15
ELEANOR
I am awakened by a sharp, buzzing sound. I blink my eyes open; my phone is lit up on the dresser. Someone’s calling me.
Must be urgent because I keep it on Do Not Disturb at night. I wonder how many times they’ve already tried to get through. My stomach coils in on itself. It could be an emergency. Or it could be . . . someone I don’t want to hear from. The only people who would call repeatedly late at night are desperate and people’s versions of desperate are so different.
I have half a mind to bury my head under the comforter and not deal with it until morning.
But I can’t ignore the flame of curiosity flickering inside me.
I grab my phone off the dresser, wincing at the bright light filtering through the darkened room. Then, I screw my eyes together to be able to read the name.
The coil of my stomach releases, exchanged for butterflies when I see Luke’s name on the screen. At least I think it’s his name. To be sure, I fumble for my glasses, pulling them on as fast as I can.
Yep, that’s Luke’s name alright. Why would he be calling me so late? I can’t be his go-to contact in an emergency. Maybe I’ve had him pegged right from the beginning. A ladies’ man, who sneaks into your heart, makes you feel special, and then booty calls you when the time is right.
I press the accept button and pull the phone to my ear. “Hello?” I answer.
“Good! You’re up!” Luke replies with a voice better suited for the first cup of coffee in the morning than the middle of the night.
I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, thanks to you,” I say.
“Ah, sorry, sorry, I knew it was probably past your bedtime.”
I roll onto my back. “I don’t have a bedtime.”
“You’re exactly the type of person to have a bedtime,” he says, teasing lilt infusing his voice.
“Why are you calling me past my bedtime then, Luke ?” Now I’m wide awake, wanting to know what he wants. Hoping I can keep him on the phone.
“Trust me, it will be worth the lost sleep,” he says. “I ran into a radio host at my gig tonight who apparently has access to one of Diane’s demos.”
I sit straight up, each nerve in my body pulling me in a different direction. “He—what?!”
“I’m on the way to the radio station to take a listen as we speak.” I hear the clicking of a turn signal in the background of the call. “Just turned onto your street to pick you up.”
My mouth goes hot. I scramble over to the window that looks out on the street below, spreading the slats in the blinds to look through. Sure enough, there’s Luke’s car, slowing right in front of my building.
“You in?” he asks.
Joy washes over me. That he’s here. He’s thought of me. Gone out of his way to get me, knowing just how important all of this is to me.
I adore him. And for now, I’ll allow myself to do so with reckless abandon.
“Give me two minutes.”
* * *
The DJ, Skip, leads us into his booth. It’s a rather drab interior compared to how exciting things sound on the radio. Gray equipment lining three of the white walls. The soundboard is intimidating enough on its own, let alone the man who operates it. Skip Baxter, who I met less than a minute ago, is a very reserved Ira Glass type. Hard to imagine him rocking out at one of the shows Austin puts on. Then again, I’m sure he’s lived many lives in his time as a disc jockey.
Skip drops down into his chair and boots up his computer. “Give me a minute.”
Luke and I are silent as we stand behind Skip, waiting with bated breath. I look askance at Luke, chewing my lip. As per usual, he’s wearing an easy smile. Encouraging and safe.
I pull my cardigan tighter around me. It wasn’t until I was under the fluorescent lights of the studio that I realized just how stupid my outfit looked. A baby tee, windbreaker pants, a duster cardigan, and Birkenstocks. Not to mention I had to pile all my curls on the top of my head like Carmen Miranda’s hat of fruit since they were already mussed from sleep.
Standing with Luke, it’s like The Prince and the Pauper . He’s crisp and pressed, not a hair out of place.
I focus my eyes elsewhere so as not to start salivating over him.
Above Skip’s head of silvery hair is a window that looks into the main area where hosts and guests are able to go at it across a table with state-of-the-art mics hanging on black arms in front of every seat. The only splash of color is the green velvet chairs.
I imagine Diane sitting at one of those mics, lips curled into a soft smile as she talks about her music. I imagine she liked to laugh. A smile like hers is that of a woman who feels comfortable enough to let her voice free. She’s a musician after all, isn’t she?
“Okay, here we go.” Skip presses a few buttons. Each click puts me further and further on edge until he clicks play on the track pulled up on the computer screen. “S’called ‘Hyacinth.’”
There’s a bit of static before the strumming of an acoustic guitar. Plaintive chords, swooping and solemn.
“Bad opening track for a demo,” Skip says, triangulating his fingers over his belly as he leans back in his chair.
I ignore him. I don’t give a single fuck about what any critic might say about what I’m hearing. It’s beautiful.
And then she sings.
“ I’ve got arms to hold you too tight / I’ve got words to keep you up all night . . .” Her voice is a soulful rasp, unlocked from somewhere deep inside, the definition of artistry. She isn’t pushing herself to sound pretty or good. It’s authentic and that is the beauty of it.
“A bit . . . trite, the lyrics,” Skip remarks.
I close my eyes and let the music be the only thing I hear, the only thing that deserves to have a voice right now.
“ I might not be bad / But I know I’m not good . . . ”
My forehead tightens as I take in each and every word, each chord change.
“ What’s here isn’t meant to be understood.”
Her lyrics aren’t anything novel. But they’re poetic in their honesty and their candor. Complemented by the quality of her voice and the work of her fingers on the guitar, the picture of someone weighed down by love. Someone who has wanted nothing more than to be loved and yet has to accept that to love is to live with pain.
That might be a lot to get from a song. But it’s what I’m hearing.
Something is unlocked inside me.
I pull my hands up to my chest, intertwine my fingers together, and bend my head forward, in a type of prayer.
“I might not get you tomorrow / But at least I have you today / And when you see me tomorrow / That’s exactly what I’ll say.”
She’s still so alive. Not on this earth. But her music . . . she’s right here in the room with me, so tangible it’s hard to believe there is a reality where she doesn’t exist.
I know I don’t know her and never did. I don’t have a reason to be giving myself over to her so completely. To be so curious. However, coming to Austin was a way to get away from my old life. Leave behind my old self.
Wherever you go, though, your past follows you. You carry it in your mind.
So, when I laid eyes on Diane . . . on a woman who seemed so free. I wanted to figure out how to be that.
I feel a hand on my back. “You okay?” Luke asks tenderly.
I blink my eyes open, and a few tears roll down. I smile up at him, wiping them away. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
His tight lips pull up at the corner. He moves his hand across my back sweetly, then lets his hand creep around my shoulder and pulls me to his side.
I lean into him, pressing my face into his side, and sigh in relief as the music continues to waft through the air. I’m content. And safe. And, if only for a few moments, I’m not going to question whether where I am is exactly where I’m meant to be.
Here. Next to Luke. Being whatever I am to him.
The song rolls to a close with a repeating finish, suggesting that the desire for the love she sings of will be a Sisyphean task, an endless suffering.
I let out a big sigh.
“We found her,” I say.
And all the uneasiness is gone.