Fudge. I should have checked the caller
ID before I let loose, but no one ever calls in the morning except Neil. “Can
we just forget the last minute and start this call over again, Alan?”
He laughs. “Sure, Chrissie. For you, I’ll forget
every word.”
“Thank you.” My discomposure over making a total
idiot of myself is slightly soothed. I settle back against the seat cushions.
“So why are you calling?”
“I’m recording your song next week. I thought you
might want to be there.”
Fourth out-of-left-field, unexpected comment of
the morning. My nerve tips start to prickle. I’m not sure what I should say.
It’s flattering and risky and too much to dare.
“It is something songwriters sometimes do,
Chrissie. Collaborate on the tracks. I want you to be happy with what I’ve done
with ‘Parts.’”
I roll my eyes. Alan just gave me an out, a way
not to let my careening emotions propel me into doing something stupid. Like
going into a studio with him. Like being within a hundred feet of him. Like
admitting to myself that I want to do both. Friendship from afar, for a
multitude of reasons, is the only safe recourse with Alan. Fuck, what’s wrong
with me that I’m considering doing this?
I run my fingers through my hair. I exhale. “It
means a lot to me that you want me there, but it’s not necessary, Alan. Anything
you do to my song will be brilliant. And getting out of the house is a little
tough for me these days.”
A pause. A laugh. “I didn’t think of that when I
reached for the phone. How are you doing? How is Kaley?”
My pulse ticks up at the way Kaley’s name sounds
on Alan’s voice. “We’re good. Both good. But I’m still pretty much housebound.”
“Nothing is wrong, is it?” Alan sounds alarmed.
“No. It’s just more of a production than it’s
worth to go anywhere since Kaley was born so I don’t do it.”
“Well, then I understand your reluctance to be at
the recording session. Consider being there, Chrissie. I’ll work around your
schedule.”
The way he says that, sweet and kind Alan, kicks
up the temptation into a new hemisphere.
I sit up. “I’ve got to go, Alan. Kaley is
starting to fuss. Thanks again.”
I click off the phone and toss it on the couch. Starting
to fuss? I look down at Kaley sound asleep against me. Lame, Chrissie,
lame. To use the baby-fussing excuse when there is no baby fussing sound in the
room.
~~~
I
pull into Jack’s driveway and park. I stare at the house, telling myself to
turn around and go back to the mountain. I sigh. I’m here. I got dressed and
did my makeup. I’ve got Kaley packed up for a day with Jack. It would be stupid
to turn back now, though I’m still not sure why I woke up this morning with a
change of mind about hearing my song recorded. Creative attachment to the work?
Curiosity over what Alan is going to do with “Parts”? Or maybe it’s realizing
that the correct professional and friendship move is for me to be there? Each
is a reasonable and logical motivation for my flip of decision.
I groan, laying my forehead against the steering
wheel. Why do they sound like excuses to do something that I shouldn’t?
I open the car door and climb out. I unclip
Kaley’s car seat, lift her out in it, and then grab her overly stuffed diaper
bag.
God, I’ve packed for her like I’m leaving for a
week. I shouldn’t be gone more than six, maybe seven hours. It’s one song and
Alan steps into the studio with every track completed in his head before he
ever picks up an instrument. It won’t even be more than one roll of tape. It
will be perfect the first time. Just like it was when we recorded Long and
Hard. God, he is so brilliant.
As I hurry toward the front door with Kaley, I
tell myself that sitting in on the session is about me starting to behave like
a professional and nothing else.
“Sort of a songwriter.”
I scrunch up my nose, remembering my voice
exactly how it sounded when I said that to Jesse. Jesse
ID before I let loose, but no one ever calls in the morning except Neil. “Can
we just forget the last minute and start this call over again, Alan?”
He laughs. “Sure, Chrissie. For you, I’ll forget
every word.”
“Thank you.” My discomposure over making a total
idiot of myself is slightly soothed. I settle back against the seat cushions.
“So why are you calling?”
“I’m recording your song next week. I thought you
might want to be there.”
Fourth out-of-left-field, unexpected comment of
the morning. My nerve tips start to prickle. I’m not sure what I should say.
It’s flattering and risky and too much to dare.
“It is something songwriters sometimes do,
Chrissie. Collaborate on the tracks. I want you to be happy with what I’ve done
with ‘Parts.’”
I roll my eyes. Alan just gave me an out, a way
not to let my careening emotions propel me into doing something stupid. Like
going into a studio with him. Like being within a hundred feet of him. Like
admitting to myself that I want to do both. Friendship from afar, for a
multitude of reasons, is the only safe recourse with Alan. Fuck, what’s wrong
with me that I’m considering doing this?
I run my fingers through my hair. I exhale. “It
means a lot to me that you want me there, but it’s not necessary, Alan. Anything
you do to my song will be brilliant. And getting out of the house is a little
tough for me these days.”
A pause. A laugh. “I didn’t think of that when I
reached for the phone. How are you doing? How is Kaley?”
My pulse ticks up at the way Kaley’s name sounds
on Alan’s voice. “We’re good. Both good. But I’m still pretty much housebound.”
“Nothing is wrong, is it?” Alan sounds alarmed.
“No. It’s just more of a production than it’s
worth to go anywhere since Kaley was born so I don’t do it.”
“Well, then I understand your reluctance to be at
the recording session. Consider being there, Chrissie. I’ll work around your
schedule.”
The way he says that, sweet and kind Alan, kicks
up the temptation into a new hemisphere.
I sit up. “I’ve got to go, Alan. Kaley is
starting to fuss. Thanks again.”
I click off the phone and toss it on the couch. Starting
to fuss? I look down at Kaley sound asleep against me. Lame, Chrissie,
lame. To use the baby-fussing excuse when there is no baby fussing sound in the
room.
~~~
I
pull into Jack’s driveway and park. I stare at the house, telling myself to
turn around and go back to the mountain. I sigh. I’m here. I got dressed and
did my makeup. I’ve got Kaley packed up for a day with Jack. It would be stupid
to turn back now, though I’m still not sure why I woke up this morning with a
change of mind about hearing my song recorded. Creative attachment to the work?
Curiosity over what Alan is going to do with “Parts”? Or maybe it’s realizing
that the correct professional and friendship move is for me to be there? Each
is a reasonable and logical motivation for my flip of decision.
I groan, laying my forehead against the steering
wheel. Why do they sound like excuses to do something that I shouldn’t?
I open the car door and climb out. I unclip
Kaley’s car seat, lift her out in it, and then grab her overly stuffed diaper
bag.
God, I’ve packed for her like I’m leaving for a
week. I shouldn’t be gone more than six, maybe seven hours. It’s one song and
Alan steps into the studio with every track completed in his head before he
ever picks up an instrument. It won’t even be more than one roll of tape. It
will be perfect the first time. Just like it was when we recorded Long and
Hard. God, he is so brilliant.
As I hurry toward the front door with Kaley, I
tell myself that sitting in on the session is about me starting to behave like
a professional and nothing else.
“Sort of a songwriter.”
I scrunch up my nose, remembering my voice
exactly how it sounded when I said that to Jesse. Jesse
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