Threads
DAPHNE
TITANIUM RECORDS
NEW YORK CITY
“Daphne, I think you have a kickass sound,” Damien says, leaning back in his chair. “Phoebe and I have been talking, and we’re very interested in making you a part of the Titanium family.”
I can’t believe I’m here, sitting in front of a legend. I mean, this guy’s won Grammys, played some of the biggest venues in the world, and his band has gone platinum multiple times.
“Thank you, Mr. Bell.”
When my grandpa said he sent my demo over to Titanium, I was floored… and then I was terrified. What if this is all just some big, elaborate joke?
“Damien,” he laughs. “Please.”
Joe snorts.
“If you call him Mr. Bell, he feels as old as he looks,” Phoebe chimes in.
Phoebe Miller is Damien’s wife, and the other half of the label. Joe said they met on the road. Apparently Damien hated journalists, and Phoebe thought he was obnoxious and over the top. One whirlwind tour later, and they fell in love.
“Hey! I do my skincare!” Damien retorts, pointing at the smooth area between his thick dark brows. “I even got botox.”
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
“You’re all good, kiddo,” he chuckles. “But seriously, look— the maturity in your voice, your sound, and your lyrics? You’ve got a very, very rare gift. Joe was right, there’s something special about you.”
“I always knew she had it in her. She’s been singing since she was in diapers.”
My stomach is in knots. I usually pretend not to be an anxious mess, but it’s hard when you’re sitting in front of two people who could change the course of your entire life.
I reach up, grasping the Saint Christopher around my neck.
“Daphne?” Phoebe asks, her soft voice yanking me back to the present. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, feeling the cool metal against my palm. “I guess it’s all just a lot to take in.”
Joe wraps an arm around me, giving my shoulder a little squeeze as I look up into his soft brown eyes.
“She’s just tired. It’s a long drive from Emerald Bay to New York City.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to get used to even longer drives.” Damien opens a manilla folder, sliding it across the desk to me, along with a big black pen. “I’m thinking we get you into the studio with our producer, Liam Lewis. He’s a legend—”
“He produced all your early albums!” I cut in. “Sorry, I still listen to them all the time.”
Damien grins, his eyes flicking over to my grandpa.
“You paid her to flatter me, didn’t you?”
Joe stifles a laugh, leaning back in his chair with a shrug.
“What? No! They’re great albums! I grew up listening to them, my mom is a huge—”
“Relax, kid,” Damien chuckles. “I’m messing with you.”
“Damien’s always thought he’s the funniest person in every room he walks into,” Phoebe quips. “Feel free to roll your eyes, he’s not allowed to fire you over that— you put that in the contract, right, D?”
“Sure, Babydoll, in invisible ink.” He glances back at me, his blue-grey eyes sparkling. “So? Whaddya say? You wanna sign on the dotted line?”
Joe already knows that I’m going to pick up that pen. I already know I’m going to pick up that pen, because what’s the alternative? I’m awash with the sensation that everything from here on out is going to change.
No more small town girl.
No more staring up at the stars on a clear summer night wishing I was somewhere else.
I’ve dreamed of this day, of this life I’ve only just been offered.
And it’s all thanks to my grandpa.
Not a lot of people are lucky enough to find someone who nurtures their passions.
I read through the contract, my pen hovering over different portions of the page as I go. It’s written in pretty plain English. They want two albums out of me to start, and then a tour depending on sales.
Phoebe leans in and points to a highlighted portion near the bottom.
“This will be your advance.”
My stomach flips when I see the number.
$150,000.
“Now I know this is exciting, but it’s important to understand that’s basically a loan.”
I’ve never seen so much money in my life, but Phoebe’s gentle yet firm voice grounds me in reality. She’s got this softness that drew me to her from the second I shook her hand. The music industry is mostly male-dominated, so it’s nice to see a woman in a position of power.
“So you recoup through royalties?”.
I did some research after I got offered the record deal, but wasn’t able to find a lot of specifics. This industry keeps things very mysterious… almost certainly on purpose.
“And sales from merchandise, concerts, things like that— Now, a lot of labels will try to creatively control an artist, but that’s never been our style here at Titanium.
We love your sound, and we want you in the driver’s seat.
We’re just here to make sure that you grow into the artist you were meant to be. ”
She hands me a small white card.
“You call me or Damien if you have questions. We’ll always pick up the phone.”
“Unless it’s past 8:00 on a Thursday because I’m watching Law and Order,” Damien replies.
“In that case, I’ll answer the phone,” Phoebe chuckles.
