by Zoe Lee
“If,” he began in the rasp which she loved more than she could say, telling and sexy, “if it looks like love, then the rest is however we want it to be. Because all I imagine is love.”
“That practical part of me, which you don’t like very much,” she replied wryly, her mouth quirking into a nervous, half-smile, “needs a clear picture from you. Until I hear it, I can’t ask you my last question, because I won’t know what it is I’m asking, will I?”
His hands dragged through his hair and he groaned in his chest. “It’s a defensive wall.”
“Maybe,” she conceded with a shrug, “but it’s not defending against heartbreak. I don’t regret a single decision I’ve made, even if some led to sadness and tough changes, like my divorce. It’s protection against making an uninformed choice. How can I commit to something, promise anything, when I don’t know what it means to you?” she argued.
“You want me to tell you what I imagine, without having a clue what you imagine.”
“Yeah, love.”
The endearment came naturally, one of a million times she’d used it here in her home, because she loved well and deeply, even if she didn’t love as many people now as when she was a young woman. It was a short word, but it was mighty, encompassing of all of the types of love she felt. It seemed to electrify Seth, made his eyes so crystalline and bright that she swallowed hard, while he leaned in sharply, the edge of the table cutting across his ribs.
“Fine, Astrid Sinclair, you want my dream? In my dream, you’re a music journalist and I’m a singer-songwriter with a recording studio. You go with me to Oregon to meet my parents, do girls’ weekends with Kerri, Leda, and Gin. I try not to antagonize your ex-husband, and I’m invited to Barnyard holiday festivities and take you dancing at Local Beats after. There’s a group chat with you, me, Barley, Leda, and Kerri. You’re on the cover of my first album with me, even if it’s just your shoes or a piece of your hair. Some photos you haven’t taken yet will find their way into frames on the walls of my house, and some of my tee shirts and briefs find their way into the dresser at your house. Oh, and we’re in love.”
“And our bed?”
“There’s two of them, but it’s just you and me, Astrid. Other ways worked for other relationships, but you engage every fucking part of me, challenge every part of me, satisfy every part of me, and I don’t need anyone else,” he explained fiercely, his calm slipping.
“And commitment?”
“If you feel how I feel—and I pray to God you fucking do—then I don’t need a ring or a tattoo or babies,” he assured her, eyes burning now, slender muscles clenched. “But if you want any of it, or all of it, you fucking get it, Astrid Sinclair.”
A small noise flew up Astrid’s throat, rattling her vocal chords, and burst into the air between her lips and Seth’s ears. The second it reached him, he was out of his chair like a shot, not even flinching when it crashed into the sideboard and rattled the serving pieces.
He rounded the table in two moves, pulling her out of her seat for his third move, so that she was on her feet, clinging to his shoulders, her hair fluttering from the speed.
“Now you have all of the important facts and feelings for your decision tree,” he murmured, threading his fingers into her ponytail, then gently tilted her head up and his shoulders back until they were looking at each other straight on, no distractions. His eyes were as steady and sure as they had been the first time their eyes met, only now she could see so much more, like love and passion and loyalty, because she was getting to know him, and because he was letting her in.
Her cool reserve and the hesitance built up by old heartaches melted beneath his certainty and determination. All that was left was her passion, her own keen desire—her need—to learn everything about him and share everything about herself, and a fragile but bold seedling of stubbornness to make this work despite all of the practical concerns.
As a smile unfurled slow and sweet, she brushed his chin with her fingers.
His fingertips pressed and slid up and down the vertebrae of her spine as though it were the neck of a guitar, making her vibrate with shivers, coaxing a soft melody of sighs out of her. Of all of the embraces she’d had in her life, none had felt like this, so affirming and life-giving, like it was grass beneath bare feet, angel’s wings sheltering them in magic and splendor, dreams and passion and love indeed warming up the inside of their cocoon.
