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5
Charlie
Hudson bolts out of the room like it's on fire. The band explains how he gets weird after that song and goes about their set, moving into a new song with no other care for their bandmate. Hudson is clearly upset and the song he was just singing tells the story why. At least I have a feeling it does, and I go in search of him, not caring about anything else. It’s exactly what I would do for any of my friends, I assure myself. It has absolutely nothing to do with how much my heart is bleeding after watching him sing the lyrics.
I find him outside on the sidewalk smoking a joint and decide to just sit next to him. We don’t say a word and its comfortable. Its none of my business and I don’t want to pry, but it kills me that no one bothered to come see if he was okay. So, we sit and after a long silence he realizes I’m not going to push; I visibly see his shoulders relax. We just sit there on the curb and watch people walk by. It feels like a solid hour has probably gone by and my butt hurts like a thousand tiny rocks have lodged into my muscles. I wiggle a bit but don’t want to leave his side just in case he really does need a friend right now. That’s right, I said friend. We are friends. Good friends, and I can totally separate my growing feelings for him and ignore the constant pulling attraction of my body. No big deal. He rubs the back of his neck and stands, outstretching a hand to help me up.
“Thanks.”
“Thank you,” he returns solemnly.
He looks at me with a hint of vulnerability and maybe embarrassment, so I look at my shoes as I brush off my jeans. We walk back inside and check in with everyone, but Marcus says they are going to work on new music if we wanted to focus on writing. So we take off down to the other side of the building.
After a few hours in the record room he can’t keep from yawning, so I force him to go take a nap and decide to head over to see Lyla. Her and her new husband Cole just got married on a small beach outside the city; apparently not a lot of people know of the hidden gem, and we had the place to ourselves. These days she’s running a little snack shack out of the old record store where we all met, finding her love for cooking again.
I walk in and I’m greeted with the amazing smell of baked goods. My stomach starts talking to me as I make my way to the super long line. Ellie Goulding’s song “How Long Will I Love You” plays throughout the shop as I read the over the menu. I’m distracted and don’t notice Lyla until she’s pulling me out of the line by my elbow.
“I could have waited, I don’t mind,” I say as she leads me to the kitchen.
“I know but why wait when you know the owner.” She shrugs and sits me at a bar stool, then goes around the large island and starts pulling out ingredients.
“What are you making?”
“A new recipe I’ve been toying with, want to be my guinea pig?
“Does a fat kid love cake?”
She giggles and starts working her magic, piling a sandwich made with homemade bread, then salami, perfectly crisp bacon, thick sliced gouda cheese that she sets a small torch to the top to melt perfectly. Then to top it all off the woman places sliced figs. Last but not least, she picks up a condiment container and squirts something all over it and tosses on some homemade potato chips to the plate and slides it in front of me.
“Mmmm. Thanks,” I reply happily as I pick up the sandwich and take a huge bite. Wow, it was so good, so good I moan my reply when she asks if I like it.
“Awesome. Cole said it was good, but I always have to get a second opinion to make sure.”
She smiles, a far-off look on her face, as she starts making a sandwich for herself, and I'm sure she’s thinking about her husband who I know for a fact would never tell her he didn’t like something she made. She takes off for a couple minutes and comes back with smoothies and we sit and enjoy the meal. It's amazing to see her so relaxed with cooking. From one of America’s top chefs to a small snack shack, she’s seen it all. Since she’s moved back home to San Diego from the big city life of Chicago, she seems the happiest I’ve ever seen her.
We talk more about her adoring husband and his contracting company, how his sister Willow is doing, which is great I guess because she just bought the tattoo parlor she’s been working at. Her big brother is beyond proud and is even helping her with some remodeling. Lyla’s been helping in her spare time and loving it. She goes on and on about the design, and I listen contently.
Before long the desserts come out, and I literally clap and bounce in my seat like a toddler. I can’t help it; Lyla is the queen of sweets, and I have an addiction. The plates are laid out.
“The first is a cheesecake with Nutella drizzle and fresh strawberries. The second is a dark-chocolate lava cake with a hot center and vanilla bean ice cream drizzled with caramel, and last but not least plate three is a skittle ice cream custom-made by me specifically for you.”
She smiles proudly and my mouth falls open in pleasant surprise. I grab for the ice cream which is the flavor of my all-time favorite candy and dig in. It’s everything I hoped it would be and more. I devour it quickly and give my biggest praises. We finish off the lava cake together, and she puts the cheesecake in a takeout box for me to give Marcus. I hug her goodbye and hail a cab to get back home, miserably full and ready for a nap.
