63. Angel
AEROSMITH
The next two nights pass in scraps.
Ben hasn’t come back.
Andrew does—
four in the morning,
half-dead from work,
finding me in the writing room,
crawling over me,
mouth dragging my throat,
across my stomach, between my thighs.
Slipping inside me, staying buried,
falling asleep.
And I let him.
Because I’m stupid.
But it’s stupid romantic. And ours.
It’s already Sunday again.
I have him all day.
And as soon as we walk into Studio B at Soundwave, the chill hits my bare arms like a splash of cold water.
Andrew stays half a step behind me, nerves and wide-eyed wonder roll off him in waves. That sweet where-the-fuck-do-I-put-my-hands panic.
He looks like a beautifully composed contradiction—part runway rebellion, part rock god, part collector of dead poets.
Like he belongs on stage,
in a library,
and tangled in my bed sheets
all at the same time.
Under his open jacket, he’s wearing a henley, fitted black jeans, Nikes, and those black-rimmed glasses that make him obnoxiously hot. He thinks this is a quick five-minute pit stop on the way to see his moms.
He has no idea today’s the day I pitch the song live to Callista. And I had no idea how stupid I am for bringing him until now.
My brain really sat there and said,
yo—got a great fuckin’ idea:
write a song about
falling for Andrew Harding.
Bring Andrew Harding into the studio.
Then sing the Andrew Harding song
while Andrew Harding stands there
with his stupid pretty Andrew Harding face.
No reason to panic at all.
Just sit at the piano and ignore your heart hanging out of your chest like a drunk tit.
Everyone else is already here.
The A&R team is scattered across the leather couches.
Jenkins, Callista’s manager, is pacing one wall, phone glued to his ear.
Callista and Ace are at the mixing board—Ace sprawled back with his headphones hanging around his neck, king of every knob, god of every pulse, dressed for a nap.
The soundboard glows in front of him, a tiny neon metropolis under his fingertips.
I sneak up behind Ace and shake the back of his chair.
“Are you ready?” I say,
like a sports announcer.
On the other side of the glass is the tracking room, where a spotlight rains down on a piano waiting for me.
Ace rolls an inch closer to the board,
tosses a look over his shoulder,
sees Andrew with me.
“Brah,” Ace calls, hand up. “You again.”
Andrew—still looking at the booth,
the tracking room,
the strangers on the couch,
Callista—
snaps back into his body and claps Ace’s hand. “Yo. What’s up, man.” Then to me, “Why do I feel like I’m the only idiot in this room who don’t know what’s happenin’?”
I pull Andrew off to the side,
a cold sweat climbing out of my palms.
I stand there, eyes jumping around the studio, scrubbing my hands down my denim thighs.
Andrew’s looking right at me, waiting,
and I’ve never felt this sick in a studio.
He’s never seen the skeleton of my songwriting soul before, never seen me naked, peeled raw as I hand over the bones of my music.
“I had Callista’s live session booked for today.” I lift my chin around the hungry, waiting room. “They’re gonna hear the song I’ve been working on. And if Callista likes it…”
My eyes find his again.
“I’ll have to hand it over.”
God, I fucking hate this part.
“This might be the last time I sing it as mine.” I lift my shoulder. “Before it becomes hers.”
Andrew’s face goes strikingly still, eyes wrecking-ball gentle and holding mine, already willing to kill for a song he’s never heard—protect it, guard it with his life, like shielding a candle’s flame in the middle of a hurricane.
At our sides,
his fingers graze my knuckles.
“You sure you’re ready?”
Fuck no. “Yeah.” I nod.
“Better to rip the Band-Aid off, right?”
He side-eyes the team on the couch.
“Aight, so… this song handoff, what’s my role in this?
Say she wants it, you want me to stand back?
Just let her take it? Or you want me steppin’ in?
‘Cause I can be an asshole if you need an asshole,” he says out of the corner of his mouth.
I laugh, pressing my hand to my forehead.
“I mean there’s always the third option,” he continues, glancing over his shoulder.
“Go full psycho-ex, do some harrassin’, win it back after it moves on… ”
“I like psycho.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Thought you would.”
Ace claps his hands from across the room. “Aye—y’all done? ‘Cause I got beats to mix and a whole ass career to maintain.”
Andrew stands taller, whispering, “Mr. Grammy Awards said ‘whole ass career’ like he ain’t eatin’ a Lunchable at his mixing board in pajamas at two in the afternoon.”
From behind the glass, Elliot, our sound tech, gives a thumbs-up. “Piano’s hot.”
I roll a chair over to the mixing board.
“Sit, stand, your call,” I tell him,
parking the chair right next to Ace.
Andrew sinks into the leather,
stretching out his long legs.
I step up behind him. “Rules are simple: smile if you love it, lie to me if you hate it.”
He tips his head back, eyes finding mine upside down, head slowly rolling against the chair as his gaze follows me.
