Chapter 3 Jane
Jane
I fight back tears as the studio door slams.
Keeley doesn’t understand the kind of pressure I’m under. Instead of telling her about any of that, though, I got defensive. It’s just…I can’t just clear my schedule to make music with the band. I love the Glitter Bats, but I spent our six-year hiatus building an entirely different career.
Sure, after Caleb and Valerie got married, we started talking about future plans. But that was the kind of after-midnight, champagne-soaked dreaming filtered by the neon lights of the strip. We weren’t making actual decisions about our next steps.
Of course I want to pursue more music with the band, but I don’t see how it can happen anytime soon. Once I know more about where my career is heading, then I’d be happy to reevaluate. I just can’t drop everything now.
And I’m not the only one with other projects. Riker is probably heading on another tour any day, and Caleb is back to teaching for the school year. As far as I know, Valerie is booked for acting gigs too. So where is Keeley’s urgency coming from?
Groaning, I set my elbows on the desk and lean my head into my hands.
I really am exhausted. I haven’t stopped working since I decided to pursue a career in the music industry.
When I chose the Glitter Bats over a Christian college (where I was expected to find a husband, not actually get a degree), my parents sat me down in their formal living room for a two-hour lecture about “not being seduced by worldly pursuits.” Really, they didn’t like the swearing in our music—or that two of my bandmates were very openly queer.
If I ever publicly date anyone other than a straight, cis man, I’m sure they’ll actually disown me.
It’s why I’ve been so quiet about my relationships…
if you can even call them that. I’ve stuck to quiet hookups with clear boundaries from the outset, usually with other industry people who understand the consequences of the public knowing your business.
And so far, I’ve managed to keep my private life private—to avoid family conflict, if nothing else. I wish I didn’t care about what my parents think. But a part of me, deep down, is still beyond terrified of what would happen if they ever learned all my truths.
Still, I escaped out from under the shadow of their expectations with that first Glitter Bats paycheck.
I refuse to ever need their help again, and that’s why I make sure to have multiple paying gigs lined up: so my financial security is never in question.
That means saying yes to the opportunities in front of me.
I love Glitter Bats, but the reality of no longer having a label is that we have no security.
Sure, our fans might be eager for more now, but the music industry is fickle.
What if their excitement fades before we drop our next album?
If we’re going to move forward, all my composing work gives me the stability to take that risk.
With a sigh, I grab my laptop and headphones, carefully packing them into my workbag. I think about the stricken look on Keeley’s face, and I wonder if I’m being practical about my career or just clinging to security as a trauma response, like my therapist says.
I grew up in a structured home, but there was no safety there—at least, not the kind that allowed me to be myself.
Safety was something I had to build on my own when I left.
I hope my parents find some space to be proud of all of the things I’ve accomplished, but it feels more like they’re watching every move to see if I’ll slip up.
Like they’re waiting for me to confirm their fears were correct, and I sold my soul to the devil to work in this industry.
It’s fine. I don’t need my family’s support or their money, because I’ve been taking care of myself for more than ten years.
Heck, I have an amazing career. I have great friends who love me just the way I am.
Now, I even have the Glitter Bats again…
but that doesn’t mean I can just abandon everything and pivot.
Dazed, I tug my bag onto my shoulder and head to my car. Inside the garage, I unlock my Prius and settle in the driver’s seat, leaning back against the headrest with a groan.
Part of me regrets bringing in Keeley today. If we hadn’t worked together, we never would have fought. I can’t ever remember fighting with her.
But…I needed her help. She drummed fabulously, because she always does.
While she was in the booth, I could only watch, mesmerized as she played with that charismatic, laser-sharp precision.
Her forearm muscles flexing with concentration as she played a steady rhythm on the snare, her eyes sparkling as she tried something different with the crash during the third run.
Riker was right—I should have called Keeley for help hours before I did.
Days, even. But being in a studio with her made me feel claustrophobic, like I couldn’t get air in my lungs without breathing her in.
