by Elle Bennett
I felt a blush creep up my neck and I looked back down on the floor. Andrew placed a finger under my chin and lifted my head so my eyes met his once more.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too. Even if you’re an ass sometimes.”
He smiled and turned to silence the beeping microwave. He took the plate of spaghetti out and placed it on the counter.
“Dinner’s served.”
“Such culinary talent.”
“This is why you agreed to move in with me, isn’t it?” he asked. “My skills in the kitchen?”
“Yes, it had nothing to do with your skills in the bedroom whatsoever.”
We sat down on the couch with our plates on the coffee table in front of us. We didn’t exactly have room for a kitchen table, and honestly, eating on the couch worked so much better. We could watch a movie while we ate and it was easier to snuggle up and fool around afterward if we wanted to.
I twirled some spaghetti onto my fork and asked Andrew if they’d come up with an album title yet.
“The Stone Pigeon,” he said.
“I like it.”
I shoved a bite of food into my mouth and looked at my phone that sat next to my plate. No new messages, as usual. It’d been a while since I last heard from Erica. I hadn’t spoken to her since I first sang “Spackling” at Noir. She didn’t even know about the record deal. But she was the only person I knew who was aware of the Cassidy situation, and I needed an opinion. So I messaged her.
Me:
Peristerophobia got signed, and my duet with Andrew will be on the album.
Does this officially make me my mother’s daughter?
Erica Hall:
Are you going to go incommunicado again after this?
And yes, it’s a very Cassidy move to worm your way onto the album.
Me:
I don’t think that it counts as worming if he practically begged me to record the song with him.
Erica Hall:
Well, you are doing exactly what she said you’d have to do to make it in the music business.
What was it that she told you? That you wouldn’t be able to get a foot in the door unless you fucked someone who had the key?
Me:
Wow. Fuck you.
I figured she might say “no, you’re nothing like her!” to try and make me feel a little better, but my God. She went there. She really went there. Fuck that. I decided to message Joan instead. Sure, she didn’t know about Cassidy and the shit that went down five years ago. But at least she’d be as supportive as Andrew was. And I wasn’t sleeping with her, so I knew her opinion was less biased than Andrew’s.
Me:
Andrew talked me into recording “Spackling” for the album.
Joan Washington:
Oh my god, that’s so fucking awesome. I can’t wait to have an official audio version. I’ve wanted one since I heard you two practicing it for the first time.
I had a feeling that I was never going to understand the Washington siblings and their faith in me. But at least someone supported me. I wondered how Ms. Moon would respond if I told her about the album. I bet she’d be proud of me too. I considered visiting her again when the album released to give her a copy. I wanted to let her know how much I appreciated her support, even though I was far from her best student.
“When are we going to record it?” I asked Andrew as I sat my phone back down.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll get the message to Vic.”
He pulled out his phone and sent a text. A few moments later, I heard the ding of a reply.
“We’ve got studio time again on Friday, so you can come in and record then. Unless you work.”
“What time?”
“One in the afternoon. Trippy Tricks is recording before us, so hopefully they won’t run long. They tend to do that. They’re such jackasses.”
“Wait, they’re on Little Plaid Dress?”
“No, just using the same studio,” he said.
“Oh, good. I was going to question the quality of the label for a second there. Trippy Tricks,” I said with a shudder.
“I know. I try to not judge other people’s taste in music, but if they name Trippy Tricks as a favorite… It’s hard to not judge. Rap and heavy metal were not meant to mix.”
Friday afternoon, I sat in the recording studio. I stared up at the ominous machine in the glass window that sat up a little higher above us. A few different guys that I didn’t recognize stood up there, talking into the microphones to us. I felt like such a newbie. I had no idea what was going on, and I didn’t feel like I belonged there.
“So, Vic was pretty adamant about doing ‘Spackling’ as an acoustic song. Andrew, I already talked to you about doing the acoustic version of ‘My Favorite Month,’ right?”
“Yeah, you said something about a bonus exclusive single, right?”
“You got it,” the guy said. Then he looked at me. “Have you ever played this on an actual piano, not on a keyboard?” I shook my head. “Andrew, give her the new sheet music. April, practice before we start recording. And where the fuck is Chad?”
“Probably getting high or knitting. That’s usually what he’s up to,” I said.
Andrew shrugged and took my hand as I sat down at the baby grand that stood in the middle of the studio.
“You ready for this?” he asked.
I shrugged and stretched out my fingers before I placed them on the piano and played a few scales to warm up. I started the opening chords of “Spackling” once I felt ready. Or at least, as close to ready as I possibly could feel.
This all seemed like… too much. I knew that it took a lot of effort to record an album, to produce an album. I knew that the people behind the window had a lot more to do than I would ever realize, but it seemed so much harder than it should have been. I wished it could just be like, hit record, sing the song once, have it be perfect, be done, the end.
But no, we had to record instruments, record vocals, and they have to do their producer stuff and it would take mixing and time and we wouldn’t hear a finished version for a while.
