7. Jackson
7
jackson
We’ve been in the studio for hours, and all I want to do is get home. Margot got off work over an hour ago, and I had to text her and tell her I have no idea what time I’ll be done.
Margot:
No worries. We’re making tacos. I’ll save you some.
Slipping my phone back in my pocket, I wait for the latest direction from Dave. Now that our days in the studio are numbered, he’s been on a rampage, making sure our next album is nothing short of perfect.
He’s stressed. He’s brought the band up from nothing, and he’s basically done it all himself for the past seven years. Now that things are going well for us, he might be thrilled, but he’s drowning.
We need a manager.
I give him credit for securing the two opening tours on his own, but if we’re ever going to headline ourselves, we need someone who knows what they’re doing. No one has mentioned it—not in front of me, anyway. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to be the one to say something since I’m the newest member, but if this keeps up, I’ll have to talk to Dave.
He’s listening to what feels like our millionth attempt at the tenth track on the album, and when he rips the headphones off his ears and storms back in, I know we’ll have to do it again. This has become the new routine, and I find it a little hard to believe we suddenly suck that much. Dave doesn’t usually talk about his personal life. Hell, he’s supposedly had the same girlfriend for years, but I’ve never met her. Part of me wants to just ask him what the hell is going on, because I don’t think our music is the only thing getting him riled up.
“Fucking trash,” he says with a shake of his head. “Marty, tighten your shit up or I’ll have Jackson record both guitar tracks.”
Rubbing my hand over my face, I try to suppress my groan. “Is that the only reason we haven’t finished this song yet? He sounds fine to me.” I casually lift my hand. “But honestly, I’ll record whatever you want if it means we can all go home.”
Marty glares at me as he gets his guitar ready again. “Shut up, puppy.” He gives Dave a nod. “Take it from the top.”
Even Dave looks disappointed by my response, but at this point, I’m too tired to care. “Take it from the top,” he echoes, and I don’t argue with him.
I just accept that it will be a long night and close my notebook in front of me. There’s no way I can write lyrics—let alone good ones—with Dave like this. I can usually try to get a few thoughts down in between takes, but nothing about our time in the studio today has me feeling creative.
Take after endless take, we work on getting the song exactly how Dave wants it. He can’t even give us the satisfaction of saying he likes it by the time we’re done. He just nods with a reluctant, “Good enough,” and all I want to do is shake him and ask him why the fuck he’s avoiding going home, but that wouldn’t help any of us. Instead, I tell him to have a good night and try to relax my grip on the steering wheel as I drive back to Margot.
When I finally get into Margot’s apartment, it’s almost midnight. I half expect her to be asleep, but she’s curled up on the couch, rewatching Ted Lasso . The only light in the whole apartment comes from the small bulb over the stove and the glow from the TV. Rae must be with Matt unless she already went to bed.
“Hey,” Margot says as she pushes herself up and gets to her feet. She sounds tired. As she walks toward the kitchen, she shakes her hair loose, and I wonder if she was just asleep. She’s wearing lace-trim pink pajama shorts with a matching tank, and after the day I’ve had, the sight of her loosens something inside me that’s been tightly coiled all day.
“Hey, I thought you’d be asleep.” I give her a peck on the cheek and open the fridge for my leftovers. I’m starving.
She smiles, but there’s a twinge of sadness behind it. “I’ll have plenty of time to go to bed early after you leave.”
Her comment is the heavy dose of reality I don’t want.
Four days.
Four more days with her until I’m gone.
“How are you feeling about that?” I ask without thinking. We’ve talked about this, but that was weeks ago. I feel like we’re in a good place now—a place I don’t want to mess up.
She steps in front of me and reaches for the plate of leftovers in the fridge. With a light shrug of her shoulder, she says, “It is what it is.”
As much as I’m disappointed by her answer, I can’t disagree. There’s nothing we can do about being long distance. We just have to give it our best shot and see how it goes. She’s holding back, though. She’s hiding what she’s feeling, and that’s the last thing I want.
The soft clank of her placing the dish in the microwave snaps me from my thoughts .
“Margot.”
She looks over her shoulder at me as she shuts the door and pushes the button. “Jackson.”
She’s being playful because she doesn’t want to talk about this. “How are you feeling about it?” I ask again.
She collapses a little as she turns and leans her back against the kitchen counter. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Running a hand over my face, I say, “Why don’t we start with the truth.”
A slight frown pulls at her lips while she considers me. “Rough day in the studio?”
I raise my eyebrows and blow out a breath. “Yeah.” Keeping my attention fixed on her, I add, “But that’s not why I’m asking you about this. We need to talk about it.” The microwave beeps behind her, and I see the relief she gets from being able to turn away from me. When she hands me the plate, I thank her but don’t eat.
I wait for her to answer.
We look at each other and she sighs. “I don’t know how I feel about it.”
I take a bite because the food smells amazing, and I haven’t eaten since this morning. Plus, it gives her time to say more.
She takes a moment to think before speaking again. “I don’t want you to think I’m not happy about your success. You know how much I want this for you.”
“I know. I would never think that.”
She nods but doesn’t say anything else.
Before taking another bite, I prompt her. “But?”
She takes a breath, her eyes never leaving mine. “But I’m worried.”
I know she is. It’s the slight crease that forms between her brows as she absently chews on her bottom lip. It’s always written plainly on her face, even though she tries to hide it by not saying any of those things out loud. I give her a leveling look. “About?”
She’s rigid, like the thought of saying her deepest fears is paralyzing, and I wonder how long she’s been holding onto them.
“Everything,” she says as she releases a breath. “Drugs, alcohol, girls.” The last word trails off and she drops her gaze.
There it is. The trifecta of vices associated with being in a rock band.
“Hey,” I say, pulling her attention back to me. “You don’t think I’d cheat on you, do you?”
“No.” She shakes her head adamantly, but the way her eyes flick to meet mine at the last minute lets me know she’s not as sure as she sounds.
I stand up straight. “Margot, I would never cheat on you.”
She nods. “I know.” But she looks down at her hands after, and my chest tightens. I don’t know how to reassure her. I don’t know how to take this fear away, because her fear has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the lifestyle she’s imagining in her head.
“Dave has a girlfriend and Brady is practically married. The only one single in the band is Marty, and the only girls willing to give him the time of day have half a brain.”
Peeking up at me through her lashes, she lets out a laugh. Some of the tension in my chest eases, but I know I need to say more.
“And I don’t think the drinking and drugs will be an issue either. I mean, I might get drunk.” I gesture toward her. “But that just means I’ll probably blow up your phone with messages about how much I miss you.”
Her smile broadens, and I start to relax.
I start to convince myself we’ll be okay.
Because I need us to be okay .
Margot’s smile slips, some of that insecurity seeping in through the cracks. “You’re not worried?”
Setting down my plate, I reach for her. “Come here.”
“No, it’s okay. Eat. You’re hungry.”
“You’re more important.”
Her eyes lock on mine, and she takes a step before letting me pull her to me the rest of the way. She wraps her arms around my waist and presses her head against my chest. I hope she’s not about to cry. Resting my chin on top of her head, I squeeze her to me. “You’re more important than all of it, Margot. I’m not going to fuck this up.”
She pulls back to look at me, and I’m relieved her eyes are dry. “Thanks,” she says with a soft smile. Pointing to my plate on the counter, she adds, “Now eat.”
A low chuckle rumbles from my chest as I take my plate and do as she says.