Authors: Bec Linder
God. He had really fucked everything up.
“Okay, so we’re decided,” Rushani said. “I’ll call her this evening.”
Her brown hair had slid through his fingers, smooth as silk. She wasn’t traditionally pretty, not like the leggy models he usually dated, but she had been so bold when she talked to him, her chin tipped up like she was daring him to ignore her, and then she had smiled and become unexpectedly beautiful.
When she had walked in the door that afternoon, her guitar case in hand, O’Connor had heard a roaring noise in his ears. He wasn’t sure she had even recognized him.
“We can’t hire her,” he said.
Rushani looked up from her clipboard and frowned at him. “Why not?”
“I sort of, uh.” He scratched his head. “I hooked up with her at that show I went to last night.”
“Oh my
God
,” James groaned. The front legs of his chair slammed down on the floor. He bent over, head on his knees. “God damn it, O’Connor.”
Rushani frowned. “Well, so what? You’re both adults. Act like professionals.”
Easier said than done. O’Connor wasn’t sure he could tour with her—with Leah, he thought, mentally testing the sound of her name—without doing something stupid. They would be in close proximity day in and day out, playing on stage together, maybe even sleeping on the same bus. Tour affairs were the stuff of legend, and they usually ended badly, and the band couldn’t afford any additional drama. Andrew was already providing more than enough.
“She’s not going to want to work for us after O’Connor loved her and left her,” James said. “Nice work, Romeo.”
“How was I supposed to know?” O’Connor rubbed his face again. “I didn’t love her and leave her. She left
me
. She went home. We didn’t even fuck.” Fingering didn’t count.
“Oh, shit, you
like
her,” James said. “That’s even worse. We’re really screwed.”
“She wasn’t that hot,” Andrew said. “Nice ass. Not a great face.”
O’Connor’s simmering irritation boiled over into anger. “I will fucking kill you,” he said. Andrew was unbearable.
“Ooh, hit a nerve,” Andrew said. “I think you’re right, J-Dog. O’Connor’s crushing hard.”
“Don’t call me that,” James said.
“Why not?” Andrew asked. “Koreans eat dogs, right? It’s fitting.”
James’ chair scraped against the floor as he shoved it backward and stood up. “You are not cute or ironic. Knock it the fuck off before I knock your teeth out.”
“I’m scared,” Andrew sneered, but O’Connor could tell he was at least a little nervous. James was a brawny dude, and he had a temper. He’d punched out a sound guy at Coachella for calling him Kim Jong-un.
“Andrew, once again, you are outnumbered by people who don’t find your casual racism amusing,” Rushani said. “I would really suggest keeping your mouth shut.”
“I’m just joking,” Andrew said, the edge of a whine creeping into his voice.
“You aren’t funny,” O’Connor said. Rushani looked genuinely distressed. James could look after himself, but O’Connor felt pretty protective of Rushani. She reminded him of one of his sisters. And, frankly, he was fed up with Andrew’s constant attempts to be edgy and offend people. O’Connor didn’t think Andrew actually believed any of what he was saying—he just said it to get a reaction.
Andrew subsided, finally, muttering to himself. After a few tense moments, James sat back down. Rushani closed her eyes and opened them again, a long blink.
They were all worn down. Touring was hard and exhausting no matter what, and Andrew’s crisis had all of them on edge. O’Connor couldn’t wait until the tour was over and he could go back home to his condo in Chicago and sleep for about a hundred years. Only two more months to go.
Assuming they all survived the rest of the tour.
All he had ever wanted, ever since he was a child, was to make music. His dream had come true, better and stranger than he could have ever imagined: the screaming fans, the lights shining on his face, the music hot and wild in his veins. And now it was ending, that long dream, crumbling apart in the face of Andrew’s slow collapse.
He would do anything, anything at all, to save the band. To keep making that music.
“I’m tired now,” Andrew said. “I want to go back to the hotel.”
