There’s a slightly insecure expression in his blue eyes, which is all too familiar because it’s the same insecurity I’m feeling, I’m sure of it. He knows as little as I do about where we stand with each other, and it doesn’t help that we’ve been texting regularly again over the last few days. Texting and being in the same room with each other are two completely different things.
He smiles crookedly, and my stupid heart beats out of time. “Hey, Birdy.”
It’s not fair how my body reacts to the sound of his voice. I get a warm, tingling sensation and the idiotic urge to return his smile.
I clear my throat. “Are you all ready and well-rested?”
“Sure. We went to bed extra early last night, and Willow made us warm milk with honey,” Colin says so dryly that I wonder for a moment if he’s serious.
“Really?”
“It’s true, she did.” Jax taps Easton’s headrest. “Come on, let’s go or we’ll be late.”
Easton glances at me briefly, his lips part... and I want to kiss him. Right here, right now, just like that. It’s not right. I don’t get it. This isn’t what I want. It can’t be. Except... it’s exactly what I want. God, I’m so confused!
I quickly turn and stare out the window. “Let’s go.”
Easton doesn’t say a word. I wish he would say something. Anything. But he’s silent. The van’s engine roars to life, and we leave the parking lot.
***
The Twenty-Seven Hour Studio is in the West End. It’s a small studio that’s technically fully booked out for the next few months, but I am who I am, and I wanted We Are No Saints to be able to record our song here. It’s the studio where Dad recorded his first album twenty years ago, before he and Mom moved to LA.
I didn’t really think about whether it was a good idea to choose this studio, of all places. I just did it. I still think it was a good idea, but one part of me wishes right now that I had given it at least a moment’s thought. I didn’t really think it through, and now here I am, with this hole in my chest that feels way too big. Way too empty, way too dark.
I forgot what it was like, to be in a studio. I’ve forgotten how familiar it all feels, even though I’ve never been to this one before. But just like ballet schools all have their similarities, so do recording studios.
This reminds me a bit of Dad’s little studio in our villa in LA. It’s a cozy room with moss-green walls and scruffy sofas and armchairs. It looks more like a living room than a place to work.
The two recording technicians who are with us today are explaining something to the boys, but I can’t listen. There are too many images in my head. Dad in his studio, a guitar in his hand, big headphones on his ears. I see him at the piano, his fingers dancing quickly and confidently over the keys. His voice filling my ears, the room, my heart.
Hearts can break from time to time
Fragile little souls
Getting smaller, seem to hide
The things you used to know
I don’t remember if his voice really sounded like how I imagine it, because it’s been over six months since I last heard him sing live. Just the thought that I might be remembering it wrong makes everything hurt. My vision blurs, and I pull my phone out of my pocket and lower my head so no one notices. I don’t want Easton to see me crying again just because I can’t help it. It would be unfair.
Coming here was a mistake. A really stupid mistake. I see myself in Dad’s studio at home, sitting in one of the armchairs with my legs tucked under me, reading while he records his songs. Me with my notebook and a pen in my hand, words in my head that need to come out. Thoughts, song lyrics, poems.
Dad coming over to me and reading my lyrics, trying to persuade me to find a melody for them, and me saying no, over and over again. No to the melodies, no to singing, no to my lyrics. No, always no. Now I wish I’d said yes just once.
“Hey, Birdy.” Easton’s voice is very close. He sounds worried. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. Lying is useless. He knows me so well that there’s not even any point in trying. I don’t want to lie to him, anyway. It feels wrong. “No.”
“You’re thinking about your dad.” A statement, not a question.
I nod. “He recorded his first album here,” I explain, my voice sounding hoarse.
“I know,” he says simply. Of course he knows. Why am I even surprised?
“He should be here with you and the band. He would have loved to be here.”
Easton goes silent, knowing that’s not the whole truth. He knows that I need my dad here. Today. Always. He strokes myhand, a hesitant, inquiring touch. I shouldn’t wrap my hand around his; it’s not fair, because I don’t know what I want. But I need his closeness. His fingers between mine, and the short, encouraging squeeze that reassures me that he’s here.