by L. V. Lewis
Good studio drumming involves careful drum selection, the kind of heads used, how they are tuned, exactly where and how hard each drum or cymbal is struck, and a myriad of other details I won’t go into because I might even bore myself to death with my own inner monologue. If this is going to be a session I’ll definitely need lots of extra cymbals and snare drums in order to get the “perfect sound.”
“I’m in. I’ll adjust the kit to my liking when I get there.”
The relationship gods must be smiling on me, because this opportunity that has just been dropped into my lap is a minor miracle. I’d been wondering how I was going to get to see Alyssa more than once while I was in town for my fitting. With this obstacle removed, all I have to concentrate on now is getting her to see me as the guy she’d been in strong like with before shit went sideways.
Getting her to like me before had been easy because it had been organic and I hadn’t fucked things up irreparably. This time would be a challenge because I had fucked things up involuntarily, or maybe voluntarily, since I made the decision not to tell anyone I was sick. Yet, I was up for the challenge because Alyssa was worth it several times over.
Twelve
Hollywood, CA
ALYSSA
Even though my rational mind thinks better of Dylan since he’s explained his far-fetched reason for dissing me, some part of me that has a hard time trusting anyone doubts him covertly. I can’t be sure whether he is pulling my leg or not because phone calls, texting and social media don’t give you the option of looking someone in the eye and gauging their truthfulness. I need to see Dylan up close before we came in contact in a romantic locale to figure out if his story is truly legit. This becomes abundantly clear to me when Brody drops a bomb during practice in the studio prior to the pre-wedding concert.
“Okay, listen up guys. Snare’s dad had a stroke and he’s out for the foreseeable future. This means we’re going to need a new drummer, definitely for completing our recording this week, and possibly for the concert. So, if you guys know anyone locally who might be available, hit me up after practice.” I don’t think I’m imagining things when Brody tags me with a look that says, We know a drummer, but you’ll have to give me permission to contact him, because I don’t want to be accused of blindsiding you again.
Slick fucker.
“Let’s take fifteen,” Sky says, and ambles over to me as the band disperses to the door. “Della made some red velvet cupcakes this morning. Want to raid her kitchen?”
I shake my head. “I’m off carbs until your wedding. If I’m going to fit into my costume for the concert and my dress for your wedding…” I trail off innocently.
“Damn. I guess only the band will be fat and happy this morning.”
“Ten to one that’s where they’re all headed right now.”
“Right. I’ll hang out in here with you until they’ve consumed them all.”
“Yeah. Who needs to go out there and smell warm, red-velvet cupcakes when you can’t have any?”
“I might have to put a moratorium on baking until after the wedding.”
“You know that’s going to break Della’s heart.”
“Better her heart than a fat ass on my wedding day.”
Brody picks that moment to join us.
“I might enjoy consummating our wedding night with a little more junk in your trunk,” he says, and grabs a handful of her tiny ass.
Sky turns beet red. “Brody!” she squeals, but then steps into his arms and kisses him anyway.
“It’s not like I haven’t seen him grab your ass before,” I say and bury my face in the lyrics of my new song until they stop necking like teenagers.
Brody clears his throat, and I look up to see them both staring expectantly at me.
“What?” I say, as if I’ve missed something, knowing full well what they want.
Brody jumps in without preamble. “So, would it be okay if we asked Dylan to stand in for Snare?”
I roll my eyes, and quickly object. “Oh, hell no! Two weeks in The Maldives isn’t enough?”
Brody puts both hands up in a whoa motion, and Sky begins to rub tiny circles on my back.
“It’s just to get the album done… and maybe the pre-wedding concert,” Sky says quickly, as if it won’t seem like much if she says it fast enough, and all together.
“You guys,” I groan. “You’re killing me.”
“I know it’s going to be tough, but look on the bright side: It’ll give you some practice with him before we put all these other people into the mix. You, your date. Him,” Sky says. As if that shit is making it any better.