“Soon,” Rushani said. “We have to make this decision. O’Connor, you know she’s the best. We need to hire her. I’m aware that it might be awkward for you. You’re just going to have to suck it up. Sorry.”
“I know,” he said, already dreading the conversation they would need to have.
“And no hooking up on tour,” James said. “I don’t want to deal with that on the bus. Or anywhere.”
“I know,” O’Connor repeated. “I get it, okay? Obviously I wouldn’t have done anything with her if I knew she was going to be our new bassist. We’ll keep it professional.”
“That’s all I ask,” Rushani said. “So we’re all in agreement, then? I’ll call Hakeem, and if he approves, we’ll have her sign the contract tomorrow.” Hakeem was their absentee manager: a good guy and a marketing genius, but happy to leave the day-to-day operations to Rushani, even though it wasn’t really her job.
That was that. Meeting adjourned. Rushani started packing up her bag. Andrew slunk outside to smoke a cigarette. O’Connor rolled his neck, feeling his spine pop. He was tired of this bullshit. He wanted to go find some of the crew and get drunk in someone’s hotel room. He wanted to be gone from L.A. already. Nothing good ever happened in Southern California. The last time they were in L.A., James blew out his left knee trying to impress a girl with what he referred to as his “sweet skateboarding tricks.” He had spent the next two months playing the drums from a wheelchair. The time before that, O’Connor’s grandmother died. He was pretty much convinced that L.A. was cursed.
He shucked his cardigan as he headed for the door, readying himself for the mid-summer heat. Maybe he could take the day tomorrow and go to the beach. Maybe he could learn how to surf. The day after that, they would be on a bus to San Francisco.
James jogged up behind him. “Hey, man, wait a second.” He glanced over his shoulder at Rushani, who was still gathering her things. “Let’s go out into the lobby.”
“Sure,” O’Connor said. He knew what James wanted to talk to him about: keep your mouth shut and your pants zipped up. Completely unnecessary, but it would make James feel better. Bossing people around was his favorite form of stress relief.
The lobby was empty. James shut the door to the audition room behind them and said, “About this girl.”
“Leah,” O’Connor said. “You can say her name. I’m not going to freak out.”
“Is this a new thing for you?” James asked. “You don’t usually… I mean, I’m the last person in the world who would judge you for hooking up with randoms. But you
don’t
. Ever. So I’m just wondering, you know…”
“If I’m going to start pulling an Andrew?” O’Connor asked. He didn’t want to talk about it. “No. It was just a thing. It isn’t a big deal. She’ll be a good bassist. We’ll get along fine. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
She had kissed him, leaning in, fearless.
It wasn’t a big deal.
* * *
The door opened and closed. Luka’s keys landed in the bowl beside the door. Great. He was home just in time to witness Leah’s crushing defeat.
She heard paper rustling—probably Luka sorting the mail. “How’d it go?”
Leah stayed where she had landed, face-down on the sofa. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I can’t hear you when you’re talking to the couch cushions,” Luka said.
“Fine,” Leah said. She sat up. “It was terrible. Okay? Are you happy?”
“Terrible, huh? Did they confiscate your bass on the spot?” Luka rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard you cry wolf about this shit too many times to take you seriously.”
“It wasn’t terrible because of that,” Leah said. “I mean, it probably was. Like, they’re not going to give me the job or anything, but... I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Whatever,” Luka said. “Bryce is coming over for dinner.”
“Okay,” Leah said. That was the first good news she’d had all day. If Bryce was coming over for dinner, that meant Bryce was
cooking
dinner, which meant Leah would get to eat actual food that didn’t come out of a box. Luka could make coffee, scrambled eggs, and instant noodles, and basically nothing else. He was pretty terrible at cooking, and Leah was even worse.
Bryce, on the other hand, was in culinary school. That was what he’d decided to do after their band fell apart, after Corey and everything after; after they’d moved back to L.A. with their tails between their legs, broke and homeless, and started putting their lives back together. “I’m done with the music business,” he said, and registered at Le Cordon Bleu the next day.