I take a deep breath, pausing briefly for one final moment before signing my name in dark blue ink.
Damien flashes me a warm smile as he reaches across the table to shake my hand.
“Welcome to the family, kiddo.”
“Congratulations, Pumpkin!” Joe booms, raising his glass of wine. “You’re officially a rockstar!”
“All thanks to you!” I clink my glass of sparkling water against his. “Though I don’t know if rockstar is—”
“I just made the phone call, you’ve had the talent inside you all along. All you had to do was click your heels together and make it happen.”
Joe said we deserved to eat somewhere nice, so we’re sitting in the fanciest restaurant I’ve ever been to in my life. This place even has wet towels folded up to look like little marshmallows. I’m not really sure what they’re for, but he stopped me just before I tried to pop one into my mouth.
If Frankie were here, he’d be cracking some joke about how the plates cost more than his mom’s house. He’d probably be complaining about the ‘dry marshmallows’ too.
As I sip my drink, my fingers find their way to that medallion for the second time in the day, and this time, Joe notices.
“That was Frankie’s, right?”
I nod.
“You talked to him since we got here?”
I shake my head.
“No. Not, uh… not yet. He’s busy with his mom and everything, so…”
I want to call him, and tell him all of this stuff about the record deal, about New York, about the fact that I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and a pigeon stole the bagel I’d dropped.
But every time I try to text him or dial his number, I just feel so shitty.
Joe’s brows knit together and I know I can’t outrun his scrutiny. He’s a detail-oriented kind of guy; there’s nothing he doesn’t notice.
“Is everything okay between you two?” He asks, buttering some bread before popping it into his mouth.
I force a smile.
I left a piece of myself behind in Emerald Bay, and I took a piece of him with me.
“It’s totally fine. I think he’s just bummed that I had to leave.”
We haven’t spoken about that night, even though Frankie came over to help us load up the moving van. We talked like nothing happened, but I could tell things had already begun to shift between us.
The hug felt different.
He felt different.
Emptier somehow.
Joe leans forward, his mouth curled into a little half-smile.
“I don’t think you’re telling the entire truth.”
“I am!”
“Nope. You’re chewing on your lip.”
I glance around the restaurant.
“Where’s our food? I’m hungry.”
“We ordered five minutes ago,” he chuckles. “So, you wanna talk about it?”
It's been eating away at me over the last few days, but I’ve been doing my best at pretending Frankie’s not on my mind 24/7. I can’t get that heart-wrenching look out of my head when he pulled away and realized what he’d said to me.
And how we just stared at each other, no idea what to do or say.
“Frankie told me he loved me.”
Joe’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead.
“He did?”
“Please don’t say anything to him when you get back, it— he was really embarrassed. We were—”
“Did you say it back?”
“I told him the truth. That I was probably about to leave, that I wanted to focus on my career, and that his friendship meant everything to me and I didn’t want to lose it.”
Joe frowns, staring at his wine for a moment.
What I didn’t tell Frankie was how hard I was holding back the urge to say that I loved him too.
“You know, I remember one time I was touring with Revolver back in the late 80s, and we were all sitting around after a show, having a few beers, talking about love and life and all that. One of the roadies brought up this myth his dad told him about called the red thread of fate.”
“The red— what is it?”
“It originates from Chinese mythology, and there’s different variations of it…
but he said the version his mom told him was: there’s an invisible red cord tied around every person’s finger who’s supposed to meet their one true love.
The people connected by this thread are destined to be together, mind you.
Doesn’t matter the time, place, or circumstance when it happens.
And this thread that connects them is special, because it can stretch, it can tangle, but it never ever breaks. ”
I grab a piece of bread, dunking it into a big hunk of warm butter and shoving it into my mouth in the most unladylike fashion possible.
“That’s really romantic.”
“Isn’t it?” He sighs. “And, look, I’m not saying you have to tell him you love him, I’m just saying all you have to do is pick up the phone.”
I wanted that night to be something I’d never forget, because I was giving a piece of myself to someone I cared so much about. But the second those words fell from his lips, I started to panic. As much as I wanted to say it back, I was leaving.
Maybe forever.
“I don’t know…”
“It takes two people to communicate, Pumpkin.”
I know he’s right, and I’ve been a coward.
I almost filled an entire notebook with songs and poems about him, all while Joe drove me from Seattle to New York.
I think I’ve got enough to record an entire album, but I could never tell him that.
If I reach out, and talk to him like nothing’s wrong, maybe we can just go back to being Frankie and Daphne.
“I’ll text him after dinner,” I murmur.
But I won’t. Of course I won’t.