“Nawww, come on, you’re here, reporting on us. You must be a music journalist of some sort. Are you trying to tell me that you don’t have a favorite song? And I don’t mean the one you think your music snob listeners want to hear is your favorite song. I mean the one that when it comes on the car radio, you turn it up and forget all traffic, red lights, pedestrians, and gets you singing and dancing in the street. The one that makes the whole world make sense for just three minutes and completely turns your day-no matter how shitty it was-around. What song is that?”
I know what it is, and she knows I know.
“‘Tainted Love.'” She gives it up, reluctantly.
“By?” I prod her.
“The original, Soft Cell.”
“Good choice. Except that…of course, it’s not the original. The Soft Cell version.”
I can’t see it, but I can picture her, that little furrow of the brow, and how her whole face curls in confusion, not just her forehead. Her lips kinda purse and her eyes dart side to side as her brain churns in her head. It’s adorable.
“Yeah, would you believe Soft Cell’s version of ‘Tainted Love’ is in fact a cover. A rockin’ singer by the name of Gloria Jones actually released the original in the ’60s, way before her time of course. It flopped, giving Soft Cell the chance to give it a second life in the ’80s. So, anyway. In answer to your question…no.
“No what?” she replies.
“No, we won’t ever be much more than a glorified cover band. We don’t really have it in us to compose. A few songs here and there, sure. Like the lovely one you’ve heard recently, the new song on our album, the single ‘Cadence’s Song’ by our man Sebastian over there. But we do have it in us to make melodies and harmonies ours. Breathe our version of life into them. And well, isn’t that what music’s all about? And anyway, since your favorite song ever is actually a cover-it doesn’t really sound like such bad company to me.”
With that, I lean back in my chair and pull the sunglasses back down over my eyes.
Through the tint of my sunglasses and the shadows in the back of the hall, I can’t make out the expressions on her face. But I don’t need to see them to know. She’s biting her tongue, and her eyes-those brilliant blue eyes-are narrowed to paper-thin slits.
And it’s killing me not to jump over the table and run to her. Pull her into my arms and shake her, and ask her where the fuck have you been all these years? Why has it taken you this long to find me?
But I don’t.
The tension in the air is like a vacuum, sucking the breath and speech from everyone in it. All we can hear is the flashing and recharging of camera bulbs.
“Well. Um.” There’s a squeal of the microphone as Hailey’s voice cracks over the speakers, breaking the silence. “It looks like we’re out of time now. Thank you, everyone, for coming. Remember, Chords and Chaos is out next week. If anyone didn’t receive a press pack at the beginning, please come see me at the podium now.”
There’s an immediate din of chair legs scratching on the wooden floor and voices raising into conversation.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
There’s a soft punch on my arm. “Fucking hell, man. You got her,” Sebastian growls gleefully into my ear. I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know he is grinning ear to ear.
I feel the other guys come up around me. But I can’t help staring out into the crowd. I can’t see her, but I can feel her. What the hell am I doing still sitting here? My inner conscience’s question must’ve rung louder than I thought, because there’s a bang on the table and I look up. Marius is staring at me, his hand wet from slamming his open water bottle down to get my attention.
“What the fuck are you doing just sitting here, needle-dick? Get the fuck up and go get her!”
Jez slaps me on the back as his way of agreement and it launches me to my feet.
“Oh, what the fucking hell.”
I leap over the table and down off the stage. Darting between the receding crowd, I make my way to the sole figure standing there in the back of the room. Waiting for me. Her features are becoming clearer as I make my way closer.
Fuck, she looks good. Like time hasn’t bothered her with the pesky business of aging. She’s more beautiful than I even remember. Long chocolate-brown curly locks, her skin like porcelain, framing those blue, blue eyes that tell the world how she’s feeling every minute of every day. I’m kind of annoyed she hasn’t turned into a saggy old cow.
Just as I almost reach her, she turns away.
My heart somersaults and lands in my throat and my feet move just that little bit faster, then skid to a stop, but a little too slow, and I bang against her back. She lurches forward and I grasp her shoulder and spin her around.
“Butter.” I say the name I haven’t let myself conjure for almost a decade.
She looks up at me at the sound of her nickname, and suddenly, it’s only yesterday. Her mouth opens and I wait for the first words we’ve exchanged alone in over eight years.
“Fuck you, Brad.”
Emily
Eight Years Ago
I can hear the metallic rattle of the beat-up car drive up and the banter going on inside it long before it hits the driveway. There are voices rising higher and higher, their speakers always trying to compete to get a word in. There’s a roar of laughter and I imagine Marius has become the butt of someone’s one-liner, probably Jez. Then it quiets. That’s never a good sign. But it doesn’t last long and soon another roar shatters the car windows and echoes down the empty, silent suburban street and up into the cracked windows of the neighborhood.
A car door slams and I lean over to peek out the window and see Brad stumble up the driveway.