She doesn’t need to know that we never went to a bar after that show and that I went home alone. That it wasn’t until nearly a year later that I finally found the nerve to hook up with a stranger. That the only reason I told her that story was to see how she would react. To finally know how she feels about me. She tries so hard to hide it, but the subtle tells are there.
And now I know. All I have to do is bide my time and wait this contract out.
One hundred and fifty-seven more days.
But who’s counting?
TWENTY
Ty
? Ocean Eyes – Billie Eilish ?
Even though I’ve read the same page six times in the last ten minutes, I couldn’t tell you a single word on it. I should probably just start this entire book over, because according to the bottom corner of my screen, I’m ten percent in and I don’t have any idea what’s going on.
I’m distracted.
Again.
It’s another chill night on the RV as we travel between cities. I’m reclined in one of the chairs in the living room, Kindle in hand, and Eric is sitting at the table in the kitchen in front of his laptop wearing a pair of gray sweats (lord help me) and a black t-shirt, headphones on, working on bringing new music to life.
It's the third time he’s done this—had rhythms in his head that he needed to get out—and I am completely captivated watching him work. The way his brow furrows as he plugs away. The way his eyes close and he bobs his head towhatever beat he’s laying down. The way his body moves when he’s tapping out patterns every so often on either his legs or the table itself. The way the laptop screen illuminates his face, making the lines of his jaw seem sharper than they are.
I’m mesmerized as he leans back and stretches his toned arms above his head, leaning his upper body from one side to the other and rotating his neck, stretching out the kinks that come from leaning over a laptop for hours on end.
His eyes meet mine and I curse myself for not being quick enough to look away before he can catch me staring at him. He slides his headphones off his ears, resting them around his neck.
“Sorry, did you need something?”
“No,” I say, looking back at my Kindle.
“Were you staring at me, Sunshine?” I can hear the teasing tone in his voice, and I fight a smile as I keep my eyes glued to my book. A few minutes pass, but I can feel his eyes on me the entire time.
“Now who’s staring at who?” I say, not looking up from my screen.
“Oh, I will never apologize for staring at you,” he says, and my eyes snap up to his. He’s sitting in the booth, elbow on the table and his chin resting on his hand. I fail to hide my smile this time, and he grins wide, putting his dimples on full display. “What’s your book about?”
I groan, setting it into my lap.
“I don’t know,” I say, scrubbing my hands down my face. “I can’t concentrate.” I look back over at him and sigh. “I’m nosy. I want to know what you’re doing.”
“Well then get over here,” he says, sliding over on the bench seat and motioning for me to come sit beside him. Ipractically leap out of the chair before I cross the RV to him, excited that I’m about to get a behind-the-scenes look at what it’s like to write music by one of the best to ever do it.
“Okay,” I say, letting out a breath. “What am I looking at?” I glance at the screen—a mess of jagged lines and dots and other details that, even though I’d played drums for ten years, looks like something I wouldn’t even begin to understand. “It looks…complicated.”
Eric grins before informing me of everything I’m looking at on his screen and explaining his entire process—from setting the tempo, to choosing the right kit (each pre-loaded kit has a different sound), to using the small piano keyboard in the bottom corner of the screen to play the different patterns and show how they’re mapped to each key, to adding a sound, and adjusting the velocity (how hard or soft a note is played).
“Once I have everything set the way I need it,” he explains, “I can create loops and add tracks to layer everything together.” He points to the different sections of dots and lines stacked on top of each other, and I can’t stop myself from moving my attention back to his lips while speaks, distracted by the way they curl at the corner ever so slightly, like he has a secret tucked in there waiting to get out.
“Is this just a placeholder for when you record in a studio?” I ask.
“No. Drums are the only thing not recorded live anymore.”
“So, you don’t even go into a studio?”
“I do. I guess,technically, I don’t have to. The rest of them could go in and track everything and send it to me after to program the drums, but I like being there. As you’ve seen tonight by staring at me,” I roll my eyes, and he laughs. “It does take a lot longer to do things this way, and since you payper hour to be in a studio, it’s usually not ideal to start from scratch. Technology sucks sometimes, and it sure has a way of making a guy feel obsolete, but I am glad to have this option when I need to get all these grooves out of my head. I can send it out to the guys ahead of time and then make changes before we go record.”
His voice is rich with a tone of confidence that I’m starting to recognize. I’m still learning him—still piecing together the parts of him that don’t always come out in the bright lights of his on-stage persona. I’ve spent enough time with him now to see the vulnerability that lurks behind his confident smile, the weight of years spent as a musician, always pushing and perfecting. But this—watching him bring something to life from his head into a digital space—it’s almost like seeing him in his purest form.
