“But it’s awkward to say things like, ‘Whom would you like to speak to?’”
“Actually the best way to say it is, ‘To whom would you like to speak?’”
“Sure, in the eighteenth century.”
I give her a deadpan look. She’s got a point, but my former profession won’t allow me to admit it. “Anyway, Pop-Tarts aren’t ravioli.”
“They are, and so are some pies, like you said. Although if you think about it”—she gestures with one hand off the wheel—“a Pop-Tart is just a very flat pie—”
“Don’t even start …” I grab her hand to restrain her gesture, but we both look at the way we’re touching and I panic and let go. Like I didn’t hold her hand for a solid ten minutes at the beach.
The difference, though, is that no one is forcing us to be together this time. There’s nothing to hide behind. If I touch her, she knows it’s because I want to, not because PR said I should.
“Here we are,” Harmony says like nothing happened.
We pull up to the curb and find a perfect spot—city street parking that just happens to be vacant. I furrow my brows.
Harmony waves at a man on the sidewalk who is carrying a stack of traffic cones under one arm. He gives us a lazy salute and a wink before he heads off.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“He works for me. I paid him extra to save the spot.”
I’m about to scold her on the ethics of this when I gaze up at the front of the building we’re parked next to.
It’s old brick from top to bottom, some industrial warehouse from the 1920s, maybe as late as the 30s or 40s. The tinted windows have multiple panes with black frames, flanked by black shutters. White letters affixed to the bricks spell out “The Soundmill.”
“Wait …” I say, “I’ve heard of this place. It’s new. I mean … not literally new, of course, but …”
“It just opened,” Harmony supplies.
Sometimes I still keep tabs on indie music venues in the area. I found out about this one last month—reading the same entertainment column I used to write—built into a repurposed warehouse. It would have sparked my interest more if I’d thought I had the ability to check it out without drawing a crowd, but lately I sort of skim those updates and then forget about them, because that’s not my life anymore.
Not that I want it to be. It was hard getting gigs at those places; most of them want you to send proof that you’re worth their time (live performance videos, streaming links, bio, social media handles so they can check follower count and engagement, a list of past experience, plus an inquiry message that's basically a job application cover letter).
“Why did we bring my guitar?” I ask. “I can’t play here. Not unless I tell them who I really am.” Fame’s the only thing thatwould get this place to make room for someone at the last minute, except Harmony’s got me wearing this inconspicuous shirt and beanie, so that can’t be the plan. “If you want me to be Chad Hipster, they’re not going to let me onstage.”
“Actually, I had my assistant book you as James Eckhart.” When I give her a skeptical frown, she adds, “Your mom’s maiden name, right? That’s what Wikipedia said.”
“And I suppose you’re Marie Murphy? Or are you supposed to be, like, my manager or something?”
“I can perform with you if you’re too nervous to go on alone,” she teases, “but otherwise, this is all about you.”
I glance at the building through the car window. God, it’s been so long since I’ve set foot in a place like this. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to set foot in alotof places without feeling like I’m on display. How the hell did Harmony pull this off?
“What did you send them to get me in?”
“Three thousand dollars,” she says.
“What?!”
That’s not much money to her, but still.
“I also had to guarantee that at least a hundred people would show up for you alone, which my assistant Jenna’s boyfriend arranged—he’s in social media marketing, so he knows how to drum up a lot of interest in events.”
“Harmony …”
She tilts her head. “James …”
