27. Rocco
ROCCO
I stand in the middle of Bea’s before opening and clap once.
The sound comes back clean. Wood tables, brick wall, glass, the bee painting, the honeycomb tile.
The sight of so many good times. Advice from Aunt Bea.
Lattes late into the night. Stolen kisses in the office.
Now, the coffee shop will play host to a new adventure. I hope.
I hum a low A and walk the line by the windows. The note sits where it should. This room will record. The video that brought Siena to me proves it, but I did the run-through just to make sure I won’t be talking out of my ass to her.
I call Siena from the corner table by the outlet. She picks up on the second ring. “Tell me good news.”
“I have a new plan,” I begin. “Record live at Bea’s.”
She pauses. “What’s the angle?”
“We do it after hours. Small audience. Close mics and room mics. The sound here is perfect. It helps the shop by putting more eyes on it, and the room fits my voice. That was the video you saw—the one that made you contact me. It happened here . Not New York. This is where my soul is. This is where my voice is. It’s the right place for a debut EP. ”
She doesn’t answer right away. “Talk me through logistics.”
“Set the piano by the hex wall. We kill every loud appliance. We bring in baffles and a mobile rig. Fifty chairs. We film some B-roll, for a short doc with information about the coffee shop. That’ll get more interest here and provide context as to why we’re filming here.
We keep the cameras quiet and out of sight.
We cap press at two seats. Ticket proceeds go to the legal fund.
You get a community story and a clean baritone in a room that likes to breathe in the wood.
The sound quality is immaculate, Siena. It’ll work. ”
“I like it. The label will ask about noise ordinances and insurance.”
“I’ll get permits and anything else we need. We have good neighbors. We end by ten, a hard finish to keep on the right terms with them.”
Siena pauses. “I’m looping the label. Give me two minutes.”
I sip water and look at the wall of names. The tiles glow in the morning light. Tom sets out chairs, readying for the day ahead. My phone buzzes again.
“Rocco, meet Reid Donovan,” Siena says. “He runs A&R and special projects for the partner label.”
“Rocco,” Reid says, voice clean and quick. “Siena sent your clip. I like your tone. I like your head. You’re proposing a live EP in a coffee shop for a good cause. We could use that right now.”
“How come?”
Reid doesn’t dance around it. “One of our artists was named in a harassment suit. We settled. The headlines stuck on the label as much as the artist. It’s a bad look for us—people think we bailed them out. We didn’t—the victims deserved a payout.”
“That’s a generous way of looking at it?—”
“Not generosity. It was the right thing to do. Point is, I’m not asking you to carry our water. I’m saying that a project that’s transparent, local, and community-minded helps. If the audio holds, I’m in.”
“It will hold. It held the night of the video. It’ll hold when we do this too.”
“The budget will be tight but doable. We’ll hire a mobile crew. Room and spot mics. We’ll need quiet HVAC, a power plan, and a stage plot. Dates?”
“We have a two-week TRO that gives us a few more days of breathing room,” I explain. “If we keep it inside that window, the story lands right. I can be ready Friday or Saturday night.”
Siena jumps in. “I can get my pianist free on Friday. Coach and prep Tuesday, touch-up Thursday, record Friday.”
“Friday, then.” Reid runs through the logistics. “Doors at six, downbeat at seven thirty, done by ten.”
I picture it full. “Works.” Since controversy is a concern for them, I don’t want to hide this.
“One more thing. I’m being transparent as well, since we’re being open about potential problems. I’m in a polyamorous relationship with three people I’ve known most of my life.
It’s public enough that a bad outlet could try to make it a headline.
If that’s a problem, you need to say so now, and we can cut ties. No harm, no foul.”
Siena is quiet for a beat. Reid, however, doesn’t hesitate. “Consenting adults?”
“Yes. All four of us consent. It’s not a stunt or cheating or anything. Everything is on the table. We’re open with each other.”
“Then it’s a nonissue. We don’t hide it.
We don’t sell it. If asked, we say you keep your private life private and you support your community.
Anyone who tries to make it a scandal misses the point.
” He pauses. “But if rumors swirl, that’s clicks.
So, if you want to hint at anything without confirming it, we can go that route too. ”
Siena adds, “I like that you told us. We’re done with secrets.”
Relief loosens my shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Send me a one-sheet by the end of the day,” Reid says. “Title, concept, set list, tech needs, crew list, permit needs, union flags if any. We’ll get legal to draft location releases and a charity rider.”
“You got it.”
We hang up. I sit there with my phone on the table and let the plan lock into place. Live at Bea’s. People in chairs who know the shop. A label that sees the room as an asset. It fits.
Meg stands behind the counter, reviewing the temp log. She’s always gorgeous, but early morning light suits her best. Makes her peach skin glow against her untamed brown hair.
She catches me staring at her and half smiles. “What is it?”
“You, for the most part. Can’t take my eyes off of you.”
A nervous laugh parts her pretty lips as she blushes. “Stop.”
But I shrug. “Can’t. Just telling the truth. Oh, and I’m doing a live EP here.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Friday if the permits land. Fifty seats. All proceeds to the fight.”
Her eyes go wide. “Here?”
“Here. Siena is in. The label is in. They know about us. It’s not a problem.”
