The studio is even fancier than the last one we used. The leather couches are comfy, the table in front of us has a basket full of fruits and fresh pastries. And there’s this brand new smell. The studio was renovated recently. The walls are covered with awards and with pictures of famous French singers with the producers.
Olivia’s running slightly late and she rushes inside the room. Everyone—Steve, Dimitri, Grégoire and Fabian—turns to look at her. “Sorry. Sorry I’m late. Lucas, can I talk to you quickly?”
Grégoire pushes the guys inside the studio—except Fabian, who stands with his crew and the music producer behind the glass.
There are tears in Olivia’s eyes, and I’ve seen her cry only a handful of times before. When we were looking for Benji and when he was found dead, when she told me about her little brother dying and when her pictures got stolen from her cell phone. When we broke up, she tried very hard to not show me her tears. She ran off. “What’s wrong?”
Olivia tugs my shirt. “Whoever sent the pictures of Benji released them. They’re online. Don’t look. Don’t look at them.” She sniffles and I pull her into a hug. She sobs in my arms and for a split second, I’m back in those terrible days. Days that never seemed to end.
“I’m sorry you saw them. I’m sorry you saw them,” I repeat and I caress her hair in a comforting way. “Let’s tell Grégoire so he knows and then”—I tilt her chin up and try to use a soothing and calming voice—“and then we concentrate on the music. Because that’s what Benji would have wanted, okay?”
She nods and I pull her inside with me. After we tell Grégoire, we both keep our word and focus on the music.
Being in the studio is like living in a bubble. For hours, I forget the time, I forget everything. I let myself get wrapped up in the music, lose myself in the music.
“This is fucking awesome,” Steve yells and then throws his fist up the air. “We’re absolutely killing it.” And then he stops and his eyes dart to me. “What I meant to say is…”
I cut him off, because right now, he’s right.
Everything makes sense again. The music, the band. My eyes dart to Olivia. And her smile is small, but it’s there.
“It’s an amazing song,” she says and her laugh is forced at first but then turns into her signature giggle. “Much better than the first one we ever wrote together, do you remember?”
“You mean, the one that rhymed everything with blue?”
“Tell me it wasn’t a masterpiece.”
And I laugh along with her. Because we do need to move on. Somehow.