All the Best Nights

by Hanna Earnest

  “Sorry I’ve kept you from your table so long,” Cormac said, loudly, purposefully, leading her up the steps. Nelle wanted to sink down next to Benj but her friend was at the end of the seat, and neither of the other girls picked up her motion to scooch. Santino moved in, clearing a spot for Nelle on the opposite end.

  Cormac glanced at the half-eaten artichoke dip on the table. “I hope the backstage peek was worth a cold appetizer. I’ll send another up.”

  Nelle wanted to tell him not to bother, that she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite of anything, no matter how hot and delicious it looked. But they had a show to put on. Her heart hammered in her chest as she nodded.

  “Thank you, you’re very thoughtful. I appreciate it.”

  Cormac smiled easily, pulling the booth’s curtains as he left. Nelle hadn’t been able to see whether Bran had returned to the bar or left the restaurant or—but that was probably Cormac’s point. She didn’t need to know what Bran was doing. To get out of this restaurant without making the news, she needed to sit here, behind thick muslin drapes, pretending Bran Kelly didn’t exist.

  The new dip arrived with their entrees and the others started eating with a chorus of praise. Under the table, Nelle tried typing out a message to Benj. The curtain flashed open and closed before she pressed Send.

  Arlo and Bran stood in the small space inside the fabric.

  “We were on our way out,” Arlo said, his words laden with warning and directed at Bran, “but Bran just couldn’t help himself. Insisted on saying hello.”

  Now the other girls caught the idea to scooch inward, calling for the newcomers to sit.

  “Just for a minute, we wouldn’t want to ruin your dinner, would we, B?” Arlo lowered himself next to Benj and Bran waited for Nelle to make room for him next to her. Slowly she moved away from the booth’s end, and he claimed the space, the scent of rye stronger on his breath than it had been in the bathroom answering her question on whether he had made it back to the bar.

  “I got you another,” Santino said, motioning to a fresh glass of tequila. Apparently, he thought she’d need it to get through Bran’s arrival.

  “I’ve had enough,” Nelle said.

  Bran claimed the glass, too, throwing it back. “I haven’t.”

  Nelle reached for her water with a shaking hand. The ice shifted as she took a sip, splashing her face. She blotted at her lip with a starched cotton napkin. Bran’s thigh pressed against hers under the table, and she didn’t know how long she could sit there pretending. He’d said so much in the bathroom and she hadn’t had any time to unpack it. She twisted the napkin in her lap.

  Santino tried to catch her eye, but Nelle fixed her sight line on the script inked above his eyebrow. Up close it wasn’t so bad. She leaned closer to examine the curls, discovering cursive letters embedded in the flames.

  Bran’s arm crossed in front of her, forcing her back, out of the way as he grabbed the edge of her plate and pulled it towards himself. “Face tattoos, huh? That’s a choice.”

  “Yeah, man. It was.” Santino’s tone relaxed as he continued. “I worked at this logistics center before all this. That’s a fancy way to say warehouse. It had so many rules. No hats. No phones. And we were supposed to keep our tattoos covered but I got hot one day—it was fucking July, no air—and I rolled up my sleeves. This one manager who always had it out for me dinged me on it. Made me go home early, and I needed those hours back then. Anyway, I got mad, and I figured fuck it. Went into my next shift like this. They told me to cover it up. I asked how, if I can’t wear a hat. They fired me on the spot but then I was performing at this club and a producer said they liked my sound and ‘my look.’”

  “What does it say?” Nelle asked.

  “‘God is love.’ I don’t mind if it warps, or fades. I like seeing it every morning in the mirror.”

  In response to that Bran picked up the burger, taking a huge bite. He grabbed for the napkin in her lap.

  “Really?” she snapped.

  Bran shrugged, his blue eyes hard when they met hers. “Just taking my half.”

  Heat rushed through Nelle’s body. He was really going to do this.

  Across the table Benj pushed Arlo out of the booth. “Can you get him out of here?”

  Arlo nodded and took his friend by the arm, heaving him up. “Time to go, B.”