“No New York?”
“Not anytime soon.” I pull around the counter to be closer to her. “I want to be here. With you. For you. You’ve done nothing but support me this whole time, and I want to do the same for you. If you’ll let me.”
A strange look comes over her. “I still remember when you texted about your voice when you got sick. How I made you some chicken soup and brought it right over. How you swore it’d help get you fixed up…
” Her fingers slip into the edge of my shirt’s neckline.
“Do you think my cooking made your voice worse?”
I laugh so hard that it rattles the walls. “No, amor. I do not.”
She breathes a sigh of relief. “I’ve been wondering about that ever since you guys told me about my eggs.”
I kiss her forehead, and she lets me hold her. “It was the virus that ruined my voice. All the doctors said so. Your chicken soup had nothing to do with that.” Not sure I should admit this, but we’re being honest with each other these days… “Besides, I didn’t eat it.”
She pushes back to stare up at me. “You didn’t?”
“Amor, the chicken was pink. Can you blame me for not wanting salmonella on top of everything else?”
Meg snickers. “You mean it’s not supposed to be pink?
“How are you still alive?” I pause. “For that matter, how did the chicken stay pink in hot broth? What kind of wizardry was that?”
Her giggles are the best music. “I mostly eat takeout or whatever you guys cook for me. Everything else is toast. As far as the chicken goes, I was high when you texted me about your voice, freaked out, made soup, and took the bus to your place as soon as I could. There’s no explaining high cooking, Rocco. ”
Shaking my head, I wonder aloud, “Will you let me teach you how to cook, so I don’t have to worry about you if I ever do go to New York?”
“I’d be honored. And speaking of honored…” She glances around, no doubt mentally tallying everything that must be done before Friday. “We’ll make the gig work.”
We block out a map on a notepad. Chairs in rows, a small aisle, a rope by the espresso bar so no one touches anything.
Aqua on the mic as hostess. Tom, at the door with the list. Anthony on signs and the floor plan.
Bex on greenroom food that doesn’t stain.
A volunteer to watch the bathrooms. We set a hard out at ten for the neighbors.
It’s all falling into place.
Siena sets a coach session for the next morning. We work on the new song on Zoom. She fixes one line where I squeeze a consonant. “Let the word open.”
She’s right. I take her advice, and it’s like breathing.
“Let’s talk press,” she says at the end. “We’ll invite two outlets. Rules—no questions about the court beyond the order in the public file. No bedroom questions. We keep it on the music and the room.”
“Perfect.”
I walk the room with John and Oliver for power schematics.
Two dedicated circuits for audio. One for lights.
No espresso during the set. No grinders after five.
We test every outlet. We run a snake path and tape points.
Oliver brings a small distro so we don’t trip a breaker.
We mark the piano corner. We build a small platform out of pallets and a rug to decouple the pedal noise.
The day before the recording, Reid calls.
“You sent us the poly disclosure. Thank you. I’m going to say one sentence here and be done.
We stand by you. If someone tries to pitch a hit piece, we’ll point to our lawyers and to the work you’re doing for your community. Our lawyers handle it after that.”
“Appreciated.”
The way everything is coming together, things start clicking in my head. The rest of the song comes pouring out of me onto the paper. It’s finished before I even realize it. “Honey Light.”
The morning of the show, I carry chairs. I fix a squeak in the back door hinge. I steam my shirt at the shop because I don’t trust the iron at home. I write a set card for the stool and tape it down so I don’t knock it with my knee.
Just because I sing doesn’t mean I can’t do everything else.
Doors at six. People come in quiet like church. It isn’t church. It feels like a room where you learn how to listen. Aqua does five minutes of housekeeping and jokes and then tells everyone to turn off their phones.
The pianist flexes his fingers and nods to me. Aqua gives me the thumbs-up for power. Oliver stands by the back door. Hudson and I meet eyes once, and he taps his chest like breathe . His new mantra. Meg stands by the espresso bar with her hands around a mug she doesn’t drink.
Aqua says my name. I walk to the mic, nod to the room, and sing.
The first piece is one I can sing in my sleep. I keep the vowels long and the consonants clean. I ride the line and don’t add anything smart. It’s good. Sharp.
The second piece is Fauré. The French sits in my mouth fine. I don’t reach. I let the pianissimo be small. It works. “Shenandoah” is third. I keep it simple and don’t turn it into a showpiece. A few people hum one line under their breath and stop. I smile without moving my mouth.
This is the part that’s personal. It takes a moment for me to gather my thoughts. “I wrote this song here because I found my voice here.”
And I begin. I’ve never been much of a songwriter, and maybe the melody only makes sense to me. I don’t look at Meg until the second verse because if I do, I won’t make it to the bridge.
But I do. The last note sits. Silence. Then the room stands without a shout, just bodies up at once, and I feel my knees go weak. I bow once and point at the piano to give the pianist credit where it’s due.
After, we keep it tight. No lines. No meet and greet.
We thank people as they go. When the room is empty, we sit on the floor with the lights low and eat Bex’s honey bars and drink water.
My voice feels like it will still be there in the morning.
It feels better than it did yesterday. It flourishes when I let it be exactly what it is.
Like us.