58. Twenty-Three Minutes
Twenty-Three Minutes
Kiri
I’m useless in the studio.
My hands still know what they’re doing. I can lock into Ronan’s kick, find the line beneath Rithy’s guitar, hear when a section is too crowded or a transition needs another bar. But the second we stop playing, my brain leaves the building.
Back to Seattle. Back to Natalia, to every place I touched her and every place I plan to again.
“Again,” the producer says through the talkback.
I lift my bass into position while Ronan taps his sticks together. My phone buzzes on the stool beside me. I don’t look at it. Rithy does. His eyes flick toward the screen, then to me, his mouth twitching.
Ronan notices. “What?”
“I remembered Kiri owes me money.”
“I don’t owe you shit.”
The count comes in before Ronan can ask anything else. I make it through the take, then immediately reach for my phone.
The perfume post is up. Go make yourself useful.
A picture follows. Natalia in front of her mirror, golden hair over one shoulder, lips painted red, holding the bottle near her throat like the entire brand was designed to make me lose concentration. I stare longer than I should.
Rafe glances over from where he’s listening to playback. “Something wrong?”
Rithy coughs into his fist to hide a laugh. I like the post, save it, then send her a message beneath the edge of the console.
you’re wearing that dress when I get back
Maybe I’ll wear nothing instead.
I swallow hard.
“Kiri,” the producer says through the speakers.
I lock the screen. “Yeah?”
“Would you like to participate in the album?”
Ronan grins. “Whoever she is, she better be worth the decline in musicianship.”
My head snaps toward him.
He raises both hands. “I don’t know anything. You’ve just been staring at your phone like a teenager for weeks.”
Rafe barely looks interested. “Can we record before this becomes a sleepover? Kiri's found a groupie to distract him in L.A., news at eleven. Shock of the century.”
I want them to think it’s some random woman. That I’ve finally found a distraction in Los Angeles that I'll forget about when we leave.
Rithy's the only one who knows the truth. Late one night, after everyone else leaves, he follows me out of the studio and into a diner two blocks away. The place is nearly empty, booths covered in cracked red vinyl, fluorescent lights, and coffee strong enough to pretend everything's fine.
Rithy sits across from me stirring sugar into a cup he hasn’t touched.
Rithy leans back. “You know the longer you hide this, the worse it gets.”
“I know.”
Rithy shakes his head. “You can’t keep acting like this is some harmless secret.”
“It’s only been a couple weeks.”
“It’s already more serious than most, no, actually, all except one of your previous relationships. You told me you fucking love her.”
“No, I asked what if I do.”
“You said you'd marry her.”
I drop my fork onto the plate.
“I’m gonna tell them.”
“When?” Rithy drags both hands down his face. “You need to tell Rafe before he finds out some other way.” Rithy’s voice softens. “You’re really serious about her?”
“Yeah.”
“Then don’t keep her hidden so long she starts feeling like something you’re ashamed of.”
I think about Natalia taking my calls behind a closed bedroom door. Muting me whenever Mama walks past. Posting the perfume, clothes, and makeup as though they appeared by coincidence because neither of us can explain why six brands suddenly decided she mattered.
“I’m not ashamed of her. She knows that. I’ll deal with it when I get back to Seattle. When I've had time to think.”
“Before you get caught.”
“Preferably.”
The next week disappears after that, wrapped up in Nat and the next time we'll talk. Phone calls from the studio parking lot. Voice messages sent between meetings. Pictures she takes with every product I arranged, each post sexier than the last as her numbers begin to climb.
I like every single post from my public account when it won’t look suspicious. I send links to people I trust. I make sure the right photographers and stylists see her work without ever telling them why.
The calls get even better at night. They start normally enough. She tells me about Mama rearranging the sewing room after the packages took it over. I tell her Ronan spent six hours trying to change a drum fill no one else could hear. She shows me makeup looks. I play her unfinished bass lines.
Then one of us says something that changes the air. The conversations slow. Voices drop. She tells me what she’s wearing. I tell her what I remember. The calls become breath, heat, and promises neither of us can keep from a thousand miles away.
Every night leaves me wanting her more. Every video call gives me another image to carry into the studio the next morning.
By the final week, I can barely think about landing in Seattle without picturing her climbing into my lap the second I pull up outside her house.
When the plane finally touches down, it’s just after one in the morning.
We'd agreed to meet up the next day but now, in the same city as her, twenty minutes away from her place, I can't stop myself.
I call her before I’ve even made it off the jet bridge.
She answers on the second ring, voice thick with sleep. “Kiri?”
“I landed.”
There’s a rustle on her end, then the sound of her sitting up. “You’re here? What time is it?”
“Late. I’ll pick you up in thirty.”
Silence. Then, “What? No.”
I smile as I follow the signs toward baggage claim.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no. Mama and Tata are asleep. You can't pull up outside my house at one a.m.”
“I’ve been thinking about you nonstop for an entire month.”
I grunt as I lift my bags and head for the exit.
“That doesn't make this less insane.”
I step outside into the cold Seattle night.
“All I’ve thought about is every part of you, all over me.” I lower my voice. “So yes, Nat. I’m coming to get you. Better hurry, I'm already in the shuttle to the car.”
“You're not.”
A door closes behind me as I get in.
“I am.”
I hear movement on her end. Fast now. A drawer opening. Something falling.
“What're you doing?” I ask.
“I’m panicking.”
“You’re getting dressed.”
“Same thing.”
“You can't come to the front door.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Another pause.
Her voice drops. “Where am I supposed to meet you?”
“Corner of your block.”
“In thirty minutes?”
“Twenty-five now. Wear something easy to take off.”
She makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You missed me.”
“I did.”
Something in the way she says it reaches deeper than I expect.
“I missed you too.”
Neither of us says anything.
Then she whispers, “Twenty-three minutes.”
I grin into the night.
“That’s my Kroppy.”