ELIZABETH
Come Closer
A static crackleoverhead makes me jump.
“You ready to begin?” A voice speaks to me from behind the glass window through the speakers that connect the control room to the live room.
Instead of smiling back, I feel like I want to throw up.
The guy, who looks more like a surfer with his mop of messy, blond curls, gives me an encouraging thumbs-up and a smile. He introduced himself, but for the life of me, I can’t recall his name. I’ve been a little starstruck since we entered the building. We were given a tour before being heralded into the recording studio. The control room was insane. My fingers desperately wanted to play with every single knob and slider on all the various panels that manipulate the sound just to see what they would do.
Growing up, I was never into the recording aspect of music and all that it entailed, like Dad was. That was his thing that he did with his band. I was content to compose music using pencil and paper, my laptop, or pen to skin—I did that with Ryder onseveral occasions when I woke up during the night with a song in my head.
I sing. I play the guitar, the piano, and the drums. But not once have I ever walked into a recording studio until today.
“You’re going to do just fine,” the guy says. “You can stop at any time, and we can redo takes as often as you want. You have the studio booked for the entire day.” Again, he’s trying to be reassuring.
“Okay,” I reply, my voice a bit shaky.
I take a deep breath. Itch my nose. Then fidget with my locket necklace before fiddling with my wedding rings.
“Kitten, relax. You’ve got this.”
And just like that, my nerves settle at his voice.
Fallon is sitting on the leather sofa behind me in the small rectangular room, one of his legs bent at the knee and propped over the other leg. I’m seated on a stool, a microphone with a large, round pop shield in front of me. The lights are turned down low to create a calming atmosphere, and the walls are painted a dusky beige color. There are several guitars, electric and acoustic, in stands in the corner, and an electronic keyboard and an electric drum set along the side wall.
I swallow thickly, my mouth suddenly dry. Bending down, I pick up the bottle of water I was offered when we first arrived and take a few sips. Readjusting on the stool because I can’t seem to sit still, the plastic cap to the water bottle slips from my grasp and falls to the floor.
“Sorry,” I say, not knowing who I’m apologizing to but feeling the need to say it anyway.
Fallon pops off the couch and kneels on the carpet in front of me to retrieve the twist cap. When he stands back up, I don’t take it from his proffered hand—I grab his wrist instead.
“Please stay. Right there.”
He cocks his head in the way I love, his aqua-blue eyes smiling at me.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” I admonish, and his lips twitch.
“Why are you so nervous?”
That’s a great question.
Fallon’s smile is too infectious, and it’s making me feel rather foolish.
“I don’t know!” I can’t stop the laughter that bubbles out.
“I’ve seen you sing in front of a crowd of people in Times Square. You played for Tatiána and Eduardo.”
I huff. “That wastwenty years ago.”
“Sing to me then,” he suggests.
Fallon moves a step over so that he’s standing catty-corner to me and only a foot away. He rakes a hand through his dark-blond hair, sweeping away the errant strands that have fallen into his eyes. He’s wearing low-cut jeans today, ones with a rip in the left knee, and an untucked black tee that shows off his gorgeous full-sleeve ink. Can a man look delicious?
“You’re too tall,” I tell him, having to crick my neck just to look up at him from where I’m sitting. “Grab me that acoustic, please,” I say, pointing to the dark-brown Taylor in the corner.
Bringing it to me, Fallon walks off again and grabs another stool. He sits down, then gets back up and moves the stool closer to me before sitting down again.