She didn’t wait for him to kiss her this time; she swooped the oh so very short distance up to lay her lips on his. He cursed and groaned against her lips before his tongue claimed her mouth, their hearts thudding against each other so hard that Astrid felt like they were standing in the center of a circle of subwoofers turned up so high they shook everything.
But it only took a couple of minutes before the embrace tempered into something far more sentimental and loving, and less about making up for lost time or claiming, although their hearts kept right on thudding.
“Seth,” Astrid sighed, her cheek landing softly on his shoulder with her nose tucked into his neck, his scent much more potent than usual after the show under the hot spotlights and then their sex. Her hands curled around his ribs, not clinging, not bracing her, but measuring the bones that kept his heart safe, the bones that were the foundation for the chest and shoulders that she loved to rest her cheek on.
“Astrid, please, baby, just—just tell me what you’re thinking,” he entreated her.
Another noise emerged, this one saturated with emotions, and she lifted up and pinched his shoulders between her fingers without noticing. His eyes searched hers, desperate as he gripped her waist as tightly as she was pinching his shoulders.
“That’s exactly how I imagine it too, Seth Riveau,” she proclaimed, smiling until her eyes welled up, the dam collapsing once and for all with a surge of triumph, “and I-I’ve imagined it so much. I’ve hated being away from you, even though we were barely together two weeks and I swore it was just curiosity and sex. I’ve been dreaming about you, love.”
“And I was destined to meet you, darlin’,” he returned without hesitation.
“Well then,” she breathed into his skin, “aren’t we lucky that you believe in destiny?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Seth
Six Months Later
Seth flipped off the lights in the sound booth, perched up high like an eagle’s nest in the old Archer Orchards’ bottling factory on Apple Road. He stepped onto the small landing and slid his hands along the slightly cool metal pipe that shaped the railing. His hair was styled for tonight’s special occasion, a little shorter underneath and a little longer on top than it had been almost nine months ago when he’d broken in here to sing.
Below him was the refurbished factory, a giant soaring space with brilliant acoustics the way it had been back then, but now with a recording booth, bathroom, tiny kitchen, and a storage area near the old loading dock. It was home to Moving Life Studios, and tonight it was filled by those whom he loved the most and held the dearest, plus a few dozen others who had come for the album release party for one of the artists who’d used the studio.
It wasn’t in his nature to be aloof for very long, so he took the stairs down to the ground, one hand skimming along the pipe railing, his eyes sweeping over it all.
“We’re running low on ice and cake,” Aden told him, Dunk bopping his head to the music playing through the sound system. “Dunk and I are going to get more of both.”
“I got their autographs,” Dunk whooped, clapping Seth on the shoulder so exuberantly that it was going to leave a mark. “Hellerton rules!” he hollered, jogging out behind Aden.
Rubbing his shoulder absently, Seth wound his way through the party. It was mellow compared to what he supposed people might imagine a release party with at least a few famous people to be. The band had played a short acoustic set earlier, the mics and instruments still near the north wall, recorded by Seth to be used for a live LP. So now, it was food and drinks,
groups of people laughing and dancing, telling stories and shaking hands, everyone taking photos and stealing control of the music as if it were a jukebox.
It was everything he’d ever fantasized about, breathed to life by so many things—stumbling in here on Hedda’s birthday anniversary, drunkenly coming up with the idea with his friends while lying on Tristan’s lawn, and Astrid’s supportiveness.
As if they were a magnetic pair, his eyes sought her out and found her immediately.
She wore a navy sleeveless knit dress and see-through black leggings, her shoes and jacket probably abandoned in the kitchen as usual when she visited. Her hair looked sweetly messy, but Seth was proud to see the destruction his hands had wrought knotted in it while they’d made love a few hours ago. One elbow was cupped in the other hand, her chin propped up on curled knuckles, as she listened raptly to the story Trentham was telling her. When someone bumped into her, they both turned around, making gestures of apologies, and then interrupted themselves to burst into happy laughter and hug each other close.