Chad finally showed up to the studio, reeking of bourbon. He was still a hell of a guitar player, so the band kept putting up with it. The day he fucked up would be the day that the guys would do something about his problem. Personally, I thought that they should get him into rehab or something sooner rather than later, but they all swore that he’d been like that for a decade, and he’d be fine.
The first few times I sang through my parts of the song, I sang too softly. We had to redo the first verse five more times than I deemed necessary. The next time, I didn’t hit a note correctly in the chorus and I fucked up the key change in the second stanza. The time after that, I was too sharp.
There was too much pressure on me, and I’d never felt like such a fuck up in my life.
By the end of the afternoon, I’d only worked for a few hours, but my vocal chords felt sore. The water Andrew kept nearby helped, but I had to wonder how the hell he did this all the time.
They told me I was done for the day, but we hadn’t gotten through the entire song, so I knew I was going to have to come back in another time. I wondered how many times I could possibly sing and play the damn song before it was considered done.
Andrew and the rest of the guys had to work on a few more songs, so I sat in the window area with the producers and the other people who seemed important. I had no idea what any of them did, honestly.
Peristerophobia started on their recording of “My Favorite Month.” Hearing Andrew singing the lyrics over and over again made me think of the day we found each other again at Cranberry. The stars, the smoke, the song, the table of kids that threw soda on me. I smiled at the memory of that night, of kissing him for the first time, the butterflies in my stomach, the fire of his touch.
A guy with thick rimmed glasses hit a button and yelled into the microphone, “Andrew! Take a break, get some tea. Your voice sound
s rough.”
Andrew walked out of the room and towards me, where I held a warm mug of his favorite spearmint rose tea. I handed it to him and he took it with a smile.
“Thanks,” he said.
Jarrod, the band’s new manager, walked into the room. He nodded at Chad and Ken from where they were sitting on a couch nearby. Doug was playing the drums, but Jarrod put a stop to it.
“You sound good, but we need you in here for a quick meeting,” he said into the microphone. Doug took off his headphones and headed to where we were waiting for him. “I just spoke to Angela, and your album has an official release date in April. We wanna start the tour in late January, get some excitement started, get your name out there. I figure we can get an EP out by then, to sell at the concerts. Some loose demos of the songs we’ve recorded so far.”
I didn’t realize Andrew was going to be headed off on a tour so soon. He hadn’t mentioned anything about it. I assumed he hadn’t heard about it until that moment, and a quick glance at his face told me I was right. This was also news to the guys.
“It’ll be January to March. You’ll open for Nothin’ Somethin’ along with Drag It Up,” Jarrod continued. “April, you can tag along if you want. I’m sure performin’ ‘Spacklin’’ on tour would work well, but you wouldn’t see the guys much. It’s gonna be marketin’ time. We’ve gotta fit in photo shoots, press conferences, interviews, videos. We’ve gotta get the Peristerophobia name out there. I need you all to be on your toes. Remember, if this album doesn’t sell well, there’s no guarantee for you to even have a shot at a sophomore slump.”
“We won’t have a sophomore slump,” Andrew argued. “Our second album will kick ass.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, kid. Either way, you’ll be back in town by April for your album launch. I’m thinkin’ a launch party will be best if it’s done here in town, let the locals support you. Without them, you wouldn’t be here, after all.”
“Great,” I said.
“We’ll go over the details later. I’ve gotta get other shit done first,” he said. With that, Jarrod turned around and left.
I looked at Andrew and realized we weren’t going to see each other for three months, and that would suck. So I said just that.
“Why won’t we see each other? You’re coming, right? April, you’ve got to come,” he said. Chad chuckled behind Andrew, and he turned around to glare at him. “Not the time, dude.”
“Sorry,” Chad said.
Andrew rolled his eyes and turned back to me.
“Seriously, if you don’t come with us… I don’t know. Fuck. Why won’t you just join the fucking band already? That way I wouldn’t have to talk you into going on tour, it’d be your job to come with me.”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to pull the same shit at The Walnut Tree that I did at Cranberry. I was okay with leaving Cranberry in hindsight, but I didn’t think I would feel the same way about my job at The Walnut Tree. I loved it, and I didn’t want to burn that bridge. My boss might be cool if I left for a few weeks, but not for a few months.
“I can’t go. I’m sorry. We’ll just have to video chat and have phone sex, which is what I assume most couples do when their significant other goes on a long tour.”
“Why can’t you, though?” Ken asked. “I mean, you went on tour with us this summer.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to go on a tour again. I had a blast last time, and I wouldn’t trade the experience for the world. But I need to stay here, take care of Pigeon, keep my job. What I did over the summer was great, but it was also impulsive as hell. I can’t get away with doing that a second time. I like my life right now. I like working at The Walnut Tree. I like the place Andrew and I live. I don’t want to jeopardize all of that.”
Andrew sighed and rubbed his eyes with his palms. He looked like he needed to sit down.
“Bring Pigeon with you, and I’m sure if you talk to your boss, she’ll let you go on a tour. She knows that you’re practically in the band. It wouldn’t be a surprise. And our apartment would be fine without us. We can still pay rent online.”
“No thank you,” I said.
