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“That’s why our grandpas are friends,” I tell him.
Grinning, he wipes his palms on his thighs. “Shit, you can recall the past better than I can.” He gives me a look I return. “I should write a song called ‘Blackout,’” he says, groaning and rubbing both his hands over his face.
“I think you should,” I say, beaming at him. I catch myself. Why am I flirting like this? Why doesn’t it hurt like it used to, thinking and talking about our past?
Standing, I begin tidying up the studio to get some distance.
His eyes follow my every move. “You remember everything, don’t you?” he asks with pain in his voice.
I lean against the console, crossing my arms with my back to him, trying to find the right words to say. “I remember it all,” I say, turning to him.
“Yeah that’s what scares me,” he admits, looking up from a lyric sheet, fervor shining in his bright eyes.
“And what about your Forrest Gump moment at the strip club?”
His cheeks heat. “What do you mean?” Feigning innocence, he grabs his guitar and runs his fingers over the strings.
“Did you write out a check for the kids?”
He holds my gaze. “I did,” he says, setting his guitar back down.
“You’re a good man. Thank you.” I walk over and kiss his cheek.
His hand flies to his cheekbone, to the place next to the scar where I kissed him. “Don’t mention it,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Tell me what was it like touring with Axl, and the crazy cousins? I didn’t get to ask you that back in LA.” He groans like he’s embarrassed. “Damn, I was fucked up back then.”
I sit down and cross my legs, trying to ignore the pull between us. “A roller coaster.”
“I believe it. Axl and the cousins have their own personal appetite for destruction.”
“Don’t remind me. Their first album went gold, then platinum, and we toured nonstop. In the meantime, they recorded another record in Abbey Road in London, and then toured again. I was on the road for years, straight up until the show at the Hollywood Bowl,” I tell him.
“Was it like you imagined it would be?” he asks, and I pick up on the trepidation in his voice.
“No,” I answer, looking around the studio. “I missed this and at the same time, I didn’t. I was in motion all the time, not stopping to enjoy my time on the road.”
“Why don’t you write your own songs?”
I shrug. “Not much to say.”
“That’s bullshit. One day, you’ll write again. You’ll see,” he says, not a doubt in his voice.
“Being here, I wanted to—”
“Forget,” he finishes for me.
I nod.
“And did you?” he asks.
“I think you know the answer,” I say, standing again.
He rises as well, and an awkward silence hangs between us while I pretend to be busy shutting off the computers.
“Thank you,” he says, smiling at me.
“For what?”
“This.” He motions around the room. “Talking, working together. I kind of like it.” His smile is sweet.
