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“Woah,” Lacy steps inside, her mouth dropping open in a perfectly round ‘O’ of surprise.
“Pretty cool, huh?” I walk through the studio, turning on some lights. Keyboards and guitars line one wall. One small table is set up for writing. All the recording equipment is set up at the far end, with a small but serviceable recording booth in front of it. I switch on the light inside the recording booth, and it illuminates the single chair and microphone sitting there.
“The recording booth is soundproofed and everything,” I say, tapping on the glass proudly. “State of the art.”
I turn to look at Lacy, expecting her to be impressed.
Instead, she looks livid. Her mouth has gone from that ‘O’ of surprise to a firm thin line, her lips pressed together in pent-up annoyance.
“How long have you been here?” She asks, tilting her head to the side quizzically.
“Not long,” I hedge. “Like a month, I guess?”
“You guess? Come on, Benjamin, you’ve obviously been here longer.”
“Okay, maybe two.”
“Bullshit.”
Again, it strikes me how weird it is to hear her curse now. She was such a goody-goody as a teen. There’s a long pause as the air hangs heavy between us and she sizes me up.
“You haven’t been in any of the tabloids for at least six months. Have you been here that whole time?” She finally asks.
“Well, uh. Yeah. I guess that sounds about right. Six months.”
I stumble through my words, surprised that Lacy knows exactly when I went off the grid.
“I didn’t take you for someone who would read gossip rags,” I can’t help but say in annoyance, irritated that I’ve gotten busted.
“You’re an international celebrity now, Mr. Rock Star,” Lacy says. “I don’t have to stalk you in the tabloids to know what you’re up to. Your every move is public.”
“I’m well aware,” I reply, annoyed.
Now is not the time to tell her I’ve been making frequent getaways to Rose Manor over the years. Whenever I felt like I needed a break, I came back to this place, the only stable home I had as a kid… brief as that stability may have been, coming in at a whopping six months.
“So, how much did this cost you?” Lacy asks, gesturing vaguely to the recording studio.
“Uh, I don’t know. Six figures.”
“So, you blew all that cash on your personal recording studio while letting the rest of the house fall into disrepair?” Lacy asks.
She’s tapping her bare foot on the floor in annoyance again.
“I wouldn’t say Iblewthe cash. I’musingthe studio,” I say, also getting irritated. “It’s not like it’s going to waste.”
This is kind of a lie. With my writer’s block, I’ve mostly just been scribbling around in notebooks, strumming my guitars, and clattering on the piano. I’ve beentryingto write songs. But nothing is studio-ready yet. Obviously, I won’t admit that now.
“What about the rest of the house?” Lacy asks angrily.
I remember her as such a calm and soothing spirit. It’s so weird to see her getting pissed now.
“I was going to get to it eventually,” I say testily.
“Sure, you were.” Lacy rolls her eyes as she says the words, tinged with sarcasm.
I shrug, trying to play it cool, but even I can hear how lame my words sound. Seeing the house now through Lacy’s eyes, I’m kind of embarrassed that I haven’t taken better care of it. She must think I’m such a slob.
“Look, I don’t get what the big deal is,” I retort. “The house is run down, sure. But it’s fixable. And the recording studio is a great addition.”