I scowl at her. “I’d rather have more people in the mix.”
“We might not have any people in the mix if we can’t get the album and the concert done,” Brody says. “The record company has given us a hard deadline, and we have to deliver or postpone the wedding.”
They both pout exaggeratedly at me and fold their hands together as if in prayer. “Please,” Sky begs. “He’s going to be here this weekend for his fitting anyway.”
Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? Even though I’m making such a big fucking deal about spending time with Dylan during our studio sessions to Sky and Brody, I actually want to see him. Badly. No matter how much I want to present a resistant nonchalant front, I still like Dylan. A lot. That doesn’t mean I have to reprise some romantic ideal of him while he’s in town, though. Right? I just want to see him and talk to him in the flesh. Our phone conversations, texts, and social media contact over the past couple of months have been nice, but there is nothing like reading a person’s true intentions in person.
I was petulant because I know it was expected of me, but underneath it all I still harbored embarrassingly passionate feelings about Dylan that were ridiculous considering what he’d done to me a year ago.
“O—kay,” I say, with a reluctance just as exaggerated as their pouts. “Hire him.”
Brody heaves an enormous sigh, like he had a lot riding on my answer, and Sky squeals and hugs me. “Thanks, Bestie! This album and concert are going to be fire!”
“Yeah, at the expense of my crispy ass,” I deadpan.
But deep down, I’m low-key super-ecstatic about seeing Dylan, because I need to know if he’s telling me the truth, and if I’m totally honest, I really need to see if he affects me the same way he did almost a year ago.
Thirteen
Hollywood, CA
ALYSSA
We normally don’t do sessions this late in the week, so it’s surreal having the band and everyone at Sky’s house this late on a Friday, because we’re usually practicing dance routines. But we’re under the gun with the label. Our goal is to get this cut recorded today so we can enjoy our weekend, and I’m down for that. And to make things even more surreal, The Savages’ drummer, and my ex-two-month stand, is also coming to jam with us after his tux fitting.
Although I’d lie through my teeth if anyone suggested that I’d taken great care with my appearance today because Dylan is going to be here. I’m rocking a soft cotton, floral romper that is extremely comfortable, but flows over and accentuates my curves just so. I’ve accessorized it with a pair of flat gladiator sandals and gold hoop earrings. My makeup is minimal, but flawless, and my curly hair is cooperating, even in the summer humidity in LA.
We’ve run through my song a half dozen times without percussion, just to help me remember the lyrics and get me comfortable with the melody. Of course, I’ve already strummed it on my acoustic at home and learned most of it on my own, but having the band behind me gives it a much fuller sound that I want to be accustomed to before Dylan gets here. How embarrassing would it be for me to stumble over it like an idiot with him here?
“You want to run through it again?” Sky, who’s wearing the manager hat in Brody’s stead, asks from her place perched in front of the mixing board. He picked Dylan up from his hotel and they’re probably on their way here now from his fitting. Brody offered his place for Dyla
n to crash, since he spends most of his time at Sky’s, but in true Dylan Castle form, he opted for the hotel, because hotels have daily maid and room service. Another quirky thing we have in common.
“Sure,” I say, adjusting my mic, which doesn’t need it, but I think I’m going to go crazy if my hands don’t find something to do in this moment. I’ve never been good at waiting. It’s a character flaw that I’m unable to fix.
The band sits in rapt attention as Sky counts them off and they begin the intro. I cut in smoothly, using my voice as the instrument that gives depth and color to the music. When I get into it, I close my eyes, confident that I am nailing the song.
When we get to the bridge, I open my eyes, just as Brody and Dylan enter the room. Consummate professional that I try to be, I continue singing. My hands smooth unnecessarily down the skirt of my romper, and I raise my head, attempting to regain an air of confidence that crumbled the moment Dylan entered the room.
