Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Dexter
Alec’s slouched sideways on the studio couch, legs stretched out, one boot tapping an erratic rhythm against the armrest. He looks half-asleep and entirely unimpressed—like one more bad chord might make him quit the band we don’t technically have yet.
Barret’s hunched behind the soundboard, pretending to be impartial, but the grin tugging at his mouth gives him away. He lives for this kind of nonsense.
I jab my finger at the sheet of paper on the piano.
“It’s a wedding setlist. Not the goddamn blueprint for world peace. We’re not rewriting the history of music.”
Barret peers at the page, then back at me, face contorted like the paper personally insulted him.
“You slotted ‘The Chicken Dance’ between ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ and ‘Sweet Caroline.’ That’s not just wrong—it’s a fucking war crime.”
“Alyssa did,” I say, tipping my chin toward the printed list. “I assume it’s a strategic move. Crowd control. People go from weepy to wasted fast. You toss in some flapping arms and forced smiles. No one notices Uncle Lou taking off his tie and doing air guitar on the dessert table.”
Alec chuckles, finally giving in. “He’s got a point. It’s Pavlovian. You flap. You laugh. You chug a drink, then boom—Neil Diamond. You’re reborn.”
Barret throws up both hands like he’s surrendering to a bad dream. “Fuck. We used to open for Jane’s Addiction. Now we’re choreographing poultry.”
He stares into the void like it might offer him a way out.
“Relax,” I say, turning Rosie in my lap and adjusting her tuning. “It’s one gig. We’re not signing a lifetime contract.”
“Uh-huh,” Barret mutters. “That’s what you said before that charity gala in ’98, and you ended up backing a Spice Girls cover band in sequin pants.”
He narrows his eyes. “And don’t act like you don’t remember Mrs. Crawford. She bid two grand for you at the bachelor auction and nearly took you home in a stretch limo full of retirement-age dominatrixes.”
That memory still makes my spine stiffen. “It was for a good cause.”
“And this?”
“I’m not dodging any grandmas this time. Hopefully.”
The printed playlist rests between a coffee-stained napkin and a half-eaten jelly donut. Alyssa sent it yesterday. Her email was precise, like she organizes dreams for a living. Which, I guess, she kind of does.
Required:
“At Last” — Etta James
“Wonderful Tonight” — Eric Clapton
“I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” — Aerosmith
Optional (Pick Two):
“Truly Madly Deeply” — Savage Garden
“Because You Loved Me” — Celine Dion
“Maneater” — Hall & Oates
Also include “The Chicken Dance.” Non-negotiable.
I smooth out the page and glance at the guys. “We’ll keep her list. Trim the filler if we need to. Maybe toss in a surprise or two if the vibe’s right.”
Alec leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You sure you want me drumming for this? I haven’t played live in a year. I’m out of sync.”
“You’re Alec fucking North,” I say. “You could keep time in your sleep—with one stick and a broken hi-hat.”
He scoffs, but his mouth twitches at the corners. “Still sounds like community punishment.”
“Then consider it atonement.”
Alec barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “If you ever expect me to do this at a real wedding, do us all a favor and don’t count me in.”
I throw him a look, then glance at Barret. “Did the roadies say they can help haul and connect the equipment?”
He nods, brushing his hair back with the edge of his palm. “Yeah. Shouldn’t be too complicated. They’re already halfway through inventory.”
I give a short whistle, flex my fingers, and nudge the setlist closer. The studio hums with that low, electric buzz—half caffeine, half nerves. Alec stretches, cracks his knuckles like this is just another session, but his gaze tracks every move I make.
There’s a pause. Like the moment before a storm, when the air thickens but no one dares mention the sky.
I roll my shoulders, grip the mic. “Let’s run it. ‘At Last.’ One verse, then we break if it sucks.”
We start.
It clicks almost instantly. Like muscle memory laced with something deeper. Like the sound of three people who’ve played in every type of venue, under every kind of pressure, and somehow still know how to breathe in sync.
Barret’s timing is clean, instinctive—his sticks snapping into rhythm like his body never forgot.
