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 Dylan 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.