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Papers came out, and Alwin explained things like ownership percentages, royalty rates, and song rights for the new version of Verduistering. Sara gets up, enlisting Zoe to help refill glasses and give me some time to process their idea and read the contracts.
My chest is a mix of emotions that I try to get under control. Excitement that perhaps we could still be a success as a band, nervous that the pursuit of fame would cause Ram to backslide, worrying that I’d risk everything—my marriage, my relationship with my stepdaughter, my mental health—for it all to crash and burn.
“You’ll stay sober?” I ask Ram. I keep our conversation in English since I’m sure Zoe and Sara are eavesdropping.
He nods. “One hundred percent. I’ve got a sponsor I can call anytime, someone who’s not committed to the rest of you either.” He cracks a knuckle, a sure sign that he’s not really one hundred percent confident in himself, but I can’t blame him for that. From what I know about addiction, it’s going to be a constant, looming fear for the rest of his life.
I turn my gaze to June. “And you’ll have a baby on the road?”
June nods and pats her belly again. “We don’t have to tour for about another year, depending on how long it takes us to freshen up the songs and get back into a groove again. Then I’ll hire a nanny to travel with us.”
My gaze turns to Alwin. “And you?”
He stretches out his arms. “This is all I want. The four of us back together, making music. I’m ready. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you and Sara happy.” He stands, and the rest of us follow. “Hey, Zoe?” Alwin calls.
Zoe’s head pops around the wall between the living room and the kitchen. “Yup?”
“Why don’t you take us out tonight? Show us your favorite spots?”
Zoe’s face lights up, and she flies up the stairs to “get ready.”
Five minutes later, we’ve hugged and said goodbyes while Zoe leads June, Alwin, and Ram out the door. Regardless of what I decide, I’ll see the three of them next month when Sara and I go to London for a recording session with a solo artist I’m working with.
Alwin glances back at Sara and me standing in the doorway and winks at us before I shut the door.
Sara leans against the wall. “Wow,” she says.
I run my hands through my hair. I grew it out, though not as long as it was before. “Yeah.”
I hold out my arms, and she slides into my embrace. I love the way she fits against me even after all this time.
We just stand there for a while, holding each other. After a few minutes, Sara pulls back enough to rest her chin on my chest. “Gut impressions?”
I sigh. “It could be wonderful, and it could be awful.”
“Schrödinger’s cat.”
“Yup.”
Sara pulls away, and I follow her into the kitchen, where the mess from dinner awaits. We assume our usual positions, me rinsing and loading the dishwasher while Sara wipes the counters down.
“I have wondered if you could be happy not performing,” she says when we’re almost done. “You seem to really enjoy the open mic nights.”
It’s true. I’ve got a few venues in the area that I enjoy playing. Usually, the manager or owner knows who I am, but the crowd doesn’t. Verduistering wasn’t big in the States as it was in Europe, and now that we broke up, the media has relegated us to one-hit-wonders.
“I wonder if we’re too late,” I confess.
Sara squeezes the water out of the sponge she was using and washes her hands in the other basin of the sink while I wash the last glass. When she’s done, she crosses her arms on her chest and faces me. “Please, you’ve become a more versatile, nuanced songwriter since you left the band. You’re only getting better with age.”
I close the dishwasher and grin at her. “Better with age? I don’t think you’re talking about my songwriting anymore.” I step closer, and her eyelashes flutter. I duck down and put my mouth right against her ear. “Do you remember the night before you left me in Baden-Baden? I remember it very clearly.”
Sara shivers and then laughs low. “If you’re too old to make another run with the band, maybe I’m too old for that kind of sex,” she teases.
“What? You’ve become a more flexible, sensual woman since that night,” I paraphrase back to her. “You’re only getting better with age.”
Sara laughs, and I grin down at her.
“I can prove it too.” Her brows draw together, but her grin widens. I duck down, sweeping her upper body over my shoulder as she squeals.
“Chris, what are you doing?”
I don’t answer and instead carry her through the house to our bedroom, grab the bottle of lube from the nightstand, and then carry her up the stairs. She’s gone limp against me, and I smack the seat of her leggings before depositing her on the floor of her yoga studio.
This used to be Zoe’s room, but we put her stuff in storage and installed a floor-to-ceiling mirror on the interior wall.
“Show me how flexible you are, babe.”
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