“It’s…Renee, right? Wouldja mind giving Alice a hand?”
I haven’t yet been down to the studio this week, and with Renee at my heels, my nerves feel stripped raw. A single bulb lights the gray slatted basement steps that used to trip me up on drunken nights, but even stone-cold sober, I stumble on my way down. A muted red Persian rug hides all but the corners of the concrete floor. Any wall that isn’t covered in spongy gray-black sound paneling boasts dozens of pedals, basses, and guitars. Dad’s Gibson hangs among them, a cherry-red electric guitar with its own gravitational pull. Renee runs her fingers over the fretted neck, and I feel it in the arches of my feet.
“Wow.” Her whisper ripples through me.
“Yeah. Wow is right.” Hundreds of thousands of dollars of equipment wait here at our fingertips, all state of the art and hidden beneath a blanket of dust.
I walk a slow lap around the studio, switching on one lamp after another. Not a single bulb has burned out, and the resultingglow is so warm and sweet, I would sip it from a mug if I could. Every breath tastes like whiskey and amber with a heavy pour of fabric softener, an expensive cologne spritzed on a dive-bar napkin.
Renee’s eyes drift throughout the room—from the deep wood of theSongs for Aliceplatinum-album plaque to the enormous mixing board below it, dappled with knickknacks and tour souvenirs. My mind latches on to one of so many futures for this place—this could be my recording studio, forever.Mymixing board.Mytour souvenirs. I could run it as my own studio or just lock myself away to make whatever music I want until the money runs out. But I’d be leaving behind my life in Chicago—Gin. Gentle Giant. Renee, if she’s even mine to leave.
It would be lonely, but I’ve been lonely before.
I picture the alternative—selling the Outpost back to the band. It makes the most sense. Take the money and run. What business do I have with a five-bedroom house when I could use that money to build a studio anywhere else? But it’s hard to stomach the thought of letting go of this place.
Renee turns back to me, and I’m sure she’s about to say something, but the thought splinters when her eyes catch on mine. My skin hums to life, like every cell in my body is competing to be seen by her, to spend just a second pinned beneath that soft blue stare. Her lips part on a breath, but she turns away.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Not nothing. You were going to say something.”
Her eyes come back to mine, but they’ve steeled over again. “Nothing,” Renee says. “Just tell me what to carry.”
Tucked beside the laundry room, the storage closet is beyond well stocked. I’m steeped in that same golden ticket feeling I get at Gentle Giant. But this is different. This is mine. I’m Charlie Bucket with an entire chocolate factory dropped in my lap, and my biggest problem is what to do with it. I didn’t ask or work for it. Not like Renee worked for her master’s degree and every role on her impressively stacked résumé, and still she can’t find a job. I want to tell her about the house. I want to tell her about everything, but even if we were on speaking terms, I can’t imagine the guilt of flaunting my champagne problems while she’s still skimming the bottom shelf. Though there is one practical question that begs to be asked, if only for Renee’s sake. Even in the safety of a soundproof studio, I keep my voice low.
“Hey, Renee? Am I still keeping your job situation a secret?”
She chews her lip, eyes cast low. Silence. I turn to dig out a cable, and then—
“I told them,” she says. “Gin and Chrissy. I didn’t want to make up another lie as to why I’m so available to help this week.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” She clears her throat. “Anyway. No need to be secretive about it. Thanks for checking.”
A dampened silence spills out between us.
“Okay,” I finally say, and I should leave it at that, but the next thought barges out anyway. “I’m proud of you.”
More silence, and Renee still won’t look at me. I can’t blame her. I’m the one who ruined this thing between us. She picks up a coiled cable, and with a pointed sigh—“The things we do for the wedding, right?”
I try to smile, but it doesn’t really work. I feel pliable, like acheap wire hanger that can’t take the weight of all the unknowns.One thing at a time,I think. One mic stand. One cable.
Kurt’s equipment list was solid, but I take a few liberties. Upstairs, I walk him through my vision for the live sound setup, and surprise fades to pride in his eyes. He isn’t Dad, and he’s not a Grammy-winning engineer like Aidan, but Kurt’s approval still means something. It’s a zap of energy, one I wish I could distribute throughout the house because, damn, the group is fading fast. Chrissy and Chris are draped like matching throw blankets over the couches. At the kitchen table, Rishi’s parents sleepily fold napkins like it’s a punishment.
“Coffee run?” Gin suggests. The mere mention of it gets the whole house’s attention, and Renee sets off collecting orders. Gin requests that I tag along. Renee will need a second set of hands to carry coffees, Gin insists, and there’s no use arguing with the bride.
As I’m sliding on my sneakers, Kurt stops us by the door, holding out a thick metal credit card like a sideways cigarette. “Coffee’s on the band,” he grunts.
“Thanks, Kurt.” I pluck the card and grin. “Chocolate croissants are on the band, too.”
We’re nearly halfway down the hill when Renee finally cracks the silence. “It seems like you and Kurt are on decent terms.”
“Decent,” I allow. Then with a sigh, “He’s a good guy for my mom.”
“And how are things with your mom?”