  But Bran tore out of his grasp. Nelle braced herself for another outburst, something cruel and true. Something she couldn’t hide from. Bran writing his own dark ending.

  Bran dug in his cardigan pocket and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “You were wrong about the song. It wasn’t about you. It was for you.”

  “You mean for your label,” she hissed and thought she heard him growl back.

  He forced something into her hand. Something soft and round and worn. She glanced down at the weathered coaster as he staggered upright. He waited for her to lift her head and held her wide-eyed gaze.

  Arlo found the opening in the curtain and pulled Bran backwards through it, allowing him one last declaration before disappearing.

  “You’re it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Bran woke sideways on his bed, partially clothed and fully aware he was too old to be drinking like he had last night. His head ached, his chest ached—but that was probably the emotional blow of Nelle announcing her intent to divorce him.

  Someone knocked at his door.

  “Leave me alone, A.” Bran winced at his own voice.

  The door opened and Arlo peered into the room. “How did you know it was me?”

  “Aya and Cormac don’t knock.”

  “She might not knock but she sent me up here to make sure you’re alive.” Arlo was at Bran’s for his Thanksgiving break. He’d seen enough hotels, he’d said. They all had. But Bran was starting to think Arlo just worried he was lonely.

  “I’m not.”

  “Then she’ll want me to make a puppet out of your corpse because you’re still performing on live television this afternoon.”

  Bran let out a self-pitying moan.

  “Get up. We need to get you hydrated. Do you want me to call one of those fluid bag delivery nurses?”

  “I just need water.” Bran palmed blindly at his bedside table. His hand caught on a plastic tube of something. Lube? “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s from Nadine.”

  Bran sat up, his head throbbing. “You let me bring some woman home?”

  Arlo grinned, which was a terrible sign. “Oh, it’s way worse than that.”

  The room spun. Gravity pulled Bran back to the mattress, headfirst and sideways.

  He remembered sitting at the bar, how strange it felt to be in public with Arlo and Cormac again. But good, too—it felt real. He remembered Nelle arriving on a breeze of whispers, and following her to the bathroom. She’d tasted sharp. Her short hair had slipped so quickly through his hands, like a warning for him not to fuck up again. That didn’t stop him from being kind of an ass when she’d told him she’d been talking to Tomi behind his back. He hadn’t been thinking. She’d caught him off guard. She’d said the universe responded to desire, and he couldn’t want her any more than he did—so how had it gone wrong? Who was she if not his sun, his stars, all the lights in the dark? And her response had been dropping the D word. One way worse than dickhead. Bran had had to make sure she knew that he was still in it. He’d always been in it.

  He’d wanted her to know he’d try for her. He’d do anything for her. Everything for her.

  Bran rolled onto his back, kicking the blankets that tangled around his legs. “Do you have a pen?”

  “You doing morning pages now?”

  “No, I had an idea.”

  “Ah. Inspiration deserves ink.”

  Bran’s head lifted off the pillow, his neck cracking and stiff. He squinted at Arlo
. “Why do you know that?”

  “You don’t remember saying it to me last night?”

  Bran rubbed at his aching chest, and pain burned across his skin. That’s when Bran remembered the tattoo parlor. He lunged up again.

  “There it is,” Arlo said.

  Bran staggered to his feet, stripping off his shirt to see the bandage taped over his left pec. He was modeling half naked next week. He couldn’t show up with swollen, inflamed—did tattoos peel? He tried to remember everything Nadine had said, words about aftercare and inflammation and flaky, oozy skin. “Aya is going to kill me.”

  “Good thing you’re already dead. Nadine said that bandage can stay on for forty-eight hours, then you need to clean up the seepage—”

  “Seepage?”

  “—let it breathe, apply the lotion, and rebandage it. And prepare for itching.”

  Bran shook his head. “I need a pen.”

