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Because she wants to be free.
That's what I need to capture. In the album.
She wants to do an actual album with an actual arc. Part of the attempt to capture Alanis Morrisette's success.
I listen to the demo again, then I close my eyes, and I let the words flow through me. They're all scraps to start, but I trust them to take shape.
I lose myself in my notebook.
Then the doorbell rings.
Shit. It's time. He's here.
Which is not at all a big deal. Damon is here as a collaborator, not an ex or potential lover.
But I still jump when I hear his voice.
"Hey, Cass, I know I'm early. But I did bring coffee," he says. "Your favorite. Iced latte with macadamia milk."
From the place in Malibu near the summer house. Is he still living there, or has he moved somewhere else?
I try not to picture him in his room, but I do. I see Damon in his jeans and t-shirt, at his desk with his guitar, staring at the stars outside.
Then I see him out of his jeans and t-shirt, on his bed, staring at the person in the doorframe.
Me.
Fuck.
"One minute," I call. I repeat the mantra we're here to work, not fuck in my head, even as I reapply lipstick, check my eyeliner, make sure my snug black dress isn't too low or too high.
There.
Perfect.
Well. Perfect for how I actually feel. I want to jump his bones. But I'm not trying to deny that. I can want him and keep my hands to myself. I've done it for six months now.
I take a deep breath, and I cross the living room.
Damon smiles as I pull the door open. He looks right on the narrow balcony, framed by blue sky and palm trees and the far-off view of the Pacific Ocean.
"This is a nice location," he says.
"Near home." And far from the hustle and bustle of Hollywood or West LA. It's a pain, driving an hour or two to each of my meetings, but let's face it; the situation wouldn't be much better if I did live in Hollywood. Sure, I could get to meetings in the city of Hollywood in twenty minutes, but the ones in West LA would still take an hour during rush hour. (And rush hour lasts most of the day here).
Plus, well, Hollywood is a shithole.
Everyone knows that.
Here, I'm a little too far from the gritty reality of the city. I'm in a small town that's a little too perfect. But it's worth it to be near my family and my best friend.
Damon motions to the living room.
Right. I'm not here to think about what's changed. I'm here to work with him. "Come in. Please."
He holds up the coffee carrier as he steps inside. Two matching iced lattes. One for him. One for me. "Where should I put this?"
"Here is fine." I motion to the tiny counter in the tiny kitchen. "Do you want to do this on the couch or in my office?"
"You have an office?" He smiles. "How many framed Amy Winehouse records are in it?"
"Why would I frame a record?"
His smile widens. "I missed you, Cass."
"I missed you too." A million words come into my mind. Do I have to keep missing you? Are you ready? I'm ready.
I have missed him. A lot.
But I've done as he asked too. I haven't waited for him. I don't sit on my couch, crying over old episodes of The Twilight Zone, wondering when he'll ask me to meet.
I've been busy, working and writing and living and, well—
He knows about that.
Unfortunately, everyone in the world knows about that.
Damon sets the carrier on the counter. He takes both cups and offers one to me.
My fingers brush his as I take it. "Thanks."
"How's Lisa?"
"So we're talking about it?"
"Everyone else is." He smiles as he takes a sip. "You make a cute couple."
"We were never a couple!"
"No? This isn't how you find your partners now?" He chuckles. "You fake date a musician until something clicks?"
"We weren't fake dating." Mostly, Lisa and I were working closely on the album. The process was intimate. Too intimate.
We both mixed things up.
It was short-lived. Fun in some ways. Difficult in others. She was a great kisser, and she was smart and wild.
But I wasn't ready.
I wasn't over Damon.
I wasn't ready to be with anyone. I needed more space for myself.
So I took it.
And here I am. Still not over Damon. But okay with that. Ready to get over him. One day. If that's the way it goes.
It will break my heart, absolutely, but that's still okay.
I love him. I'll always love him. I'll always want him in my life.
If that's as a friend or a colleague and not a lover, I can live with it. I can even learn to like it.
This isn't so bad, actually. I mean, sure, I want to throw him against the wall so hard I knock the coffee out of his hand, but, uh—
