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"That sounds like her." My sister has always been an early riser. That was why Cassie and I started talking, at first. Because she wanted to stay with Daphne all summer, and Daphne fell asleep hours before she did.
Cassie smiles at the shared memory of my sister. "She sorta threw out the idea of me staying here, but I wasn't going to ask."
"You'd kill me, yeah." And I'd die of blue balls.
She nods. "Did she try to sell you on the romance of locking yourself in a room to work on a project too?"
"She did." A laugh spills from my lips. It's easy. The first easy thing I've felt in hours. "That's how you know she's not an artist."
"And that's what Bryce is doing, anyway. If we get the job," she says. "Do you know the timeline?"
"More or less."
She reminds me of the details. A pitch session this week. A follow-up next. Then, a weekend of work with the artist for the winning team.
The artist and his producer are confident they can get most of the work done during those intense three days, but Cassie and I know better. It's more likely we'll work hard all weekend, then come in for a few more sessions over the next month or two.
People are always throwing out tracks, finding new ones, shifting to meet trends and expectations of people in charge. There's very little of the emotional arc Cassie loves in an album. Artists aren't telling a story with their songs. They're jamming a bunch of singles together.
This guy says he wants a story, but a lot of artists say a lot of things.
For a few minutes, our conversation feels like old times. We trade thoughts on the appropriate musical and lyrical style. Then, we shift into other, familiar dynamics.
Her very public love of self-destructive chanteuses like Amy Winehouse and Fiona Apple. Her very secret passion for early and mid two thousand pop punk.
Cassie Steele, the diehard feminist, the girl who will take any opportunity to insist Hole is better than Nirvana (really, she stopped a friend of mine at a party once), loves songs by men who call their ex-girlfriends sluts for sleeping with a new man.
She claims she loves the music with a sense of irony. She's laughing at the guys, inside, even if she used to relate to a more generalized hurt, even if she's just as angry as they are, for just as unjustified reasons.
No, I'm sure her reasons are a lot better.
There's really nothing defensible about a guy blaming his ex-girlfriend for every single fault in their relationship. Even if the guys have a clever way of saying it. Even if she cheated.
But then Cassie would relate to that at the moment. Since her ex cheated. Does she blame him for everything too? Or does she take responsibility?
Fuck if I know how relationships work.
She makes fun of my love of grunge music and my so-called hatred of my dad's music. I hate it a lot for a guy with a similar style. But maybe that's genetic too.
"At least we know we're convincing here." She leans against the side of the pool with a laugh. "We debate music like a real team."
"A real couple."
She shakes her head. "Frederick and I didn't banter like this."
Because they really agreed? That's hard to imagine. But it's harder to imagine Cassie biting her tongue. "Other people do."
"Maybe."
I arch a brow, the way I did when we were kids, inviting her to challenge me.
For the first time in a long time, she does. "Usually, women start listening to the music their boyfriends like."
"You've done this?"
She nods.
"No." I shake my head. "I don't believe it." Really, I can't see it. Cassie never lets anything get in between her and her music. How could she stay in a relationship that got between her and her tunes?
"It's happened."
"Wait. Is there a loophole here? Like he loved Garbage and you pretended you weren't already a fan?"
"No," she says. "He loved Mumford and Sons, and I made jokes to Daphne about the brothers double-teaming me." She shoots me a get real look.
But I don't. I say, "That's hot," and I let the mental image bloom. Cassie and two hipster musicians. Only they're in hoodies and jeans, with generic hipster beards (no idea what the dudes look like), and she's on the bed in only her combat boots.
And then they're gone.
And I'm the one in the room with her, and we're in my bed upstairs.
We could go there. We could fuck, right now. We could even stay quiet enough my sister wouldn't hear. Or play music loud enough to cover it.
This is restricted airspace. The enemy will shoot in three, two, one—
"I see you more as a Belle and Sebastian kind of girl," I say.
"Because there's a girl in the band?" she asks.
