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I looked at it, and it seemed fine enough. “Sure,” I said. I trusted his taste much more than I trusted my knowledge on the subject.
He focused on the bottle as he uncorked and poured it, avoiding eye contact with me. “I got hired by Cleopatra Records to be their studio bassist.”
“Oh, congratulations!” I said. “What does that mean exactly?”
He handed me the glass. I sipped at it and gave it a thumbs up. Again, his taste was exquisite.
“Cleopatra Records is one of the few indie rock labels in Los Angeles that hasn’t been bought out by one of the major record labels,” he said. “They sign singer-songwriters and bands, and I’d be the one in the studio recording the bass part.”
“But don’t the bands already have bassists?”
He nodded. “They have bassists when they play live, but they’re not always up to snuff for a studio recording. Live, if you make a mistake, the audience is screaming so loud and so pumped full of adrenaline that they’ll probably miss it. On an actual recording? Fans’ll listen to the same track a thousand times, some of them with expensive headphones or speakers. Everything needs to be absolutely perfect.”
“Which is why they need you?” I asked.
He smiled, and we walked over to the couch and sat down. “I try to be humble about most of my abilities,” he said. “I think I’m a pretty good cook, but I wouldn’t say that to just anyone.”
“You are an excellent cook,” I said.
“Well, I do my best, and I tend to like what I make,” he said, “but my modesty ends when it comes to the bass. I am an exceptionally good bass player. Maybe not at the level of Paul McCartney or Flea, but I can play exactly what’s asked of me on the first take with no rehearsal. And that’s what’s required as a studio musician.”
He’d played for me a few times — the bass guitar isn’t an instrument designed for solo performances, but it was clear watching him that he was in love with the music and the art of creation. This seemed like a dream come true for him.
“They’re also having me deal with some of the business ends of things, but my primary role is to be the session musician.”
“That sounds great!” I said. “What’s the bittersweet part?”
“It’s twofold,” he said. “I’m nearly thirty and, by accepting this position, I’m more or less giving up on my dream of being a real life rockstar. There won’t be any tours, sold-out concerts, or my name on a poster anywhere, but that’s just an eventuality. So few people make it at that level, regardless of their talent. And I guess I’m throwing in the towel and accepting that I won’t be one of them.”
There was a slight sadness in his voice, disguised by his awkward smile that showed up between bites of the lasagna.
“But the other bittersweet part is that I’ll be moving out of here. The studio is in Santa Monica, and recording sessions can go all night sometimes. I want to be close so I don’t get stuck in traffic every day.”
That part hit me like a ton of bricks.
“You’re moving?” I asked.
He nodded.
I put my fork down and had to fight the tears from forming in my eyes.
“But who will I hang out with?” I asked.
“I can still come by from time to time. It’s not like I’m dying.”
He was right, but it wouldn’t be every night. I wouldn’t have a close friend in the building who would keep me from being lonely. I guess I could always call or do a video meeting — that’s the direction the world was going anyway right now — but without him, it would just be me by myself.
I didn’t mind being on my own in life, but the thought of living in the building alone without anybody to hang out with on a given night made me sad. After a sip of wine, I congratulated him, but secretly, I was upset and wished that his success didn’t mean losing me from his life.
Men I’d dated had always disappointed me, but my luck seemed to be getting worse. Now I couldn’t even manage to keep them around as friends.
CHAPTER4
***LEO***
The sun had set, and it was dark out as I pulled into my garage. I’d developed a gut reaction to do this after months of fear of what I was about to experience when I went into the house. Sometimes — dare I say it, even most of the time — nothing happened. I’d come inside and she’d be cooking dinner, then ask me how my day was.
But when it was worse, it was much worse, and it had continued getting worse in the weeks since we had officially broken up, but were still living together until I found a new place. The whole situation was a powder keg.
