The only problem is that they wouldn’t be able to be part of the ad. They technically aren’t a college band anymore—they’ve broken out of the mold and made a bigger name for themselves.
I research Marie Conover, ensuring she is the publicist of Shadow Tradition before calling the number. I inform her of the circumstances, but she drives hard into the idea that Shadow Tradition would bring a lot of attention to the ad since they can still get a few hundred people to go to their shows. She tells me that they’re going to be releasing an album in a few months, so they could use a deal with a streaming service and Tunest is only willing to help out for a massive amount of money.
They’re far bigger than any other band we’ve considered. One of the members is still attending USF. It’s a good deal. It may not completely fit in the narrative, but if we professionally tape their section, 2Resonance could set up the idea that any of these college bands could make it big. It would be the carrot that lures musicians to our service.
Marie agrees to have the band in front of the Gleeson Library on the University of San Francisco campus tomorrow afternoon. After I hang up, a headache starts to set in. It pulses under my temple, demanding more attention than I have the time to give.
The doorbell rings, the soft chimes playing in every room. I check the home security system. The woman’s head is bowed, but it’s unmistakably Zandra.
I walk over to the door, my head feeling oddly clear now. When I open it, I expect Zandra to yell or shove me again, but she only cautiously peers at me.
“Could we talk for a minute?” she says. “Just for a minute. I have a taxi waiting downstairs.”
“Sure,” I gesture for her to step in. After she does and I close the door, I follow her as she takes in the modern interior design of the apartment. Everything is sleek, geometrical, and constructed of stainless steel, glass, or marble with an overemphasis of black, white, and gray. She ends up in front of my couch and turns around to face me.
“Look, I wanted to keep this professional, but…we have a history,” she says. I open my mouth. She holds her hand up to stop me. “No. I only have a couple of minutes before the taxi driver leaves. So, I want to let go of the past. We’re two different people now. Eighteen to twenty-four is a long time for us to mature and change as people. I just want to start new. I don’t want to be haunted by the past. And I shouldn’t be. I was wrong to be rude to you. I was wrong to take the first taxi from you.”
“You didn’t take it from me,” I say. “You needed some time alone, so I gave it to you.”
“And that’s why I know you’ve changed. And I’ve changed too. We’re not the same anymore. That’s all I had to say. I hope when we see each other at work tomorrow, it won’t be so…completely and utterly fucked like it’s been.”
“I hope that too. Though, we’re not going to spend much time in the office. We’re going to be going to USF, in front of Gleeson Library, to film part of the ad with Shadow Tradition.”
She perks up, though her head is still slightly tilted. “Oh, I remember them. They had that song—Amber’s Luck.It’s the apocalypse outside/and the world is conspiring/but you’re a queen, Amber/who cares if the world is on fire?”
She has a surprising sweet singing voice. She appears a little hazy-eyed as she smiles at me.
“You’re still a bit drunk,” I say. “I’ll walk you back to your taxi.”
“That is very nice of you, cute stranger,” she murmurs. She leans toward me but seems to think better of it as she tries to stand up straight again. As we leave my apartment and get onto the elevator, she continues to sing the song. She’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her.
The walls of the elevator are shiny enough that I can see blurry versions of our reflection. There’s no distinct line between our reflections. It reminds me of our night together in Paris and how I’d never felt more connected to anyone since. I’d tried over and over to reach the same experience with another woman. The sex was always good with other women, but it was a superficial good that faded quickly.
The elevator doors open. Zandra nearly stumbles as she sees the crack of space between the elevator and the floor. I offer her my hand. She takes it and makes a small jump over the crack. She laughs, keeping a tight grip on my hand. She leans against me, her cheek against my shoulder.
“You should leave a glass of water and some aspirin near your nightstand for when you wake up,” I say. “You’ll need it.”
“You’re so kind,” she says. She peers at me. “Why couldn’t you be this kind in Paris?”
I help her through the doors of the apartment building. The taxi is idling twenty feet to the left of us. I walk her over toward it. I open the door for her.
“Don’t forget the aspirin,” I say.
“Okay,” she mumbles, getting in. I pull out my wallet and pay the taxi driver enough money that it could afford a drive around the whole city.
“Get her home safe,” I say.
The taxi driver’s eyes widen at the money. “Sir, thank you for your generosity. I will make sure she gets home safe.”
I shut the door. I watch the taxi drive away. Her question about Paris nips at my heels as I get back into the elevator. When I’m back into my apartment, I collapse onto my bed.
I fall asleep after Zandra’s question is finally eclipsed by the memory of her singing.
******
Zandra is wearing a pair of tight jeans with an oversized, faded tie-dye shirt that’s tied into a knot around her left hip. I’ve seen women in the latest fashion in the most luxury brands, but somehow, Zandra always makes herself into the most stunning art that emphasizes the sensuality of her body. She is feminine in a way that isn’t dependent on anything except her body and the way she smiles.
“Hey, boss,” she says, a tiny teasing in her voice. In the background of the Gleeson library, she could fit in as a college student.