My pulse threatens to drown out every sound as I take him in, which is a travesty because I was killing this song before he walked in the door. He cuts a trimmer figure than he did last time I saw him. If Dylan hadn’t warned me about the weight loss before-hand I would’ve been shocked, but I find I’m okay with this slighter version of him.
Dylan’s wearing a pair of designer jeans, riding low on his hips and his vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt. The shirt is looser on him now, but it allows me to see most of his tats unencumbered. His ensemble is completed by a pair of well-worn black chucks, not unlike the way he dressed a year ago when we’d scattered our clothing all over the floor of whichever hotel room I happened to be booked in during the tour.
My throat becomes uncharacteristically dry mid-song, which is a bad thing, because a throat needs lubrication while you’re singing, otherwise the threat of coughing mid-song is highly likely.
“Hi.” I watch his perfect lips form a greeting just for me as he rakes a hand through his dirty blond hair, which is shorter than before and rocking a short faux hawk. He does this out of habit, I’m sure, or nervousness. If my reaction to him is any indication, he’s probably going through much the same, but he’s hiding his better than me.
I give him a tiny wave and continue my song, as he and Brody walk over to the drums and Dylan begins adjusting them to fit his style of play. I look at my sheet music and it seems like it’s taking forever to finish this song, but it’s only the requisite three to three and half minutes most songs are these days. When I sing the final note, I take a drink of my bottled water, take off my headphones and leave the booth, entering the music room which houses the band and make a beeline for the drummer.
Dylan is seated on the stool, but reaching down, adjusting the pedal on the bass. When he looks up, our gazes lock, and he studies me as if I’m some inordinately beautiful work of art, which has him frozen at the sight of me. Warmth blossoms from the center of my chest and suffuses my entire body with a giddy racing pulse.
“Hey.” I say, attempting to display an air of chill, but can’t disguise the awe in my voice.
“Hey.” When he smiles his whole face lights up, and every bit of doubt I had about him evaporates temporarily. I meet him halfway as we walk into an embrace that isn’t as awkward as I believed our first encounter would be. In his arms I feel like I’m home after everything else in my life for the past eleven and a half months has been utter chaos.
Despite the weight loss, his body is as sturdy and familiar as before, and his strong arms hold me as if I’m something delicate. I cling to him, breathing in his cologne, letting the true reality of our situation remain some distant painful memory, otherwise I might turn my head just so and kiss the living shit out of him.
“You sound good. As always,” he says when we part, but he continues to hold both my hands.
“Thanks. I’m sure it’ll sound even better with you on the drums.”
He frowns. “I’m rusty, but I’ll do my best.”
“You’ve got this,” I say. “Piece of cake.”
Brody comes over after having a brief conversation with Sky in the mixing booth and claps Dylan on the shoulder. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”
Dylan nods toward Brody. “Is he always such a hard ass?”
“Every damn day,” I say, slipping my hands out of his and heading back to the recording booth. “We’ll chat later, okay?”
I think I played it as chill as I could, considering how I’m trembling. It takes me a couple of tries to get the mic and headphones back in place when I’m closed up inside the booth.
“Let’s do a couple of run-throughs for Dylan with the full band,” Brody’s disembodied voice says into my ears. I turn my mic off and just listen as the band plays my song, following along with the lyrics in my head. The addition of Dylan on drums makes it sound amazing. Snare was great, but this is exceptional, or I’m just biased as hell. Rusty or not, this version of my song is dope.
I can’t help it. I bob my head and sing along in the booth even though my mic isn’t live. The inspiration from the full sound helps my musicality and I know this recording is going to be a hit.
It’s funny how all the anger and resentment for Dylan I’d built up since I last saw him seems to have dissipated in one fell swoop with this reunion. Yet, I remind myself that I can’t go there romantically again, no matter how much my heart wants to forgive him, and my body aches for him.
Fourteen
Hollywood, CA
ALYSSA
When Brody calls it a wrap for the day, I’m jonesing hard to talk to Dylan again, or simply to just be in orbit around the unique solar system that is him. Fuck! I’m waxing all kinds of poetic about this dude and he’s only been here one afternoon and we’ve only exchanged a handful of words between us.
