Chapter 10 Jane
Jane
They’re giving me a full six months to work on the rest of the score, and my entire body relaxes at the luxury. For once, I can set a reasonable schedule that gives me time to breathe and work on other projects.
So, after I’ve spent a morning carefully mapping out a writing schedule, I decide to take the next week to try my hand at Glitter Bats music.
And there’s no time to start like the present.
I settle myself behind Keeley’s keyboard and open one of the oldest entries in my Notes app, where a few random ideas I never did anything with are typed in haphazard formatting.
There’s a reason I never saw these through.
While I’ve spent a lot of time playing in a rock band and writing music for different genres, I don’t have a ton of experience writing actual rock songs.
Valerie and Caleb wrote most of our stuff for the band, and while Riker and even Keeley sometimes helped with lyrics, the most I really ever did was write my own piano parts.
I’ve never been sure where to start.
The thing about composing music is that it requires a creative spark, and with what little downtime I’ve had over the past year, I feel like I’m hitting a wall before I’ve even begun.
There’s not much I can do with that. For about an hour, I just listen to a playlist of old Glitter Bats influences: Paramore, Lime Velvet, My Chemical Romance, Dirty Crayons, Blink-182, and Swerve In 2 Sunset, hoping for guidance.
I hate sitting in front of a keyboard that’s not being played. When the inspiration doesn’t come, I start playing a Chopin piece to get my hands moving, hoping that will inspire…something.
My parents allowed nothing but Christian radio and classical music in the house growing up, and Chopin was a highlight of my early piano education.
I was only allowed to take lessons if I would use my talents for the Lord, so when I wasn’t practicing études, I was playing the keyboard in Sunday services.
I plastered a serene look on my face, secretly ignoring the religion of it all and getting lost in the structure of the songs, in the dancing of my fingers on the smooth piano keys.
Manipulating my parents to find little wins among all their restrictions was an art, and along the way, my pursuit of music ended up being more than a diversion.
They wanted their god to save me, but music was my true salvation.
Playing piano was the only good thing about those days, and even then, it gave me only a fraction of the joy I get with Glitter Bats. That’s what’s frustrating about living under strict control: you have to take your joy in tiny snatches of goodness among the stifling expectations.
If my parents ever knew the real me, they would believe I was going to hell.
Even that wouldn’t shake their faith. They’d just say I was a lost soul they were praying for, claim it’s my responsibility to change who I am at my very core to be worthy of redemption, instead of letting my truth challenge their narrow worldview.
It makes me sick.
But it’s why I’ll never tell them about my sexuality.
They’d never accept me, and it’s easier to pretend.
Besides, it’s not like I’m going to have a partner any time soon.
The one I want is definitely not interested, even if she was super chill about me coming out to her.
I knew she would be, but it still felt like my heart was in my throat for that entire conversation, like she’d see right through me to the crush I’ve spent years trying to hide.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Keeley appears in the doorframe of her music room. “Any luck writing something for the band?”
I groan. “No. I’m creatively fried.”
“Me too, and I’m still feeling super weird about the Label Records stuff, so I really want to write new Glitter Bats material.”
“Same,” I say. It’s wild how we argued about this just a few weeks ago, and now we’re on the same team.
But truly, I get Keeley’s need to reclaim our music.
She hasn’t said more about it, but I feel weird about the Landon situation too.
I know Keeley says she’s okay—and I trust that’s true—but it still doesn’t sit right. He’s old enough to be her dad.
It’s absolutely disgusting. After growing up in a community built on patriarchy, I’m not surprised Landon went there. I’m just disappointed and indignant on Keeley’s behalf. She hasn’t been upset since it happened, though. If anything, she’s more determined to take back what’s ours.
And if that’s a new album, that’s a new album. I’m with her on that, finally. But my creative well is dry.
Keeley leans across the doorframe, one arm above her head, filling it with her height. It’s…distracting. “All that being said…I did something kind of silly, if you’re up for it.”
I perk up, unable to stop the smile from tugging up my mouth. “I like silly.”
She smirks. “Do you want to go to a pottery class tonight?”
“Pottery? That’s new.” I fold my hands in my lap, considering.
“Yeah, I saw this place last week and decided to check it out. Sometimes doing something completely out of my wheelhouse helps me get creative, and it reconnects my wandering brain to my body when that task is tactile. Are you in?”
