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“You think you could do something with it?” he asks excitedly. “Work your magic?”
I used to love it when someone called it my magic, but now I just wince. If it was magic, it’s left me, and the void in its place is glaringly obvious to me, but no one else, it seems.
Ram and the rest of the band know that I have nothing. And yet there are still these expectations that I’m going to come up with a whole second album worth of hits.
“Yeah, I’ll figure something out,” I tell him, because that’s what’s expected.
We chat for a few more minutes while I smoke another cigarette. Ram sounds like he’s enjoying the fame that our Eurovision win has brought. He tells me he’s in Amsterdam and that I should join him because the drugs are mind-opening.
“Lyrics will just pour out, man.”
Of course, the problem is they won’t be any good.
A few minutes later, we say goodbye, and I stub out the butt of my cigarette. I wonder briefly about the other band members: last I heard, June, our bassist, was in London, and Alwin, our lead singer, was in Berlin.
There’s a thunk from inside, and I get up, cautiously opening the back door into the kitchen. My first thought is that there’s either a fan or paparazzi trespassing, though our manager has done a pretty good job of keeping my location a secret. And I’ve been careful, too. People know I’m in the area, but they’d assume it was for a short visit because what kind of rock star would hang out in the country near a spa town? It’s not on-brand for us.
But as the door opens, I see that it’s only Sara. She’s at the sink, drinking a glass of water and staring out into the night or her own reflection in the window.
“Hey,” I say quietly, but she still jumps and lets out a squeak.
“Oh!” She puts a hand to her chest. “Chris, you scared me.”
“Sorry. Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” she says, turning to face me and holding up her glass. “Just thirsty.”
I lean against the counter and look her over. She’s wearing yoga pants and a sports bra, like usual. The yoga pants are a gray camouflage, and the sports bra is bright pink. Does she sleep in these clothes too?
“Do you own any outfits other than your workout gear?”
She blushes and crosses her arms over her chest, and I feel like a bit of a cad for asking.
“I do,” she insists. “I just don’t have a reason to wear anything else.”
“I suppose my company doesn’t warrant anything nicer. I just always feel extra lazy in your presence. Like you could pop off for a jog at any time, and I’m . . .” I wave at my own outfit, thick cotton track pants and a hoodie. I suppose I could technically go running in this, but I don’t have underwear on, and I’d have a hard time with everything swinging about.
Like she’s reading my mind, Sara says, “I like the support.”
It pulls my eyes right to her chest, which I try not to linger on, but she brought them up. Sara’s breasts are small, a perfect handful—not that I’ve measured. The sports bra keeps them high and tight against her chest, and I shift slightly and feel my own support-less situation.
“I prefer to free-ball.”
Sara’s blush deepens, and her eyes flick to my groin, which gives a twitch at even this slight bit of attention.
“Yes, well . . . to each his own, I suppose.”
I smirk, and Sara gives me a begrudging smile.
“All right,” I say. “I’m off to bed. Sleep well.”
“Sleep well,” Sara echoes, and I wander to my room, another day in the books with no forward progress.
9
Sara
“Cheers,”says Tessa on our Saturday night in Rome. “To the fantastic weekend we’ve had exploring Emma’s new home!”
