by Zoe Lee
“Say ‘cheese,’” Hank whispered, his cell making loud, fake camera clicks.
“Cheese!” Daisy cried while everyone else just smiled big and real.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Astrid
One month later
“Hello,” Astrid called out, the tray of iced coffees bobbling in one hand while she shut the door to Barley’s guest house and put the alarm code into the panel. No one heard, of course, since the recording studio was closed, insulating sounds from coming or going. But it was a habit to announce her presence since they’d split up and it wasn’t her place anymore.
She slid out of her wedges, dropped her purse and sunglasses on the side table which was already piled high with everyone else’s keys, cells, wallets and sunglasses, and padded across the almost too polished wood floor. It was a cute place, designed like a Mediterranean seaside cottage as dreamt up by a Midwesterner, and in all honesty she liked it better than the main house. There was just a little living room, kitchen and bath down here, with a dormitory-style bedroom upstairs with sharply sloped ceilings and plush bunk beds.
The recording studio was hidden behind the kitchen, as if it were a politely disguised pantry and not a high-quality recording studio. Through the first door were two more doors, one into the sound booth and the other into the recording booth, and as soon as she stepped in, she could hear a little.
With a rap on the sound booth door, Astrid pushed in without waiting, since people came and went all the time and they were used to tuning it out if they were recording.
But the four people sprawled on the leather executive boardroom style chairs were all laughing, a faint scent of pot in the air, not purified out through the air conditioning yet.
“Ms. A!” Barnyard’s longtime manager cried, throwing his arms wide.
Kerri, the band’s favorite producer, and Barley’s PA chorused the greeting, Kerri’s the loudest because Astrid scrunched her nose when her daughter used that nickname. Astrid put down the carrier and dispensed hugs, rocking Kerri, smoothing a hand over her lopsided bun affectionately, then pulled back and gave them each a coffee.
“Damn, woman, do you ever age?” the producer exclaimed.
“I stay out of the sun,” Astrid offered up primly.
“She’s a vampire,” Kerri stage-whispered, then cackled madly, signaling that perhaps the pot smell wasn’t as faint or long-ago as Astrid had thought. “What’s up, Mom?”
Very casually, Astrid shrugged and perched on the corner of one of the desks and told a fraction of the truth, “Brunch the other morning wasn’t nearly enough of all of you.”
“Mmhm,” the manager hummed dubiously.
The producer leaned over to push a button on one of the control boards to turn on the mic so he could talk to everyone on the other side of the glass in the recording booth. “Say hi to Ms. A., idiots,” he said, since the band was huddled in a corner, not suspicious at all.
They all jumped and broke apart almost guiltily at the sudden sound of his voice, but they all broke out into giant grins when they saw her. Barley waved at her to come in.
Astrid threaded her way through the sound booth, the tiny hall, and into the recording booth, thinking that it was a miracle that Barnyard had all of its original members. Barley. Van. Rathbone. MacNamara. Reyes. Five men Astrid had loved and struggled with in different ways for the most formative years of her life, each of them laughably close to an artist archetype. Barley, the self-confident and brash charmer. Van, the silent, broody one. Rathbone, the posh one. MacNamara, the angry, unpredictable one. Reyes, the energetic goofball.
Of course, they were all in their mid-to-late-forties now, so some of that was mellowed out or sharpened, and they’d spent so much time together that it was as if some aspects of their personalities had bled out into everyone else. They knew what everyone else was thinking every second without needing to talk it through anymore. That meant both that they were beyond intuitive and cohesive as performers, but also that there was no way for them to keep secrets or opinions to themselves. They were closer than most brothers, more supportive and more challenging than the best coaches, and not nearly as wild as they’d been. And she loved them all, she realized, flooded with relief as they attacked her.
She’d been the first woman among them, and they squeezed her tight, kissed the side of her head, tickled her ribs and her right asscheek, making her leg kick out reflexively. She ran her hands through their hair, rubbed her cheek over their stubble, took in their smells.