My mouth goes dry, as I’m momentarily distracted by things that could involve her being tactile.
“Jane?” Keeley asks.
I blink, my face heating, and stare back at the keyboard, refocusing on her question. I could sit here and play keys until my fingers ache, and it’s not going to help me write a rock hit.
Or I could spend a night hanging out with Keeley. It’s no contest.
“Sounds like it could be fun. I’m in.”
She flashes me a finger gun. “Great. I’m going to go change. You okay to leave in half an hour?”
“Sure.”
The class is in a random storefront in West Hollywood, wedged between a furniture store and a juice bar. It’s all industrial floors and white walls inside, with shelves of vases and pots lining the walls of the entry.
An easel that reads fall in love with clay greets us as we step into the main area of the store, which has been cleared of any merchandise.
Stations with wheels, two stools, and a bag of clay each are scattered around the room, and “L-O-V-E” recorded by Nat King Cole plays through the speaker system.
The space is dimly lit, with low lamps and white candles casting a warm, inviting glow that causes Keeley’s ear covered in piercings to glitter.
More vases, these full of bouquets of flowers, decorate the space, and there’s an assistant handing out glasses of champagne to two men in front of us who are holding hands.
And they’re not the only patrons in the room who are getting cozy.
“Keeley,” I hiss, as I glance around.
“Yeah?”
“Is this a couples’ pottery class?”
She glances over at me, paling. “Uh, the reservation defaulted for two. I assumed this was one of those stereotypical paint-and-sip girls’ night things, but for pottery.”
I swallow. “I don’t think it’s a typical girls’ night thing.”
She laughs nervously, bringing her hand to her neck, and I try not to notice the way the lean muscle in her forearm flexes with the movement. “We can totally leave.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. We’re next, anyways.”
The assistant turns to us, brandishing a clipboard. “Name on the reservation?”
“Keeley Cunningham,” Keeley says.
The assistant brightens, turning to me. “And you must be Keeley’s partner.”
My mind reels at the suggestion, even though I should have seen it coming. “I, uh—”
The assistant doesn’t let me finish. “Go ahead and grab a name tag and write down your name and pronouns, then help yourselves to champagne and choose a station. We’ll get things going shortly.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Keeley is already filling out her name tag.
I do the same, then stick it on the faded T-shirt I picked specifically because I knew it might get stained.
Then Keeley is placing a hand on my elbow and ushering me away, somehow handling two glasses of champagne in one hand.
“We could have corrected them,” I murmur as we grab the nearest station. I settle onto one of the hard wooden stools, and Keeley grabs the one next to me. She hands me my champagne, and I down half the glass in one go.
Liquid courage, I guess.
“Hey, I didn’t want them to kick us out in case they’re strict about the couple thing. It’s fine. We can pretend to be together for one night, right?”
I laugh, and it comes out high and unnatural. The men from the next station over raise their brows at me. “Yeah, it’s fine,” I say, but I know it’s not convincing.
Keeley lowers her voice. “Are you sure? We can go.”
“I want to learn pottery,” I say determinedly, desperately taking another sip of champagne to wet my suddenly dry throat. “And it’s just a couple hours, right?”
I fold my feet under me on the stool and try to relax, desperate to convince myself I can pull this off. I can pretend to be Keeley’s girlfriend for one night without catching fire, right?
“Whatever you say, baby,” Keeley says, and I think I might ignite right in my seat from the amount of warmth that floods my cheeks. “It’s not like it’s going to be hard to pretend. You’re a catch, Mercer.”
Holy crap. I’m done for. The way she eyes me up and down makes my mouth go dry. “I, um…”
Fortunately, my splutter of an attempted, incoherent response is interrupted by the instructor, who turns down the music and begins her introduction.
“Good evening, romantics! Welcome to night one of our Fall in Love with Clay sessions. Tonight, you will work with your partner to make two guided projects over the next two hours. The projects will take two to three weeks to dry in our studio, after which they will be fired. Next month, you may return for night two to glaze your projects.”
Keeley lowers her voice. “I guess it’s two nights of pretending, if you want to make it pretty.”
I thrust my shoulders back. “That’s fine. We should definitely paint them.”