Astrid was beautiful, her radiance obvious to everyone again; her laughter was louder, her conversation was less guarded, and her quick, wicked sense of humor knocked him out. It only gilded a silhouette that had been fulfilled—happy, loved and satisfied professionally— before they’d met, and the knowledge that she’d chosen him made him thankful and proud.
Her eyes zipped over to him and she smiled, then winked as if she were the rock star.
He grinned, slow and sweet as honey, and winked right back at her.
“Hey, Seth, when are we talking about guest spots on the Asia tour?” Kayla asked, Xavier and Hank in tow, both of them nodding enthusiastically and sloppily, drinks sloshing.
Slinging his arms around their necks, he talked with them about when and where he might join Downbeat for certain tour dates, no longer feeling anything but joy at the idea.
Soon enough they were joined by the artists they were celebrating tonight, then by one of Seth’s bluegrass friends from Nashville, then Seth got a text from Leda, who was a sleep-deprived new mom wreck hiding at home with Jamie.
It was a few hours before he slipped away to drink a quick cup of coffee in the tiny kitchen, since he’d woken up too early that morning, worried tonight wouldn’t work. As he reached for the raw sugar, his cell buzzed and he tugged it out, seeing a video call from Kerri. “Hey, Kerri,” he said, smiling easily as he propped the cell up on the coffeemaker.
“I just called to wish you a happy night!” she shouted, a party of her own behind her.
She was back in college and hadn’t been able to come, but Seth was thrilled for the call. He’d never been one for video calls before, but with all of the traveling he and Astrid did, he now saw the many helpful (and sexy) uses for it. He’d learned the value when Astrid went to Austin for three weeks for an essay, and when he went to Chicago for a week a month and wanted to see Leda and her belly as often as he could so he wouldn’t miss a thing.
“Thank you, it’s going pretty well so far,” he thanked her once the noise on her end quieted down a tiny bit, and took a deep drink of the tepid, but fortifying, coffee.
Her eyes rolled, looking hilariously demonic as the picture lagged. “Hellerton and Moving Life are already trending, you tech un-savvy old man,” she cackled.
“Yeah?” he said, pride and nerves tangling pleasurably in his guts. He’d found, as friends came to use his studio and hire him on as producer sometimes, as he’d recorded himself, as he’d placed an ad for a sound tech and assistant, that he was just as motivated and thrilled by the accomplishments and successes as he was by the risks and uncertainty.
“Yeah,” Kerri laughed, then her head yanked left and her eyes got really wide. “Um, there’s a thing I have to go… see about,” she lied without trying to hide it. “Bye now!”
He chuckled as he tucked his phone back into his pocket and went back to the party, where he saw Astrid seated on one of the footstools, leaning forwards earnestly towards one of the hand-picked journalists Seth had invited. Unable to resist her, unwilling to ever even try, he glided around the party guests.
“Did you have a part in Seth’s solo debut?” the journalist asked, eyes flicking up to him.
Astrid twisted that elegant neck to look over her shoulder. She held out a hand to him and he moved to her, straddling the corner of the footstool beside hers, keeping her hand.
“I did,” she said to the journalist, and her only concession to the interview was a little more decorum than she claimed she felt the need for these days. “Some of the songs were written so that Seth could process some of the things he felt when we first met.”
“What kinds of things?”
Instead of becoming cooler, Astrid’s eyes twinkled when she joked as if she and the journalist were old, warm friends, “Surely only quite lovely things. Right, darling?”
Seth loved the contract between his lazily drawled darlin’ and her crisp British darling, and he couldn’t help but use it when he replied, “Is that the way you remember it, darlin’?”
The journalist, God help her, giggled a bit, biting her lip. “Any other contributions?”
Astrid looked at Seth and arched an eyebrow, and he lifted her hand and kissed it. Recrossing her legs, she seemed to take it as a sign to offer up more to the journalist, although by rights they were technically professional rivals. “Actually, I first heard them when Seth performed at Local Beats in Chicago. They moved me, and compelled me to seek him out after the show. I believe the songs on this album were what truly brought us together; that was the night we really talked about us and laid it all out on the line.”
