August and Everything After by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

Author:Jennifer Salvato Doktorski [Doktorski, Jennifer Salvato]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2018-02-27T05:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-SIX

Later that night, or more like during the wee hours of Saturday morning, I’m lying on the couch wrapped in Malcolm. My insecurities about his aloofness while we were at the studio are fading. We’re half dozing, half watching a movie, and I’m relieved to have him so close and all to myself after spending twelve strange hours in the studio.

Tomorrow will be more of the same. Liam will be recording his guitar parts, Malcolm will do his final vocals, and I’ll try to hold my shit together as I chill with Ricky and wait for my sister and her two friends from chorus to arrive with Auntsie. The cellist, Olivia, is driving herself here.

“I’m scared,” I say softly.

“Of?” Malcolm whispers back.

Everything?

“Recording tomorrow.”

“Don’t be. You’re holding your own so far, and the arrangement you worked out for ‘That Last Night’ is awesome. We’ve got time to do a couple of takes and after that, Ricky can fix whatever’s not perfect.”

“Wouldn’t it be great if we all had producers in real life? Someone to smooth out our rough edges and imperfections, make us better?”

“The studio isn’t real life.”

I’m happy to hear him say that, because I don’t like the dynamics between us when we’re there. Here, I feel safe, secure, like the bad stuff that’s already happened and any future disasters that await can’t touch us. In the studio, I was constantly on edge, teetering between greatness and complete disaster. In the final analysis, I’d gladly give up greatness for the predictability of this couch.

Malcolm continues talking about producers. “Anyway, I like rough edges and imperfections. It’s what makes a person interesting. It’s what makes a guy walk into a bar on a random night, see a girl with a book and ugly glasses and think, Now there’s a girl I could fall I love with.”

My body freezes. It’s like Malcolm dropped a verbal orangutan into the quarter inch space between us. I sense him (Malcolm, not the orangutan) waiting for response. I turn over and lay one hand on his cheek, then give his whiskers a little tug.

“You think my glasses are ugly?”

He nods. “But your eyes are beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

The way he looks at me, it’s almost more than I can take. I feel naked, exposed, unworthy of his undivided attention. I bite my lip to keep from looking away and lay my forehead against his.

“I want to go with you,” I blurt out.

He’s confused at first, then smiles. “You’re serious?” Is he shocked or hopeful by my non sequitur? Should I have said something about love?

“I’m serious. I want to go with you on tour, even if it’s not as your drummer. I can be your manager, your roadie, your groupie—”

Malcolm kisses me slow and deep. I arch my back and wrap my arms around his neck.

“Save the sales pitch, Cat’s Eye,” he says when we separate. “You’re in. You. Me. Twenty-three clubs in twelve weeks.”

I’m in. I pause for a second, waiting to regret making a life-altering decision in the time it takes most people to select a latte flavor.

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