As the rest of the band leaves, Dylan strolls over to me as I exit the booth.
“Sky’s planned dinner for us here,” he says. “Is that okay with you?”
“Of course,” I say. “Why would I object?”
He looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “The ‘Queen of Prickly’ always has an objection.” Now there he goes pulling out the nickname I gave myself and he adopted while we were kicking it before.
He is right, though. In my efforts to play it chill, I’m playing things too chill. “Listen, this is Sky’s place. She invites whoever the fuck she wants to eat here. I do because it keeps me from subsisting on take-out alone, and if you’re smart, you’ll do so because Della’s home cooking is better than anything that swanky hotel can deliver.”
Dylan grins. “That sounds more like the Alyssa I know.
We follow Sky and Brody out of the studio, and at the end of the hall they veer off to see the last of the band out the door, while Dylan and I go into the formal sitting room, where I’m sure they’ll join us momentarily.
I gesture toward the bar. “If you’d like a pre-dinner drink, have at it.”
“I’m good,” he says, with a contented smile, as he meanders around the room, looking at Sky’s most prestigious awards she’s chosen to display. The bulk of her awards are in display cases in her personal den, where she and Brody hang when they’re home alone, snuggling up on the couch and watching TV and shit.
I take my own suggestion and grab a Riesling out of the wine fridge. Dylan looks up from examining some of Sky’s photos she’s displayed of us on tour last year. Dylan and I are in the one that’s turned faced down, because Sky wouldn’t let me throw it out. Of course, he flips it back up. I frown.
He flashes me a knowing grin. “Sorry, where are my manners? I should’ve asked if you wanted me to fix you a drink.” He approaches the bar and joins me behind it. He’s too close for comfort, so I hand him the cork screw and I busy myself finding a wine glass as he expertly removes the cork from the bottle and pours my drink.
“You sure you don’t want anything?” I ask.
His eyes find mine and he smiles, but it doesn’t resonate in his eyes. “I’m sure. I’m off alcohol w
hile I’m on certain medications right now.”
I take a seat at the bar, while he remains standing. It’s logical that he wouldn’t drink if he’s on psychotropic medication, so I think nothing of it, and will myself not to pry further into his medical history. I lift my glass slightly in his direction.
“Cheers!”
Sky and Brody enter the sitting room holding hands and grinning like they’re each harboring a secret they are loath to share with us.
“Make yourself at home, Dylan,” Brody says, as he and Sky take the sofa, and he gestures for Dylan to take the armchair next to them.
“Yes, please,” Sky co-signs. Finally, Dylan takes a seat and I breathe a sigh of relief that I don’t have to carry a conversation with him on my own anymore. It’s like I want him around and want to talk to him, but know that I shouldn’t because it wouldn’t take much for me to fall back into his arms and pick up where we left off a year ago. But, I’m not going to be that girl.
“You know, that session was smoking,” Dylan says. “Thanks for including me.”
“You said you were out of practice,” Brody says, “but man, the percussion you provided on that cut was inspired.”
“What can I say? My muse was in the room,” he says, and looks over at me.
I scoff and down the rest of the wine in my glass, and pour myself another, making myself a promise that I won’t have another until dinner, since I don’t want to be impaired while I’m dealing with this drummer who can still charm the horns off a Billy goat. Wow! I’m spouting my southern grandmother’s euphemisms now. Maybe I’ve already had enough. I set my glass onto the bar and tune in to the conversation flowing between my friends and my ex. Was he really an ex? We hadn’t quite really defined what we’d been to one another back then.
“How are your parents? They like having you back home?” Brody asks.
“They’re fine, and Mom is ecstatic,” Dylan says. “Having me home has been like her fondest dream, but I’ve had to put up with her penchants for cleaning and matchmaking.”