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“You gave up so much for me and the band, it’s time you finish what you started.” My expression is stern while my heart weeps.
“I love playing the drums.”
“But not enough to play with anyone else,” I finish for him, knowing exactly how he feels. It’s been hard enough trying to write songs without Jack.
“The whole time we were a band, I found myself more interested in the sound equipment and how things worked than actually playing.” Wade looks at me for acknowledgment as if I didn’t already know this. “I want to finish my degree, see where it takes me. I only have a year left.”
“You don’t have to convince me,” I tell him.
Wade smiles. “Are you going to be okay without me?”
“If I say no, will you stay?” It is only a half-joke and Wade knows it. Now I have to put on my big girl pants. “I will survive, and so will you.” We haven’t been apart from each other for this long since being a band, even on breaks. This is why it’s such a shock to suddenly find myself in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight.
“How is the writing going?” he asks as he wipes the mayonnaise off his chin with a napkin.
“Oh, that reminds me,” I look at my watch. “I need to head over to the studio now. You want to walk with me?” I offer, not wanting to miss a single moment with Wade before he leaves for Berkeley. I signal to the waitress for the check, and as soon as I pay, we head down the street.
“Bret is bringing in another victim, I mean artist, for me to work with today.” My boots pound the pavement in sync with Wade’s sneakers.
Wade chuckles and rubs his hands together theatrically. “Another victim… Is this one going to leave crying too?”
“Bret told you?!” I ask incredulously.
“Don’t you know? We meet for drinks on Friday nights and talk about you,” he jokes.
I’m not sure if he’s really joking because I wouldn’t put it past the two of them.
“Yeah, right.” We continue walking down the street.
“It’s nice to see you smile again.”
My step falters for a second.
“Maybe I’m just better at faking it.” Sometimes it feels like it.
“Fake it till you make it baby.”
I turn to him. “Never say that again.” I push the doors open to the studio, and Betty, the receptionist, greets us with a smile.
We enter the studio and Wade looks around.
“So, this is where the magic happens.” He rubs his hands together.
“You’re full of clichés today, aren’t you?” I drop my bag on the coffee table.
Wade looks at the questionable stain on the couch, looking as if he’s deciding whether to sit down or not. “Is that…”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” I reply, shaking my head. That stain is probably older than me.
“Alright, I gotta get back and finish packing.” The thought of Wade packing up the condo that was once my little safe corner of the world depresses me.
I give him a sad face.
“Stop with the puppy dog eyes,” Wade admonishes as he waves me away.
I give him a quick hug and let him leave before I get even sappier.
THIS STUDIO IS no different than the one Mogo used to record in Venice, except that it’s more spacious. There are a lot of artists that come and go, filling the hallways with chatter and music. No one of mention records here. It’s mostly local bands, and I haven’t run into anyone I know, which is fine with me.