“Ms. A.,” Reyes said, “you’re being clingy. What’s sent you running to us?”
And that, the instant welcome and knowledge of her and support, sent her into tears.
“Ssh, honey,” Barley murmured as they pressed in even tighter, like swaddling a newborn, swamping her in heat and pressure and comfort.
“Whose ass do I need to kick?” Van grumbled.
“Me first,” MacNamara declared.
She hooked her arms around two necks, she didn’t even know whose, and let it out.
After it had gone on long enough that her throat felt like she’d breathed in a bonfire, Rathbone started singing softly into her hair, ‘Pain in My Heart’ by Otis Redding.
Sniffling, she burrowed under Van’s chin, smiling, feeling the tears pooling when her cheeks rose with the movement, and listened to the burr behind his chest of him joining in.
MacNamara and Reyes came in on the chorus, MacNamara’s high and Reyes’s low, MacNamara humming because he was always forgetting lyrics, but never melodies.
Then the intercom popped and Kerri’s sweet-as-pie country debutante voice came in. It only fit in seamlessly because Astrid had heard her sing with them a million times , so it just sounded like love to her. Barley’s voice backed them all up, way too rough for this song.
But they all sang to her, for her, and she closed her eyes and swayed as Otis gave way to one of their songs, a little sweet B-side ditty from their third album that Barley had penned between their exuberant, laughter-filled lovemaking when they’d first tumbled into love.
“All right,” she sighed, “I’m feeling better now.”
“You haven’t done that in years,” Barley countered firmly. “What’s wrong?”
“Well it seems,” she said peevishly, “that all my walls have come tumbling down.”
MacNamara let out a strangled almost-laugh.
Barley pinched her chin and shook it, and she set her mouth in a mulish line, second-guessing why she came here or let herself cry. “Welcome back, then,” he said, his bright eyes sure and supportive. “Stay and help us out with this new track, huh, honey?”
With a nod, the knot dissolved, the musicians to their instruments and Astrid to the old, worn couch she’d sat on the first time she was invited to a rehearsal of one of the hottest rock bands. She’d been rigid and shaking with the thrill. Now she simply stretched out on it, her ankles over one arm, crossed, and dragged one of the pillows under her head, tossing her hands up and over her head until they dangled off the other edge along with her hair. Her eyelids fell shut as Van cleared his throat and Rathbone cracked his knuckles and Barley scraped the mic stand to just the right magical spot on the floor.
It was an opening riff she’d heard a million times, and her lips curled in a loose, gentle smile even before Rathbone struck the first beat on his drums and Barley sucked in a breath.
The new piece was half-formed and rough as hell, and Barley sang the melody even when he hadn’t come up with the right words or lyrics yet. For someone who hadn’t heard it before, it would have been grating. It would sound like he was forgetting the lyrics, or pausing instead of swearing like he was singing his own radio edit of a song with explicit content. The rhythm guitar line wasn’t tight yet, too intricate for what was roughed out for the piano so far.
But the power of it was there, an anthem about regret and anger at one’s younger self. If they hadn’t already been so far into the creative process on it, Astrid
might have thought it was for her, about her, or inspired by her. Striking to the core of her self-doubts, she let out a silent, endless exhale, trying to reclaim the good parts of who she’d been back when. She tried to let go of the choices she’d made that she regretted, trying to be brave enough.
On it went for a few hours, the producer’s voice cutting in with instant feedback before they went back a line or a verse or back to the start to implement a suggestion. Sometimes Kerri’s voice chimed in during pauses, her timing more careful, not wanting to interrupt the flow, but too eager and excited, still, always, to stop herself from offering up her thoughts.
They all loved her like she was their own, and she was the oldest of all of their children collectively, and for some reason, they treated her like she was the baby, their princess. They never scoffed or cut her off, although sometimes they teased her sweetly.
Astrid was home, and she didn’t know what the hell she was going to do now.
