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twenty
I sleep all the way to Athens, so there are zero songs written by the time we dock in Piraeus.
But then, it starts.
The minute we arrive, I no longer belong to myself.
We get moved in to a hotel—no more yacht for the next two weeks—and then we’re shown around the stadium where the concerts will take place. The construction of the stage has already begun, and we try to do a few sound checks. It’s really bad at first, but it progressively gets better as the days pass and the construction finishes. When we’re not overseeing that, it’s non-stop rehearsals both at the stadium and in the hotel. And in-between rehearsals (not that there is any time left), we somehow manage to squeeze in a brutal workout or two a day.
But.
I don’t stop writing. Somehow, I still find the time to write. I don’t sleep, and I’m not sure I remember to eat, but I write.Wewrite.
Any free second we can snatch, Eden and I write, hunched over guitars and notepads and music sheets, forgetting to order food, forgetting to visit the Parthenon, forgetting to go to sleep. It’s going amazingly between us. And at the same time, it’s not going well at all.
Example: On the second day of writing with her, I reach out a hand to grab a music sheet across from her and she flinches, as she always does. Now. As she always does now. She never used to do that before.
I sigh, drop my head in my hands. Suddenly, all the breath goes out of me.
I’m so exhausted I can’t breathe.
“Tell me what to do,” I say.
She looks down, giving me a view of the slope of her neck, red curls cascading down her left ear.
“Will you look at me please, Eden?”
She does. I inhale sharply. Those eyes, my God. They could always slice right through my soul.
“Tell me what to do to make this ok,” I whisper brokenly, “and I’ll do it. Whatever it takes. Tell me what you need from me to stop jumping every time I reach out my hand in your direction.”
She doesn’t reply.
From that day on, I decide to stay as far away from her as possible. Keep the talking to a minimum.
Don’t look at her, don’t touch her, don’t give the impression that I’m about to touch her.
Got it.
I decide to try my best, even if it kills me. (It probably will.)
A whole week flies by between training, rehearsals, and sleepless writing nights. Jude, Miki, Skye, Lou and her friends find the time to walk the streets of Greece and come back sunburnt and smelling like fragrant Greek food. I hear them talking over each other about the gorgeous sights they saw, the little white streets they walked in Plaka, the moon they watched set behind the hill of Lycabettus, the actor they saw perform as Achilles in the huge ancient theater called Odeon of Herodes Atticus, and the cats they fed in the alleys circling the Acropolis. They bring us the food of the gods, otherwise known assouvlaki, and that is the first real break Eden and I take in four days.
Then we get right back to work.
Skye arranges for Eden and me to climb up to the Parthenon one evening. It’s a few minutes after it’s closed to the public, so I get it, uninterrupted by paps, five days after we reach Athens. Its beauty steals my breath. I almost sprint down the slippery, ancient marble steps back to my hotel, my brain bursting with inspiration, and in my hurry, I grab Eden’s hand and drag her along behind me. She follows, giggling.
Holding her hand in mine feels like holding liquid gold. I hold on tight, hoping I’ll catch on fire and die.
Then we seclude ourselves in the piano salon, writing writing writing.
We work on a few songs simultaneous, and, honestly, right now, I can’t remember what they are or the names of the notes or anything at all. I can’t concentrate on anything other than her.
Her being near me once more.
I’m breathing the same air as her.
Ok, deep breaths. No big deal. All I’ve ever dreamed of for four freaking years is right here, within my reach. Except it’s not. She is here and she’s talking to me, and we’re even working together. A dream come true.