She’s got a big personality that always takes up space, but with all that tension focused on me, I felt so on edge.
And then we had to argue.
Maybe I should call her right now, apologize, and tell her what she wants to hear…but I can’t. It wouldn’t be honest. I don’t know how to make her understand that I’m drowning and on the edge of burnout. I can’t be all in on the Glitter Bats stuff the way she wants me to be.
Shaking my head, I order delivery from my favorite noodle place on my phone, then queue up Waitress (Original Broadway Cast Recording) as my soundtrack for the drive home in an attempt to self-soothe.
Getting out of the neighborhood is easy enough, but by the time I hit the freeway, I’m accosted with Friday-night traffic.
I turn Jessie Mueller up, trying to drown out my emotions in showtunes of sugar and butter and flour, even as I can’t stop thinking about how my friend left the studio.
I roll my shoulders and grip the steering wheel with determination.
I can’t think about Keeley right now. We got the track recorded, which is more progress than I would have had without her.
I’ll be able to sit down with some lo mein by eight o’clock, pour a glass of lemonade, and marathon my work on this track until it’s done.
It has to be done before my flight to the con tomorrow afternoon.
It’s not the first time I’ve pulled an all-nighter for this show.
All of those late nights were worth delivering a product I was really proud of back in season one, when we were on a shoestring budget and I was doing so many other jobs on top of composing.
Kyle and the rest of the team offered to bring in a new music producer this season, but I wasn’t ready to put my work in someone else’s hands.
I like working with the team, and I like seeing musicians take risks and find their best sound.
Trevor was an anomaly.
By the time the traffic thins, I’m just reaching my exit, itching to get home and start on the track. My phone rings on the Bluetooth, and I answer it without checking the screen for the identity of the caller.
“This is Jane Mercer,” I say, trying to keep my voice polite and friendly despite my sour mood.
“Jane, I’m surprised I caught you.” My mother’s haughty tone fills the car, and I resist the urge to shrink behind the steering wheel.
She can’t see you. Don’t be ridiculous.
I really, really should have checked the caller ID first. Mom only calls me to give me updates on the family or tell me she’s praying for my soul to be saved from the decisions I’ve made. She thinks it’s a loving thing to say. This conversation is the last thing I need right now.
My jaw tightens, but I do my best to greet her. “Hi, Mom. How are you?” A loaded question, but I ask it anyway, because I know it’s easier than going five rounds before she tells me why she called.
“Oh, I’m over the moon. I have the best news!”
I brace myself, gripping the wheel harder than necessary as I take one of my usual turns. Nothing my mom is excited about can be good. “What’s your news?”
She sighs dreamily. “Nora is engaged!”
I feel the warmth drain from my face. My sister, Nora, is twenty, which, sure, is a year older than I was when I signed a record deal. But she’s just a kid. How is getting married a good thing?
But I don’t ask any of that, because my heart is sinking with a more pressing question…
Why is Mom calling me, and not my own sister?
We’re not exactly close, between the ten-year age difference and the fact that I’m the black sheep of the family.
The only family I really talk to regularly are my cousins from Portland, and even then, it’s just when they’re going to Disney and want to crash at my house.
But my sister and I do text. Sometimes. When I remember to reach out, which hasn’t been happening much with how busy I’ve been over the past year. Crap, maybe I’ve messed that relationship up all on my own.
“Wow,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
Because of course it’s a guy. Mom wouldn’t be excited if it wasn’t a guy.
“Daniel Brady. You remember him, don’t you?”
“Sure do,” I say as I pull on to my street. Of course I remember Daniel Brady. I babysat the pastor’s kids when I was in high school, and Daniel was a handful. Even at nine, he knew how to get away with just about anything.
I can only imagine what he’s like now.
“Wow, that’s really something,” I say, because it’s the only honest thing I can.
“And he’s about to become the worship pastor. Can you imagine? My daughter, a pastor’s wife! What more could a mother want for her child?”