Because no matter how beautiful the moment, she couldn’t help but wonder how much better it would be if Seth were there. She couldn’t help but wonder what dynamism he could bring to it all, what he’d do if he were writing the song, or playing the piano, or singing it. She couldn’t help but wonder what he was feeling about her right now, because she couldn’t imagine him angry or bitter or reactionary, but she couldn’t imagine him happy either.
She’d meant every word she said during their lovemaking, in the fight they had before she left Maybelle, and in the article draft she’d sent to Kayla. But she hadn’t had to say it how she did, and she certainly hadn’t had to email those words to Downbeat instead of speaking to Seth directly. Sometimes since then, she had doubted herself and thought that it hadn’t been right to refuse to give him her opinion when he asked. She worried that her fears had overridden her compassion and her feelings for him. God, she’d fucked it all up.
“Fuck,” MacNamara yelled, “that’s it, I need a fucking break!”
“Taco time!” Kerri cried excitedly from the sound booth, unfazed by their tempers.
Astrid laughed and sat up, stretching out her spine and shaking out the pins and needles in her fingers from having her arms over her head for so long. “Rivera’s?” she asked.
“Rivera’s,” Rathbone agreed.
Because it was their studio, they didn’t need to clean up or pack up, so it was only a matter of minutes before they were outside piling into a few cars to go over to Rivera’s, their favorite taqueria. It was normal, a family going out for dinner after a long day of work. It was also not normal, because they had drivers who doubled as security and people came by, stuttering and awed and freaking out, to get pictures and autographs while they ate.
It wasn’t all for them, though; a few always recognized Astrid. Mostly they recognized her as Ms. A., Barley’s ex, but enough recognized her from TV or even as a journalist. Those that knew her as a journalist always made her the most pleased, but she’d never let it show.
Of course, because they’d lived here a long time, people also dropped by just to say hi.
But that afternoon, Hank Hornsby dropped by.
All the guys were on their feet in an instant, grabbing him up in hugs.
“Holy shit, grab a chair, Hank, come on,” Barley ordered happily.
They all dragged their chairs over to make room, and while all the others were grinning, Hank looked a little nervous and Kerri was shooting Astrid worried looks.
“How’s it going, Hank?” Reyes asked, shoving the basket of tortilla chips at him.
“Um, it’s going really well, thanks. But I actually came by to talk to Astrid,” Hank whispered, finally making eye contact with her, fiddling with a silverware roll. Everyone swung to eyeball her, Barley’s narrowed eyes looking more thoughtful because she’d told him things about Hank, Downbeat, and the songwriter. “I—I think Seth is one of the best people I’ve ever met. And he might not be… like this, but he’s good. So good at what he does.”
Astrid’s throat worked for a few seconds. “I think so too.”
“Are you calling us evil, Hank?” Rathbone laughed.
“He’s going to do a weekend of acoustic sets at Local Beats in a couple of months,” Hank went on doggedly. “You should go and give him another chance, Ms. A.”
“New client of yours?” Van asked Hank, frowning. “I thought you’re with Downbeat.”
“I’m talking about Seth Riveau,” Hank told him.
The last thing Astrid expected was for all of them to react to the name. Even though Downbeat had told her that he was a musician’s musician, she’d never imagined the crème de la crème like Barley and all of the others to instantly recognize him by name.
“Wait,” Barley said slowly, turning to Astrid and narrowing his eyes, “he’s the fox?”
Kerri told her father, “I told you that’s who Mom interviewed and who was with Downbeat at Pitchfork. How many songwriters named Seth could there be, Dad?”
“I maybe wasn’t… listening to every single word,” Barley mumbled, going a little red.
“I must have missed something,” Rathbone said, rubbing his chin. “Hank, I’m happy to see you, but why is it that you tracked down Astrid to tell her that Seth Riveau’s good? Everyone knows that. Who would even argue with that?”
Hank fidgeted and explained haltingly, “Astrid… sent the rough draft of an article she wrote to Downbeat’s publicist. We were expecting an article about the band. But, uh, it was an article about Seth, who she interviewed as part of our article. Or, we thought so.”
