Her eyes are knowing. “You’re not ever going to tell me what Ripper meant, are you?”
Slowly, I shake my head.
She swallows and withdraws her hand, leaning back against the wall.
It’s that moment, registering the disappointment on her face, that I decide to take a leap.
I lean in and note her surprised exhale. “I’ll tell you something else, though.”
She remains very still. “Okay.”
I dip close to her ear and whisper. “You are a fascinating, frustrating, brilliant woman. And I know I’ve met you at a very strange time in your life.” I take a breath, and she tenses. “But I wouldn’t trade meeting you for anything. One day you’re going to feel normal again, and you’re going to meet someone cool and talented—another musician, probably. Someone like you. And you’ll be his favorite person. He’ll take care of you and make you happy, and this season of your life will be nothing but a bittersweet memory.”
She closes her eyes. “And who will make you happy?”
My lips ghost over her cheek. “You, from afar.”
I release her, stuff my hands in my pockets, and walk back to Roger.
Chapter 39
Theo
Thursday, September 19, 2024
The tension between the band is palpable even through the glass partition that separates the live room from the control room. Like every other recording session in the month since their fight, Hannah, Ripper, and Kenny have remained silent between songs, refusing to look at one another. I’d hoped their animosity would fade with time, but I guess they’ve finally hurt one another too deeply for easy repairs.
Right now, however, I’m in no position to give advice about getting over things. Every time I look at Hannah, I flash back to an image of my hand caught in her hair at the Billboard party. Or my thumb circling her mouth on the roof at Gunthy’s party, or that charged moment backstage in Las Vegas when I held her close. I’m sitting here in this swivel chair trying to hide my confusion under a calm, professional mask. I’m not sure how well it’s working.
The only one in a good mood is Roger. He showed up unexpectedly at the studio this morning holding a giant Starbucks coffee, saying he wanted to be here when we officially wrapped the album. He’s spent all day ordering the studio staff to bring him food and talking loudly to hisassistant on speakerphone, but still, it’s an honor that the CEO thinks our album is worth his presence.
“We can’t title the album ‘Dark Night of the Soul,’” Kenny’s saying to Ripper, their conversation coming in crisp through the mics. “That’s way too on the nose.”
“It’s from a poem by St. John of the Cross, you philistine.” Ripper crosses his arms. His biceps bulge in his tank top. “It describes the three phases of transcendence: purification of the soul, dark night of ego death, then union with God. It’s about not being able to be reborn until you let go of your old life. Tell me that doesn’t fit the album?”
“First you cite Margaret Atwood, now a Renaissance poem?” Hannah looks skeptical. “Did you and Kenny switch brains?”
“Now Kenny’s the only one allowed to be well read?” Ripper snaps. “Thanks for underestimating me as always.”
“I like ‘Ego Death,’” Kenny muses, scratching his chin. “Was that a title of a Nirvana album, though?”
I press the button on my mic. “All right, guys, let’s focus. We can talk about the album title later.” They’ve been bickering over it for weeks.
“How much longer will they be at this?” On this side of the glass, Roger stretches and yawns. “I forgot how tedious this process can be.”
“I’ll get them back on track,” I promise. Hannah bites her lip as Rip says something about changing the chorus on their last song, and I know that means she’s probably singing through it in her head, testing out the transition. I like that these days, I can guess how her mind works.
“Oh!” Roger slaps the console and I jump. “Good news. Manifest submitted the Saints for Grammy consideration. Obviously, we couldn’t put the new album up since it’s not finished yet, but we submitted the singles they released for the big awards, Record of the Year and Song of the Year.We submitted Hannah by herself for the SOTY on ‘Six Feet Under,’ but the whole band’s on the ‘Family Fruit’ submission for ROTY, including you.”
I freeze. “Me?” Somehow, even though I know Record of the Year is an award given to everyone who has a hand in creating the winning song—musicians, producers, and mixers alike—I’d never considered my name might make the list.
Roger nods. “The band insisted I include you. As soon as the album’s finished, I’m going to leak it to the music critic at theTimesto see if I can gin up a good early review. He’s a buddy, and I think it would go a long way to making them serious contenders.”
I picture my father sitting down in a recliner and flipping on his TV on Grammy night. Seeing me in a tux, sharp and commanding, walking across the screen to accept a golden gramophone. The audience cheering. What would he think of that?
I’ve told no one except for Bryan, but a few years back, I hired a private investigator to find him. The PI came back with an address and a phone number. It turns out my dad is living in Cleveland, Ohio, and remarried. Bryan urged me to call, but I’ve been holding on to it.
I wonder if it’s getting time to call.
