FIFTEEN
CHAPTER
Three weeks later the album was nearly finished. I still hadn’t heard the whole thing mixed—I’d laid down the guitar track first, then the vocals. Only bits and pieces got played back for me.
I didn’t know what kind of impact it would make on the music world either, despite the fact that Grant and Phoebe were in a state of perpetual giddiness. They assured me over and over again it was going to be a huge hit.
“Even at ninety-nine cents a song, you can make a killing if just one goes big,” Grant told me, his eyes bright behind his glasses.
You can buy a lot of booze too, I thought. An echo of my Rapid Confession days when success wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
We wrapped it up on a Thursday night. Back home, I changed from my recording attire of sloppy jeans and T-shirt to the nicer jeans and blouse for my gig at Le Chacal that night. My cell phone buzzed a text from Theo: You up?
I typed back, thumbs flying. You realize that’s the internationally recognized code for booty call, right?
Nothing for a minute, then: Dirty mind. I was innocently asking if you’re awake.
There’s nothing innocent about you, Teddy. It’s only eight pm here and you know it. What’s up?
You working tongue?
I laughed. No, my tongue has the night off.
Tonight. I meant tonight. Fucking autocorrect. Calling…
Theo hated texting because he made so many typos. Which was fine with me, I preferred hearing his voice anyway. I liked its deep roughness in my ear.
My phone rang. “Yes, I’m working tonight,” I said. “I need the money to pay my gigantic phone bill.”
“You’re telling me,” Theo replied. “I had to take out a small loan after you kept me up until four in the morning last week.”
“All you had to do was concede The Princess Bride is the most quotable movie in existence and I would have let you off.”
I grinned, remembering how Theo tried to argue Monty Python’s the Holy Grail had earned that title. I’d badgered him with “Inconceivable!” until he gave up.
“Don’t start,” he said, “or I’ll fart in your general direction.”
I’d no idea stern-faced Theodore was a huge Monty Python fan. But during our marathon conversations, I learned he could quote the entire Holy Grail and Life of Brian movies almost verbatim, accents and all.
These monster phone sessions started out as him checking in on me.
Brief chats, once or twice a week, making sure I was okay.
The craving for booze was a constant. On bad days it flared into an insatiable thirst, laced with grief for Jonah.
On good days, it was background noise, sometimes hardly noticeable.
The good days, I noticed, were growing more and more frequent. I had friends now: Yvonne next door. Big E. Even Grant and Phoebe were more like friends than business partners.
And I had Teddy, who now called me almost every day.
“So,” he said. “Oscar and Dena’s wedding.”
“Yes. Next Saturday. I’m so excited. Especially since my bridesmaid dress isn’t a total nightmare.” I glanced at the coral-colored, strapless dress hanging high on the door of my bedroom. “Not really my style but it’s pretty. Just the right color for a spring wedding.”
Theo grunted an acknowledgement of the girly dress talk, and then said, “When are you flying in?”
“Friday,” I said. “I’ll be there in time for the rehearsal dinner.”
“Cool.”
“You don’t sound super thrilled about it.”
“I never should’ve agreed to be the best man. It’s going to suck.”
“Why? Not a fan of making toasts in front of hundreds of strangers?”
“Something like that,” he muttered. “Anyway, are you bringing anyone?”
I blinked. “You mean like a date?”
“Yeah.”
“God, no. I’m soooo not ready for that.” I plucked at my duvet, making little wrinkles in the material. “Are you?”
“No,” he said.
A small smile spread over my face, and I smoothed the duvet down. “Why not?”
“There’s no one I want to fly all the way to New York,” he said. “That’s an expensive date.”
“Good point,” I said.
Oscar and Dena were getting married at an exclusive club Oscar’s parents belonged to in upstate New York. The east coast location was easier on Dena’s grandparents—both in their eighties—who had to fly from Tehran, via London, to the US.
“So, we can be each other’s date,” I said. “At the least, you can save me a dance or two, so I’m not sitting alone at the table all night like a pathetic loser.”
“You’re not a pathetic loser,” he said darkly. “And I don’t dance.”
“Yeah, right,” I laughed. “You’ll have to beat the single ladies off you with a stick. Maybe the married ones too.”
“That’s not happening.”
“You sure about that?” I said, grinning. “Admitting you have a problem is the first step toward recovery. You’re going to look amazing in a tux, Teddy.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I glanced at the clock. “I gotta go soon. I have my Le Chacal gig tonight.”
“You don’t sound super thrilled about it,” he said.
I smiled at his echo of my words. “I know. I’ve been more focused on recording. We finish tomorrow. The Olsens I keep telling you about? Turns out they really know their shit. They said the album might be ready by the time I get back from New York.”
“Already?”
“Not a lot of mixing and mastering to do when it’s just one voice and a guitar. Although they did talk me into letting a local violinist play background on a few tracks. I’m actually kind of excited about it.”
“That’s a good thing, then.”
I plucked the duvet again. “I think so. I’m nervous to hear it. Okay, no, I’m scared shitless to hear it. From an outsider perspective.”
“Take your time. Don’t listen until you’re ready.”
“When did you become so wise?”
“Born that way.”
I caught sight of the clock again. “Oh, shit. I really gotta run.”
“Tell Big E I said hi,” Theo said.
“I will. Text you later?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Bye, Teddy.”
“Bye, Kace.”