“Okay, and so what?” MacNamara asked.
“Hank,” Astrid said, trying to sound professional and authoritative even though she was sure they could all hear her poor heart pounding, “we should discuss this privately.”
“We’re going to pretend we never saw it,” he stated, his expression hardening. “That wasn’t written for us and I know you’d never try to publish something like that. Not only does it clearly reveal your… personal bias, but—not to sugarcoat it—you’d piss everyone off.”
Van growled, “Astrid would never write something unprofessional, Hank!”
Hank cracked his knuckles and disagreed uncomfortably, “This draft was…” He didn’t meet Astrid’s eyes this time when he criticized her, but his tone was clear and certain. “It was straight from the heart and there’s power in it, Ms. A., I know it. But you can’t publish that and tear that boy’s heart right on out of his chest and show it to the whole world.”
Astrid’s body went hot and cold with anger, quickly eclipsed by shame and regret.
“Personal bias?” MacNamara burst out into the tense silence.
At that, Hank relaxed back into his seat, suddenly not their sound tech, but a successful manager of a talented, popular band on the rise, and gave Rathbone a lazy smile. “Mmhm.” He ate a chip dripping with spicy salsa infuriatingly slow before continuing, “It was a real positive personal bias until Downbeat asked Seth to rejoin Downbeat and Ms. A. made it clear she wouldn’t be interested in another rockstar. But the kid… you ever seen him?”
“I watched a ton of videos when Mom developed a bias for him,” Kerri chirped.
Astrid wanted to disappear in a puff of smoke like an illusionist.
With a shrug designed to inflame Barley and the other mens’ competitive streaks, Hank explained, “Barnyard is built for sold-out stadium tours and pyrotechnics and it’s badass. But Seth Riveau’s built for one mic and one spotlight, an intimate crowd so close that they could reach out and touch him. He’s not going to waste his talents in stadiums with us.”
“We’re wasting our talents?” Rathbone asked, dangerously polite.
“Come on,” Hank laughed so honestly that everyone but Astrid smiled back at him.
“You’re lucky we know what you mean, Hank,” Reyes grumbled.
“Well, fuck,” Van complained, “now we gotta fucking go to see him.”
“What!” Astrid yelped in horror. “Oh, no. No. No
no no. Absolutely not.”
They all laughed, not unkindly, and Kerri threw her arm around her mom’s shoulders and squeezed her reassuringly. “Maybe it’ll make Seth jealous!” The men all pulled grossed out faces, so Kerri threw shredded lettuce at them. “Don’t be cockblockers for Mom!”
“Do not ever say… that word in front of me again,” Barley groaned.
Now they all laughed at Barley, who glared for a few seconds before breaking.
“I can’t let you all attack him without adult supervision, damn it,” Astrid muttered, knowing she’d have a freak out about it later on, and again when the time came.
“Yes!” Kerri yelled. “I’m sending you an edible arrangement, Hank.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Seth
Two months later
“Sweetie, do you need a shot?” Ambrose, one of the owners of Local Beats, asked, his tone sardonic but his hands comforting as he caught up Seth’s hair, lifting it off his neck.
“No,” Seth hastily declined, hands braced on his knees, contemplating the scuffed toes of his boots and thinking that he needed to add more stretches to his workout routine. “I had a really good friend here with me last night, but she’s working tonight. Sometimes I…”
Ambrose clicked his tongue and shook Seth’s hair, making his head wobble frantically. “Get locked inside your own head? I see that. Tell me a secret, then.” Seth twisted some kind of way until he could make a skeptical face at Ambrose. “Put your mind in another time.”
Seth thought hard, trying to push through the freezing numbness, and explained, “The songs I’ve been writing, the songs I’m playing here… they’re mine. But they’re about her.”
“Congratulations,” Ambrose said in sheer amusement, letting Seth go, “you’re in love.”
