But before I can swallow down my feelings and step away from the counter, suddenly Theo is back. “I’m sorry. Can’t help it.” He cups my jaw and pulls me into a kiss. Three seconds that leave me breathless before he releases me and walks right out the front door.
I turn to the sliding glass door, tracing my lips. In the distance, the bonfire crackles in front of the waves. In the foreground, my face shines back at me. The woman in the glass can’t stop smiling.
Chapter 45
Theo
Thursday, October 24, 2024
One of the greatest days in the studio with any band is when work on an album is done, and you huddle in the control room to listen to what they’ve made for the first time in its entirety. There’s this awe; the songs that have lived as lyrics scribbled in journals, notes taped on walls, and wailing rifts in practice sessions—all these pieces from inside everyone’s heads—have somehow achieved an independent life. Sometimes you’ll even forget you helped write a line or a drum fill and the power of it will strike you fresh. Since I’ve never felt more deeply part of an album, listening day for the Saints is hitting me hard.
“Suit, the way you and Claudia mixed ‘Little Beasts’ is perfect,” Kenny says. The band and I are clustered around the digital audio workstation in black swivel chairs, going through each track backward and forward. All three of them prefer to listen with their eyes closed, which I find both charming and convenient. It gives me a chance to study Hannah without her knowing, remembering the softness of her lips, the way her cheekbones and temples and golden hair felt under my fingertips. I realize Kenny’s just given me a compliment and clear my throat. “Thanks, Ken. But Claudia’s the real pro.”
“You weren’t lying when you said you were good at producing.” Ripper drums his fingers along with the beat. “I’ll never doubt a Dartmouth grad again.”
The teasing is worth it to see the way Hannah’s mouth curls into a grin.
“You know what?” she says, her eyes still closed. “This album is good. Fuck theNew York Times.”
Kenny pounds the console. “TheNew York Timescan go straight to hell.”
“Told you.” Our weekend in Bonita Vista seems to have revived the Saints, exactly as I’d hoped. “People are going to love this album.”
A curt knock sounds at the door, startling everyone’s eyes open. I pause the playback.
“Probably just lunch. I told the studio to text me, but maybe they got their wires crossed. Hold on.” My chair clatters against the console as I stride to the door.
A young guy in a crisp blue suit stands in the hall. “Are you our delivery guy?” A bit overdressed, but no judgment.
He brushes past me into the room. All the Saints swivel to track him.
“Whoa, hold on.” I dart after him. “We’re in a confidential listening session. You can leave the sandwiches outside.”
“Roger Braverman needs five minutes of your time.” The guy can’t be older than twenty. He looks fresh out of college. “He’s on a call, but he’ll be right in.”
“Mind telling us who you are?” Hannah gives me an incredulous look. I shrug.
“I’m Mr. Braverman’s new assistant,” he says, folding his hands. “Five minutes, and then he has a flight to catch.”
“Okay.” Kenny laughs. “Very mysterious.”
“Hello, hello,” Roger rumbles, striding into the room and pocketing his phone. He’s traded his signature white ensemble for a slick black suit, but he moves the same wayin his pointed-toe loafers, all fluid and easy. “How we doing, Saints?”
“Curious,” Hannah says bluntly.
Either because I’m the only one standing or because he wants to impart the sense that he and I are on the same team, Roger slings his arm over my shoulder. “This guy.” He musses my hair in a paternal way. “He’s in the studio every day, isn’t he? Dressed like he’s one of the band. Gotta love the enthusiasm.”
“Uh, Roger . . . ” I do my best to peer up at him. “What’s this about?” He releases me and sighs. “Look. I have some bad news. We’ve decided to press pause on the album release. We don’t think it’s ready.” “What?” The room explodes, Hannah, Ripper, and Kenny rising to their feet. “Hey, now.” Roger lifts his hands to quell the commotion. “Let’s stay calm.”
“Who’s this ‘we’ who decided it wasn’t ready?” I ask.
“The full executive team.” Roger gives me a level look. “Your bosses.”
“What’s not ready about it?” Ripper and Kenny move closer to Hannah’s sides. I’ve noticed they do this unconsciously when they’re stressed—literally flank one another.
“Is this about the review?” Kenny asks.
Roger slips his hands in his pockets. “The executive team at Manifest simply reevaluated and we think we’re better served shelving this album and going back to the drawing board. If you grind, we’re confident we can have a new product in short order. And obviously we’ll write an extension into your contract.” He laughs. “No lawsuits from us.”