Alec finds the harmony without glancing up, his voice slipping beneath mine like it belongs there.
And me—my voice settles into the melody with quiet certainty.
No strain, no catch. Just sound. Rosie hums beneath my fingers, her strings resonating like she remembers what this used to feel like.
We could use Roderick. Dead Moth Parade’s old frontman.
Our fourth, if we’re being honest. But he’s deep in another life now—out east with Kit, buried in bottle feeds and tractor repairs, trying to soothe baby Arlo through another brutal round of teething.
That small farm they bought is far enough from the noise to feel like another planet.
He’s where he needs to be. This—right now—is just the three of us. And somehow, that’s enough.
There’s something about it—a pulse beneath the notes. Just us, slipping back into the groove we thought we’d lost.
Rosie hums in my hands. My voice doesn’t splinter like it has these past few weeks. It finds the groove and settles into it, slow and sure, like it remembers how this used to feel.
Alec adjusts a dial mid-harmony without missing a beat. “Well, damn. I forgot you could still sing when you’re not wallowing.”
Barret snorts. “Yeah, and I forgot we actually used to enjoy this shit.”
I shake my head, fighting a smile. “Don’t get sentimental on me now. We’ve still got ‘The Chicken Dance’ to conquer.”
But something’s different. It's in the way the sound fills the room—not perfect, but alive. Present. Like maybe we’re not pretending this time.
Barret stops after the chorus, dropping his sticks onto the snare. “You’re really doing this for a wedding planner?”
“Not for,” I say, throat still buzzing. “Because of.”
Alec raises his brows, leaning forward like he’s heard something he wasn’t supposed to. “She must be something.”
“She’s all fire and deadlines,” I mutter, tugging my fingers through my hair. “But she makes things happen. She makes people show up.”
Barret grins like he’s already too far ahead of me. “You like her.”
“I barely know her.”
“Exactly.”
I look down at the next song—“Wonderful Tonight.” My fingers shift into position before I’ve even thought about it. E minor. G. D. C. It's there in my hands before it’s fully in my head.
We run through the set in order, then again out of order, like we’re stress-testing it. The guys argue about tempo, about whether “Truly Madly Deeply” belongs before or after “Because You Loved Me.”
By the time the clock hits noon, the list is final:
Midnight Vinyl – Wedding Set (Draft 1)
At Last
Wonderful Tonight
Because You Loved Me
Maneater
Sweet Caroline
The Chicken Dance
Don’t Stop Believin’
I Want to Hold Your Hand
Brown Eyed Girl
Everlong
It’s sentimental with just enough cheese to make people believe in forever.
Exactly what she needs.
Barret stops the recording, fingers still draped over the mixing board like he’s not ready to let go. “You good with this?”
“Yeah.” My throat’s dry, but I manage to nod. “We’ll run it again tomorrow, then I’ll take it solo Thursday.”
He watches me for a long beat, not buying the calm I’m selling. “You miss it.”
I exhale, the truth peeling off like old skin. “I miss when it meant something. Not when we were too fucked up to remember what we played, or who we disappointed.”
Barret just nods. I bet he has the same regrets, but also loves the music just like the rest of us.
I jot one last line on the margin of the playlist, just beneath the chicken scratch notes and alternate chords:
Remember—it’s not a stadium. It’s her office. Make this count.
Barret closes the door behind him with a quiet click, and the room exhales into stillness. I stay on the stool, elbows on my knees, head dipped low like a prayer I haven’t figured out the words for yet.
The studio glass throws my reflection back at me—tired eyes, jaw tight, hair tied back like I’m trying to contain something. Not quite the man who used to fill arenas. Not the one who stood barefoot on speaker stacks screaming lyrics into sold-out crowds.
Good. That guy had no business being there in the first place.
All I need is enough calm in my hands not to fuck it up, this upcoming Thursday.
I glance at the setlist again. My eyes land on the first song.
At Last.
And somehow, impossibly, my mouth tilts into a smile. That’s the first song that hooked her and will be probably be the one that’ll give me what I need from her. This sense of fulfillment.