Today, while Melanie’s at work, I’m doing some research, looking for studio space we can rent to get these two songs recorded and over to Gary and Mark. I have been dragging my feet, and I don’t know why. Gary’s ears must be ringing because just as I click on the website for Rockstar Rehearsal Studios, about an hour and a half away, my phone buzzes.
“Hey, Gary,” I say, tapping the speaker phone icon so I can keep my focus on the computer in front of me.
“Why do you sound so glum?” Gary barks into the phone. “Mark said your song is fantastic!”
I let out a defeated sigh. “It is. It’s a great song.”
“So, what’s the problem? This is what you wanted.” His optimism annoys me. It shouldn’t surprise me though. Gary is not the type of manager who entertains deeper than surface-level emotions. I can’t tell him how complicated writing this album has been for me, he’d never get it.
“Nothing. I’m trying to find a studio space to rent so we can record it for you guys.” I force positivity into my voice.
“Well, get to it then. I just wanted to check on you. It’s been a while since we’ve talked.” Gary sounds like he’s holding something back.
“I’m good. Just…keeping busy.”
“Okay. Have you gone to any meetings?” Gary asks, and I know he’s trying to sound casual.
“AA?” I all but growl. “No, why would I? I’m not an alcoholic.”
“I know man, but it can’t hurt,” Gary says carefully. It’s not his usual topic of conversation, and it makes me wonder if Mark put him up to this.
“I’mfine,” I stress. “I haven’t had a drink since I’ve been back here.” That much is true. I’ve actually felt pretty proud of myself for it, too. It’s been tempting, hanging with the guys and staying sober, but it’s always worth it when I feel good and remember everything the next day.
“All right,” Gary relents. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Thanks,” I say, my tone clipped. “I’ll let you know when we’ve got something.”
We hang up and the immense pressure to get this song recorded all but pummels me. I immediately dial Rockstar Recording but come up empty—they’re booked through the month. I try three more and get that or no answer.
“I guess we’ll have to record it here,” I mutter, falling back on the couch.
“What was that?” Melanie startles me.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I bristle, sitting up.
“Sorry.” She smiles. “You were on the phone when I came in.”
I turn to look at her. “I’ve called the five closest studios—which by the way none of them are actuallyclose—and no one has any open availability for us to record.” I rake a hand through my hair. “I don’t know how we’re going to get this done.”
Melanie moves behind the couch, leans over, wraps her arms around my neck in a hug, and kisses my temple. “It’ll be okay. We have a lot of quiet here. We can use your mics and the recording app. And I’m sure we can find another app to mix and layer it. It should be fine for Mark to just hear what we’ve got.”
I gently move out of her grasp and she lets go, perhaps sensing my barriers going up.
“I guess so,” I grumble.
“Let’s do it on Sunday. I’m off and we can take as long as we need to get it right.” Melanie comes to sit next to me, tucking her feet up under her. Just her nearness to me softens my prickly mood.
I reach for her hand, rubbing tiny circles on the top of it with my thumb. “Thanks, babe,” I say, leaning in for a kiss.
I’ll feel better once it’s done.
* * *
Saturday morning,Melaniesuggests we take a walk around Rotary Park and get a feel for the set up. I haven’t been there in years, so I agree. We shower and dress, and we’re heading out the door when I pause to grab my guitar.
Melanie gives me a playful smirk. “We’re supposed to be taking a walk,” she teases. “You are worse than me, dragging that thing around.”
“Hey, you never know.” I hold up my hands.