  The tattoo was a problem, but the words piling up in Bran’s brain for Nelle were more urgent. His phone wasn’t on the side table, neither was his notebook. Bran stumbled over to the guitar case on the floor. There was a flash of red as he opened the plush-lined internal storage compartment and pulled out a folded piece of printer paper. Details of a Cartier transaction took up a fraction of the space, leaving the rest of the page blank.

  “Do you have a pen?”

  This song wasn’t like the other dozen he’d toiled over for sex&secrets so far. He had finally managed enough for an album, but the set didn’t feel finished. He didn’t know how to end it. The album needed to be a complete package, dynamic and stirring, and he needed a song that wasn’t like the others. A song that wasn’t as dark. One that had less heat, that wasn’t forged and hammered, sharp and hard. He needed something soft and airy and honest... Something easy. This one would be easy, like tugging down a balloon by its string—he just had to catch it first. Bran had stopped hoping he’d get to write a song like this again.

  “A pen! Arlo!” The edges of Bran’s vision dimmed.

  Arlo tossed a pen onto the middle of the bed and Bran scrambled for it. “And a bottle of water, I’m begging you.”

  “I’ll get you a glass. I know you don’t want to add to the devastation of single-use plastic.”

  “Great, fine, whatever.”

  By the time Arlo returned with the water, Bran had a verse and a chorus scribbled on the page. There was a smudge of blue toothpaste in the top corner from when he’d tried to brush his teeth and then needed to scratch out a word. He downed the water, and wrestled himself into a clean shirt with the pen and paper clutched in one hand. Snapping his guitar case shut, Bran started for the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “I need you to drive me to the studio.”

  “The Besties red carpet starts—”

  “Hours from now. Studio’s on Sunset and—”

  “I remember where the studio is. Ron, right? The only engineer you trust?”

  “We have a rapport.”

  “How do you know he’s even there right now?”

  Bran was halfway down the steps into the garage, Arlo jogging behind him, when he stopped and turned. “It’s kismet, A. Can’t stop the universe. This is happening.” Bran held out the car key. “Can you drive me so I can write the next verse?”

  “Aya is going to kill you if you miss the red carpet.” Arlo took the key and pushed past Bran to the driver’s side door.

  Bran grinned over the Ferrari’s red roof. “Good thing I’m already dead.”

  * * *

  “What do you mean he’s not here?” Bran fisted his paper and resisted the urge to bang on the utilitarian desk of the studio’s cramped lobby. “Where’s Ron?”

  Arlo leaned against the beige wall. “Guess the universe forgot to book him.”

  “I could call Ron,” the receptionist offered. “But it’s Sunday morning and the Besties—”

  “Since when are the Besties such a big deal?” Bran snapped. “I need to lay down a track.”

  The receptionist leveled solid brown eyes at him. “The studios are open. But I’m the only one here.”

  “Well, that doesn’t—”

  “I can lay it down for you.”

  Bran blinked at her. He hadn’t worked with anyone but Ron since—oh, except for Charlie, and he’d done that for Nelle. For Nelle. That was the whole point of this. “Yes, thank you, let’s do that.”

  Arlo muffled a sound of surprise behind him, but Bran ignored it. The receptionist was already on her feet, mug in hand, leading them to one of the low-light, soundproofed rooms down the hall.

  “I’m Bran,” he called after her. “That’s Arlo.”

  She held the door for him, straight-faced. “Yeah. I know.”

  “And you’re?”

  “Fei.”

  Bran stumbled a step. “That was my gran’s name.” He tossed a look back at Arlo. “That sure is something, isn’t it?”

  Coincidence, implied Arlo’s pulled-together brows. Bran faced forward again. The smell of fresh coffee wafted up from Fei’s cup. It wasn’t a coincidence to him. It was a sign. He’d felt the loss of his gran so deeply in London, right before everything had gone wrong with Nelle. He could feel Gran now, guiding him towards getting it right. We Kellys may fight but we always unite. Nelle was a Kelly whether the world knew or not. If she needed the con, he’d be anything from wingman to mark if it meant he had her.