“I laid it all out on the line,” Seth corrected with a lazy smile. “You played it coy.”
“Once bitten, twice shy?” the journalist interjected good-naturedly.
At that, Astrid didn’t lose her sense of humor, but her face settled into more serious lines as she stroked the joint at the base of Seth’s thumb, head tipping a little bit. “So many things in our lives are designed to harden us as we grow up, aren’t they? Painful experiences cause us to build walls, create distance, shut our eyes to opportunities—to distrust our instincts and our hearts. And when I met Seth, I was more like that than I’m proud of, protecting myself too much, believing that I was being smart and practical.”
“And Seth changed your mind about that?”
“Not in the way you might be thinking,” Astrid said with a soft, secretive smile, as coy as she’d just denied she was. “Seth is so generous with his love of music, with his loyalty to his family and friends, with good stories told through songs or as anecdotes. But beyond that, he’s mysterious. Oh, it’s such a lovely word, such a romantic word. But I must say, it drove me up the wall trying to figure him out. And I think that while I was trying to figure him out, it required that I stretch my neck out and put down my shield. Suddenly I remembered how brave and free I was when I was young, before all that protectiveness hardened me. The more I revealed to him, the more he shared with me, and trust grew.”
“So romantic,” the journalist sighed under her breath, sounding wistful.
Seth tucked his bangs behind one ear gently and murmured, “I loved her before all of that, but to watch her stretch and shine more and more has been extraordinary. When she was finally ready to tell me that she loves me too, well, I knew we were forever.”
While the journalist sighed some more, Astrid leaned over and pressed a simple kiss on his jaw, a little sticky from the remnants of her lipstick. “It took me somewhat longer,” she admitted, but she was still a little smug and a little cheeky about it, “but I got there.”
I was guarded, I was practical, I went through all of my questions and scenarios and got all of my answers from you, she’d panted as she circled her hips, hands splayed on the crests of his hip bones. I haven’t uncovered anything unforgivable or too awful to live with, so there’s no reason to hold back, she’d rambled, the words coming quicker and quicker
as the circles ground small and tight on him. You’re my soulmate, Seth Riveau, and I love you with all that I am, she’d sobbed out just before her body shattered, just before he’d shouted and lost himself in her too.
“And then,” she said with a flourish of one hand, after a pause as if she’d known he would want to replay the memory in his mind, “and then I came up with the album title.”
“Hidden Tracks was your idea?”
“I told you, Seth Riveau is mysterious,” Astrid gloated.
For a moment Seth shifted, uncomfortable with the praise, with the conversation shifting from Astrid sharing her experience of the beginning of their love story back to him. But he’d learned to grow and shine too, not as well as she did, he thought, but he was at least now able to see when he was using his charm or his stories to deflect attention or sincere praise. So he allowed himself one quiet groan of sheepishness, but he didn’t stop her.
“I love this idea that an album is an intentional narrative, that it’s more than just the first twelve recordable tracks an artist creates,” Astrid began, her passion bursting out of her so earnestly. “It’s got a rhythm from track to track, just like a setlist; you probably aren’t going to do eleven ballads and then one party anthem, or eleven hardcore hip-hop tracks and then one sappy love song. Of course, all the new ways we can consume music now is liberating and exciting. But a hidden track is… magical to me. A song is done, then there’s this long break and just when you go to see what’s wrong, there’s this crackling and then a whole other song! It’s… Lauryn Hill singing ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You,’ right?”
Seth hummed it, making Astrid flash him a beaming grin of appreciation.
“So, Seth is mysterious, but if you listen to the whole album, metaphorically if you follow me, you learn his rhythm, what makes him delirious and contemplative, what fires up his blood. If you have the patience and dedication to listen to the entire album—”