That was a good thing that happened. After Corey. Bryce had never liked touring. He seemed a lot happier now.
Everyone seemed happier now, really. Leah was the only one who couldn’t move on from what had happened. Luka was managing a few bands that were starting to get some attention in the local music scene, and Mateo was playing with, like, four or five different bands and teaching lessons on the side, and he seemed happy as a clam.
It was sickening. Leah didn’t understand how they could all just
get over it
so quickly. They spent three years putting everything they had into the band, their blood and guts and sweat, and then it was over, just like that. In a second. And there was no going back.
“Quit moping,” Luka called, busily clattering around in the kitchen. “Can you wash the dishes? I want to take a shower before Bryce shows up.”
“Fine,” Leah said, hauling herself off the couch. Washing the dishes was technically Luka’s job, but whatever. She would do it just this once.
The doorbell rang fifteen minutes later, just as she was stacking the last dish in the drainer. Luka was still in the shower, so Leah dried her hands and went to answer the door.
“Hello, space case,” Bryce drawled, handing her a bottle of wine. “Where’s the kingpin?”
“In the shower,” Leah said. She stood aside to let Bryce in the house. “You could go say hello.”
“I couldn’t! You would be too scandalized.” Bryce grinned at her. “In the mood for anything in particular?” He set down his bag and bee-lined for the kitchen. Leah didn’t even bother telling him to make himself at home anymore; he was there so much that Leah was tempted to make him start paying rent.
She sat on one of the tall stools at the pass-through counter. “I don’t know. Something with cheese in it.”
“Right, comfort food,” Bryce said, nodding. “Luka told me you had a rough day.”
“I’m so glad the news has made its way around the knitting circle,” Leah said sarcastically. “You and Luka are like little old gossiping ladies.”
“Harsh words,” Bryce said. “You need some wine.” He pulled out a glass and filled it almost to the brim, and handed it to Leah. “Drink up.”
Leah sighed and took a sip. It was pretty good wine. Bryce always managed to find the one $10 bottle that tasted like it had been chosen by an expert sommelier. Not that Leah would know the difference. She had cut her teeth on box wine. Usually room temperature box wine.
She sat there and drank her wine and watched Bryce pulling things out of the cabinets. The shower had cut off, and she heard drawers opening and closing in Luka’s bedroom. He’d be out soon. She said, “Will there be dessert?”
“Always, my dear,” Bryce said, and then Luka came down the hallway, damp hair dripping on his T-shirt, and he and Bryce did their disgusting “I haven’t seen you in five hours” reunion ritual, which involved more groping than Leah felt comfortable witnessing. Luka was her
brother
. It was gross.
They were adorable now, all starry-eyed and in love and shit, but Leah had been there to witness the calamitous beginning of their relationship, when Luka spent months insisting that he was completely, 100% heterosexual and sleeping with every woman between the ages of 18 and 50 that he could charm into bed, and Bryce lost more weight than he could afford to lose, and there had been lots of yelling after shows and stony silences in the van.
And then Corey. A fun time all around.
Not.
Whatever. Life went on. And now they were deliriously happy, and served as a constant reminder to Leah that she was utterly, incomparably single and would likely remain so for the foreseeable future.
She would never say anything about it, though. She didn’t want to burst their bubble.
It was nice to see Luka so happy.
Bryce made decadent, over-the-top macaroni and cheese with truffle oil and ciabatta bread crumbs, and molten chocolate lava cake for dessert. Leah drank two huge glasses of wine and watched Bryce and Luka move around the tiny kitchen so easily it seemed like they had some sort of unconscious spatial awareness of each other’s bodies. Luka was the sous chef, or Kitchen Bitch, as he called it. They were an effortless team, Bryce short and stocky, his red hair cropped short, and Luka reaching over him to open one of the upper cabinets. An odd couple. But they fit.