Chapter Twenty-Six #2
I have to assume that Oliver saw Chris’s email; he seems like the type of person who is on top of those things when it comes to his work.
But for some reason, I can’t bring myself to broach this subject with him when we return to the studio to get in a few hours of work.
It’s easy enough to lie to myself and think that my focus is on the music in front of us.
When we call it a day and Oliver goes downstairs to work out, I have no choice but to be honest with myself.
Chris hates production drama—Rebecca said as much to me two months ago over dinner.
If Chris or any of the producers see Oliver and me at that dinner, what will they think?
If we show up together together, will they be able to look past the fact that we’re doing whatever this is?
Will they be able to separate me, the composer and musician, from him, the one with the connections and history in the industry? Will they want to hire me—just me?
My stomach churns. I know the answer already: No, they won’t.
To add insult to injury, I check my bank account on my phone. The news is not good. All my first-of-the-month bills hit, and I don’t get paid again until we deliver a recorded soundtrack.
Curled up on the couch in the living room, I scroll through the various streaming services on the TV.
I settle on one of my favorite reality dating shows that I’m way behind on since all I’ve done is work and fool around with Oliver for the last several weeks.
The bright colors and loud contestants are a familiar comfort that helps to slow my mental spiral.
“Battle for Love, huh?” Oliver asks when he appears in the living room. His hair is wet from the shower and he’s dressed in a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants. I gulp when I see those slung low on his hips.
“I love this show,” I reply indignantly. “Nothing more romantic that people willing to physically fight each other for someone.”
He smirks as he plops down at the end of the couch near my feet. “Very primitive. Let me guess—that huge guy with the shoulders the size of mountains wins, right?”
“No spoilers!” I toss a throw pillow at him and miss by a wide margin. “I’m not caught up yet.”
“Oh, that short one is a former UFC fighter?” he asks as the show’s plot unfolds. “I bet he wins.”
“You can’t underestimate the quiet ones, either,” I reply. “A scientist won last season. He was really scrappy when it came down to it.”
Oliver barks out a laugh, but I can tell he’s enthralled by the show.
For a while, we sit there and watch it together, with me sneaking glances at him to find him intensely focused.
He’s got a sort of amused expression on his face the entire time, and for the first time, I realize just how lighthearted and funny Oliver can be now that he trusts I won’t misunderstand him.
Those warm tendrils of feeling return, spreading out from my chest, and I have no choice but to admit how happy it makes me that he’s showing an interest in what I like, that we can sit here together and bask in the silliness of it all.
My phone dings on the coffee table. A text from Rebecca lights up my screen. All of a sudden, that pleasant warmth evaporates. Cold trickles down my spine.
Rebecca
btw I did not text Oliver about meeting up in the city before the dinner. Figured it would be more fun if it was just us gals :)
I tap out of the message and pause the show. He looks over at me as I sit up straighter on the couch and tuck my legs under me. My heart races when I clear my throat.
“So, that email from Chris…” I start, but trail off, my confidence already losing steam.
“Yeah, I was thinking about that in the shower,” he replies.
“I think we should aim to record in January, right after the New Year. December will be pushing it, considering how much we have left to do, plus I think we’ll have issues getting the talent in what with holiday concert programming and all that. ”
I’m nodding. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense. What about the other stuff—the post-prod dinner?”
He adjusts his glasses and shrugs. “I don’t know. Might be hard to make it to New York by then. It’s in—what, three weeks?”
“Yeah, something like that,” I reply, as if I don’t have the email committed to memory already.
“I was thinking we could swing it if we finish the rest of the score from the city. We could do the rest of it from my place—or yours, if you’re set up—since most of the heavy lifting is done.
We can get by without the Maine studio.”
He hums as he pulls his lips between his teeth.
“I feel like we should be there,” I add, forcing a lightness into my tone.
“We still have a lot to do,” he muses. “The work has to come first, right?”
Even though his question doesn’t sound accusatory, I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face hearing my own words thrown back at me.
This dinner invitation is work. The harsh reality is that this entire industry is built on relationships—how else am I supposed to build those if I’m not in the room where it happens?
“Right, but Chris is basically our boss,” I manage. I can feel the heat of embarrassment climbing up my neck and cheeks.
“True.” He runs a hand through his hair as he sighs. “He said we didn’t have to RSVP right away. They didn’t even have a date picked out, right? I think we can wait until we see how much progress we make over the next couple of weeks.”
“Okay. Yeah.”
Even though I nod and force myself to settle back into the couch, I can still feel my rapid heartbeat everywhere in my body. Oliver reaches for my feet and starts rubbing them when I resume the show. I’m so wound up that not even a foot massage can relax me.
Somewhere in the middle of our second episode, I text Rebecca back.
Celia
I’ll be there, but don’t tell anyone yet. Still have to figure out logistics.
BLOOM—A SYMPHONY IN THREE PARTS
A coming-of-age story told over the course of three women’s lives, exploring how time and age do not prevent us from rediscovery and joy.
Submission packet for comp competition
Music written and arranged by Celia García
Year Four
December 12