  Once in the booth, Bran clipped the paper to a stand and positioned a stool in front of the mesh-covered microphone. “Okay, Fei. I want it unfiltered. I don’t need to be produced. I want it raw, but I also want it soft. Think Jackson Browne live, can you do that?”

  “You want me to hit Record.”

  He slung the guitar strap over his shoulder and sat down. “Exactly. I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

  First, he had to work out the guitar part. Bran tucked the instrument closer to his body. He kept his head low as he worked through the song. It was a little like driving, muscle memory tied to mental signals, allowing him to disengage while remaining completely occupied, body and mind. This song was a Ferrari with the engine hot. It wanted to go. And Bran was thrilled to press the gas and take it for a spin. He played the song, fixed a line that was too long, played it again, rearranged the bridge, played it again. It cornered like a dream.

  The speaker above him popped, and Cormac’s voice echoed through the room. “Can we get this moving?”

  Bran raised his head to see the drummer had joined the pair on the other side of the glass. “What are you doing here?”

  “Aya thought A needed backup. Which he obviously does, because you are supposed to be—”

  “I’m where I’m supposed to be.” Bran motioned around the little booth. “Music comes first. Now shut up so I can get this right.”

  It was another half hour before Bran was satisfied with his rehearsal.

  Cormac held up his phone, a live stream of the red carpet starting on the screen.

  Fei finished adjusting the levels. “I’m guessing you want one take?”

  Ignoring Cormac, Bran signaled her with a nod and then closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and pictured Nelle, what it would be like to sing this song directly to her. He wanted to capture the intimacy, the closeness they’d cultivated. The way it felt to confide in her. He wanted to end an album about secrets with honesty. With a confession.

  Bran played the song all the way through, start to finish. He waited for the last guitar string to stop vibrating before he asked Fei, “You got it?”

  She nodded and after a moment the song pumped back to him through the booth’s speaker. Bran stood while his friends reacted. Cormac drummed his fingers on his knee and Arlo’s head shook to the beat.

  “It’s good. It’s really—You just wrote that? While I was driving?”

  “Aren’t you glad you gave
me that pen?”

  “I’d be more glad if you put me on the writing credits and got me royalties.”

  “Fei?”

  The woman shrugged.

  “What?”

  “You don’t need to be produced, right?”

  Behind her Arlo laughed and Bran perched back on the stool. “Okay, I’ll bite.”

  “I think it would be a better chorus higher up. And then when you come back to the repeat at the end, everything new—go up some more. Change the note that time, push it all up. It’s a simple song, it should be nuanced. Capture the need. You’re getting full ‘These Days’ on the guitar, but you need to go Van Morrison ‘Crazy Love’ on the vocals.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Cormac said. “Aya’s waiting and Aya does not like to wait.”

  “Song’s good,” Arlo said again.

  Bran put his hand out to silence them. He didn’t want a good song. He wanted a perfect song. He sang the chorus to himself, pitching his voice higher. It worked. The falsetto was better.

  Fei nodded along. “See what I’m saying?”

  “Who are you?” Cormac asked.

  “Fei,” Arlo answered.

  Bran pulled his feet onto the stool’s rest, ready to play. “She’s the producer of Bran Kelly’s next Notable Song. I’m doing it again, you recording?”

  Fei’s voice hummed through the speaker. “Go for it.”

  Bran sang the song a few more times, feeling it shift into a higher gear under Fei’s direction. Faster on that line, try slapping the beat there, higher—higher!

  “That’s it,” Fei said on the final take. “You hit everything.” She grinned, leaning back and letting the swivel chair take her on a victory lap.

  “That’s it,” Bran repeated. “Album’s done.” He put the guitar away and exhaled. On his way into the other room, he checked his watch—which wasn’t there. He’d been planning to wear his custom Chopard for luck, but he’d been in such a hurry that morning his wrist was bare. “What time is it? I need to get to the Besties. I’m not making the red carpet, am I?” He checked his outfit, black jeans and a grey chambray shirt. “I can wear this onstage, right?” Nobody answered. “Right?” Arlo and Cormac traded looks. “It’s not that bad.”