I just don’t know what to say to her. HowdoI explain my behavior? Anyone else would have been thrilled. Thrilled that we wrote this song, and that she wants to record it with us and choreograph a dance to it. All of that—going into a real studio and recording the song—would be a step in the right direction. Moving forward.
Still, it feels like a shortcut, like I’d be taking advantage of her. But that’s not the reason I’m acting this way. At least, not the only reason. If I’m honest, really honest, it’s something else.
In the last few weeks it’s been easy to forget who Rayne is and that we come from completely different worlds. She was a dance student at the New England School of Ballet, just like everyoneelse. She’d go to class, and when she wasn’t dancing or studying, we’d spend time together listening to music.
It was easy to forget she inherited millions from her parents. Until today. Until she said she could pay for the studio time and I was immediately reminded of the differences in our financial status. She probably wouldn’t even miss the money. The band, on the other hand, would have to save for months to afford it.
It’s not fair to blame it on her, I know. It’s not her fault. She didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just my fucking pride getting in the way, and my frustration that I’m not able to write a good song on my own.
Like I said, I’m an asshole.
“What’s wrong?” I look up when I hear Beck’s voice.
“Huh?”
He points to the knife in my hand and the finely chopped vegetables on the wooden cutting board in front of me. “You’ve been done for five minutes and you’re still staring at the chopped peppers. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I put the knife aside and try to look like I don’t care.
“Shit, East, I’m not an idiot. I can see it.” He comes over to me, takes the board, and scrapes the vegetables into a pan. He’s the only one of us who can cook properly, since his mother’s a chef and he spent much of his childhood next to her at the stove. When he wasn’t making music, that is. “What’s wrong, trouble in paradise?”
I roll my eyes.
“Um, I guess that means yes. If you want to talk about it, I could try to help you,” he suggests.
I want to shake my head, but then I give in with a sigh. “I argued with Rayne.”
“That’s what it looks like.” He laughs dryly, and I give him a dirty look, which he answers with a cheeky shrug. “It’s true. You were out yesterday for a long time. I heard when you came home, East. I thought it was going well, but ever since you got back from the ballet school, you’ve been in a horrible mood.”
“It’s possible there are other reasons,” I say, evading the subject. I don’t know why I do it, since talking to Beck usually helps me. But usually I also know what’s going on in my head. Today I don’t understand it.
“Sure, there could be. But there aren’t. Why did you argue?”
I slump into one of the chairs around the kitchen table and sigh, frustrated at myself. “It’s stupid.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all. Start talking already, East.”
“We wrote a song together.”
Beck stops in the middle of stirring and turns to me in surprise. “You wrote a song together?”
“An extremely good one, actually.”
“Then why are you arguing?”
“Because I’m an asshole.”
“Hmm. I don’t like to disagree with you, but no. You’re a lot of things, but not an asshole.”
“In this case I am.” I groan and then tell my best friend everything. Well, almost everything. I keep the almost-kiss to myself. Beck listens silently while he finishes frying the vegetables. When I’m finally done with my story, he turns around and leans back against the kitchen cabinets with his arms crossed over his chest. He watches me without saying anything for so long and with such an intense stare that at some point I start sliding around on the chair uncomfortably.
“That was totally unnecessary,” he finally says.
“Oh, really? Tell me about it.” The irony in my voice is unmistakable.
“God, I hate your pride. We could have gone to the studio with Rayne!”
“Don’t act like you’re better than me. You would have reacted in exactly the same way,” I retort. Beck seems to be forgetting how much we have in common. Especially when it comes to our pride and our absolute inability to accept help.
