“Just getting it out of the way, so you can do mine.”
“Fuck off,” I say, laughing. “You’ve already got people doing the rest of your coursework. Complete at least one class on your own.”
He laughs but his eyes are unfocused, staring past my shoulder, before they sharpen on my face. “You’re worried about this project, right? You want to do well?”
I nod.
“And you still dream of being a music producer.” His grin reappears. “And managing my career…”
“That’s your fantasy, not mine.”
“But you’re also stockpiling pills. How does that work?”
My shoulders hunch, but the question is like all the things Damien asks, curious, abrupt, invasive but strangely impersonal. An alien landing on planet earth and figuring out how things work.
“Lots of people have a plan B.”
He looks both sceptical and unsatisfied. I sigh, fiddling with the guitar again, seeking inspiration.
“It’s like having two train tracks in my head, and right now I’m straddling both lines. One heads into a future with university and jobs and a potential career, and the other…”
“Derails and everyone dies?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I lower my head, not wanting his scrutiny. “Or maybe it’s nothing like that and I’m bad at analogies.”
“Have you tried before?”
I nod and a wave of exhaustion washes over me.
“Have you tried swallowing those pills you’re prescribed every day instead of all at once?”
Tension coils in my jaw. “Fuck you.”
“That’s my weekend plan, yes.” He grabs my chair either side and pulls me close, trapping me in place. “It’s a reasonable question.”
“The medication treats depression not suicide. Do I strike you as fucking depressed?”
His eyes look up like he’s genuinely thinking. “Not really, but I wouldn’t know. I’ve never paid much attention to people before. How about I add lyrics, and we submit a joint project?”
“What?”
Damien plays my piece again, adding a few embellishments. I guess the interrogation’s over as suddenly as it began, and I’m too relieved to protest. His attention is overwhelming.
It reminds me of my mother’s erratic conversations, and I take a few seconds more to reroute my thoughts.
When I do, the idea of creating something memorable together doesn’t sound bad. “Write them first, then we’ll see.”
He brushes away a hair caught near my mouth, then grabs my collar, pulling me in for a kiss that leaves my lips buzzing, feeling swollen.
Not asking, just taking, but this strange arrangement has shown me it’s what I prefer.
“Let’s go record this tune, then. Give me something to work with.”
We traipse back into the main music room where Van der Valk has set up a makeshift recording studio in his office. We listen as another student sings their heart out, joining the queue.
When it’s our turn, Damien ushers me into the smaller room, palm warming my lower back.
“You look happier,” Van der Valk comments when we emerge, just minutes before the lunchtime bell. “I’m glad you’re making progress.”
