the bench.
She turns and narrows her eyes at the engraving.
This bench is dedicated to the fans of Ian Monroe.
Just like that, all the fight drains out of her and she looks like she physically deflates. Her shoulders slump and her chin falls. A long moment hangs between us, then she takes a deep breath.