“Relax,” he says, knees wide, mouth slanted cocky. “I been lyin’ to pretty girls my whole life.”
I shake my head and open the door to the sound-lock, a tiny closet-sized hallway connecting the control room to the tracking room.
Before the door closes, I hear Ace snort.
“Nah, man. She’ll get you. Now that she’s behind that glass, you’ll be fallin’ in love in two seconds flat.”
“Yeeeaaah,” Andrew mutters,
still smiling.
“I ain’t makin’ it outta this room alive.”
The A&R team sits buried in the back shadows, faces lit by their phone screens.
Callie’s perched beside Ace on a stool, stalking to Jenkins, while Ace rubs his palms together over the board.
And then there’s Andrew—elbow on the chair, hand over his mouth, rocking slightly.
The only person in the room who’s looking at me.
“Alright,” I say, slipping into songwriter mode. “First run-through’s me and the piano—stripped down, no production.” I point at Ace. “After you hit record, hands off the board. Then, we’ll play it back so I can show you what I got goin’ on in my head.”
Ace jerks his chin toward Andrew.
“Bossy little thing.”
Andrew laughs, short and polite,
as if he knows all about it.
But I catch the way he shifts in the chair,
the way he rubs his hand over his jaw.
He’s nervous. For me.
Trying to bury it so I won’t be.
I slide onto the bench, exhaling.
“Alright, let’s roll.”
Ace clicks the last button,
then drops back,
lifting his hands dramatically.
“Aight. I’m out. All you, Allie.”
He leans over to Andrew, the talkback still latched open, and their voices cut through my headphones.
“She didn’t trust me for shit at first. Had me hands-behind-the-back at my own board.”
Another laugh buckles out of Andrew,
breaking his nerves for a split second.
“Who, Allison? Control issues? Nah.”
I roll my eyes. “I can hear you bastards, kill the talkback.”
Ace jumps forward to kill it.
Callista and I lock eyes,
her knee bouncing a mile a minute.
She admitted to me once that the first listen always terrifies her.
It’s the fear of hating it, then having to find a way to look me in the eye and break my heart.
My fingers ghost over the keys.
The studio around me is dead,
a soundproof tomb.
So quiet, I can hear my pulse in my ears.
The song fills my chest like a lungful of cold air. Half of me wants to hold my breath and keep it safe in the dark forever. The other half is begging me to open my mouth and finally set it free.
I close my eyes, and the first notes drip into the silence, spilling out the same way they were born on the paper in my notebook. Only me and the music, no one else, filling up every empty corner of the room, as if it's trying to prove it’s good enough to fill up every corner of the world.
And when I open my mouth,
the words slip out of me…
VERSE
Today, you called me crazy
Fixed your face while your hands shake
Last night, I was your soulmate—
Babe, give your mouth a break
Now it’s ‘sorry, I need space
from you.’
Crazy’s a strange thing to say
from a guy who can’t explain
why he keeps a piece of me—
black panties in his sheets
Well, sorry I’m not a saint
like you.
The second the line leaves my mouth,
Andrew’s face blanks pale and stupid—
a crackhead caught with a crackpipe.
He lifts his hand to his forehead, embarrassed, a deep, hot crimson flooding fast up his neck, and he can’t look at me anymore.
He drops back in the chair,
tongue pressing into his cheek.
Ace leans over, says something to him,
knocking Andrew with his elbow.
Andrew’s shaking his head, face hot,
he mouths ‘Fuck. You know?’
I wink, keep singing.
He laughs,
‘You little shit.’
PRE-CHORUS
One night.
Two hearts.
Perfect match.
Toxic spark
Truth is,
after dark
all our lies
fall apart
CHORUS
You say, “Say my name”
But I can’t speak
Your hands shake
holding back from me
And when I break
It’s you I bleed
Then before lights come on
I make you leave
VERSE 2
You’re right, I’m fucking crazy
I’ll scream it with a straitface
I keep lying, you keep acting, like
broken things don't do broken things
So you can keep my panties
‘Cause I swear I'm leaving you
you
And yeah, I fucking hate you.
Cross your heart and hope you cry
Still yours in daylight hours,
ghost of you between my thighs
Don’t lie, you’re psycho too
when so much of me is
you
brIDGE
In the darkest hours
I’ll bottle up our moans
drink the poison until dusk
in small doses when I’m alone
Count down seconds until midnight
stare at your last text in my phone—
it’s true.
Feel your name on my lips
Anticipate your kiss
I’ll rehearse this lie, or plead the fifth,
one, two
Boy, I’m crazy about everything
but you
Whisper, boy, I hate no one else
but you.
The last chord lingers,
and Callista hasn't moved.
My fingers slip from the keys,
fall into my lap,
but the song is still everywhere,
hanging in the air,
taking up space in my lungs,
buzzing in my bones,
soothing every space it touched,
as if it’s refusing to leave me.
Callista points at the glass.
“Run it back.”
Ace laughs,
raises his hands up at his sides.