Jarrod poked his head back in the room and told the guys that they had five minutes before he would go over tour details with them. Doug suggested that Andrew and I have a minute alone and dragged Ken and Chad outside with him.
We walked back down to the studio to be alone. The silence in there was the loudest thing I’d heard in my life.
With a few steps, I found myself in front of the baby grand. I sat down at the bench and began to plink out a little tune. It was the melody to “Spackling,” and the smile on Andrew’s face told me that he appreciated that.
“You look like you’re at home there,” Andrew said.
“I feel like I am,” I admitted.
“What’s it going to take to get you to go with us?” he asked.
“Nothing. I don’t want to go. You can’t talk me into it.”
“One week? Come for one week?”
“I’ll go to whatever shows are close by,” I said. “How about that for a compromise?”
“How is that a compromise? Of course you’re going to go to the shows that are close by. But I mean, like, actually come with us when we go wherever the hell it is we go. Across the country or… I don’t know..”
“How about we discuss it when we know where your shows will be?” I suggested.
I figured that would table the discussion for at least a night. I didn’t think going for a week would be a good idea, I’d probably have to fly out to meet them. Plus, I’d probably be bored as hell while they were all busy doing their jobs. I really hated flying, and it was so damn expensive. Neither of us had the money for that. I didn’t exactly make that much at my job, and Andrew wasn’t exactly rolling in the dough with his newly signed record contract. We were living paycheck to paycheck, and he knew it.
“How about we discuss you joining the band?” he asked.
I stopped playing the piano and stared at him.
“You know you already signed your contracts, right? We’d have to like, get lawyers involved or something if we wanted to change them. And I’m sure there’s some clause in there that will screw you over if you do that. I’m not in the contracts, therefore, I’m not in the band. We can discuss it again when you sign your next contract,” I said.
He rolled his eyes at me.
“It wouldn’t be hard to get you in the band, April, and you know it. You’re just finding fucking excuses to try and make me push it to the side and forget about it. But that’s not going to work.”
“Well, I’m your girlfriend, not your bandmate. Deal with it.”
“But you’re so fucking talented!” he said. He ran his hands through his hair. “You’re… God! Why are you so against this?”
Because signing a contract and officially being a member of Peristerophobia would be the final nail in the coffin to turn me into my mother’s daughter.
Because I’m not talented enough to deserve it.
Because I was terrified of what would come next.
“I think our five minutes are up,” I said. “Go meet with the guys. Talk about the tour. I’ll meet you at home. Pigeon needs to be walked and fed.”
“You can’t just -”
“Andrew, band meetin’!” Jarrod said, his voice ringing through the recording room.
“I’ll see you at home,” I said again. I gave him a kiss and he let out a sigh.
“You are so much more than you realize, April,” he said.
I kissed him once more, then turned around and left the studio without another word.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Everything’s wrong here
Something’s missing here
And I’m missing you
I’m in a thousand pieces
Every single one
Screaming your name
“Flowers,” Peristerophobia
Andrew’s new publicist suggested he get a
haircut before tour, and while his eyes seemed brighter than ever, I missed his shaggy hair. I missed running my hands through it, holding onto it while his head was buried between my legs.
“It looks stupid, doesn’t it?” Andrew asked as we laid in bed a week before he was supposed to leave for his tour.
“No, it’s just different. I’m still getting used to it,” I said. I ran my hands through what was left of his hair. He looked a little bit prim and proper, not rock and roll. I couldn’t figure out why his publicist thought the haircut was a good idea.
On the bright side, his showers weren’t as long because of his shorter hair, which left me with more hot water.
“Oh, I have something to show you!” he said.
“What?” I asked. I leaned up on my elbow and let the sheet fall off my naked body. He leaned over, giving me a nice view of his back. I bit my lip as I watched him move. I was definitely going to see if he was good for another round after he showed me whatever it was that he needed to.
He opened up the nightstand drawer and pulled out a CD. I kissed along his spine as he did so, biting him lightly every now and then. He turned back to me and I pulled my lips away from him and let out a gasp as I saw what was in his hands.
“Oh my God!” I said, grabbing it from him. “Is this the official EP?”
“Yep! It’s called the SP-EP, also known as the Stone Pigeon EP. It’s rough demos of four songs that will be on the album.”
It had a stone pigeon statue on the cover, wearing headphones. I had a feeling Doug was going to hate it. I loved it, though.
“This is so fucking awesome,” I said. I noticed the little black and white sticker on the corner of the album. “Holy shit, there’s a parental advisory sticker on here! Parents will have to be advised of your album!”
“Hell yeah!” he said. He wrapped his arms around me. “They’ll advise their kids that the music on that album is fucking great.”
I laughed and tossed the CD back onto the nightstand before I kissed him long, lingering, and deep. I decided to make the most of the last week we had before he had to go on tour. I tried my hardest not to start any fights before he left, because I didn’t want him angry before we went. Mostly, I just wanted to fuck him until he had to get on the tour bus. I wanted to feel raw, so tired that I could sleep for three straight months and wake up just in time for him to be back in my arms again.