Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(84)

She probably isn’t wrong. But there are a few other questions to answer first. And one of them is about five doors past the door to Silas’s apartment. I pull out the keycard that Heidi slipped me this morning, and I let myself and Sarah into the nearly empty space.

“Wow,” Sarah breathes. “Nice place.”

“Isn’t it pretty?” I’ve already spent a fair amount of time staring at the realtor’s photographs and squinting at the floor plan, trying to imagine my life in this space.

It was surprisingly easy to do that, and it’s even better in person. Golden light bounces off the exposed bricks and the honeyed wood floors. Big windows show Brooklyn to its best advantage.

“That kitchen,” Sarah says with a sigh.

“I know!” I turn around and admire the sleek cabinets and high-tech faucet. “It almost makes me want to learn to cook. Do you cook?”

“Nope. I’m terrible. That’s what takeout is for.”

We both laugh.

“Okay,” I say. “So here’s my question. I’ve never had to build a home studio before. My L.A. studio was already done up when I rented the place. And even so, I’ve never recorded anything there that needed to sound great. So how do musicians do this in New York? Like, what if I buy this apartment, and it’s an acoustic disaster?”

Sarah walks slowly across the space and peers into the bedrooms, one at a time. “Okay, in the first place, New York makes every musician a little bit crazy. I mean, it’s the best place and the worst place in the world to be a musician. It’s a great music town. But it’s pricey as shit.”

“So every musician has this problem?”

“Yup. And every apartment is potentially an acoustic disaster. You can’t control everything. What if a tap dancer moves in above you?”

We both lift our chins and look up at the high plaster ceiling, as if there was something to be learned up there.

“The thing is, though, if you have a little money, you can solve any acoustical problem. It’s really just about how you want to live in this space. You could hire somebody to cover over every surface of one of these bedrooms, and truly soundproof the whole place. But that seems like a shame, right? It’s so attractive the way it is.”

“Yeah.”

“If it was me, I’d turn one room into an office-slash-composing space. And leave it looking like this. Then I’d install a prebuilt booth for those moments when you really need a good take.”

“What do you mean?”

Her eyebrows disappear behind her glasses’ frames. “Oh my gosh, let me show you. I look at these websites the way some people look at expensive shoes…” She taps her phone a few times and then hands it to me.

There’s a photo of another beautiful apartment. In the corner, there’s a bright orange recording booth—like an oversized phone booth with a handsome man playing a saxophone inside of it. “Oh. And these work?”

“They’re amazing. But they’re not cheap. I’d spend the money, but I don’t own my apartment so…” She shrugs. “You can buy a really small one if you don’t want to give up much of the room. Or some of them fit two or three musicians, if you want to work that way. See?”

The next photo is another stunning living space with a recording booth right off the kitchen. “Wow, okay.” Maybe this isn’t as complicated as I thought.

“How have you never seen this before? People have them in L.A.”

“I told you I’m kind of a hermit, Sarah.”

“And I thought you were exaggerating.” She takes her phone back and taps the screen. “I’m sending you the link. But there are two or three companies who make these. I have mine all spec’ed out, of course, the way some people price out cars. It’s a two-seater in lime green.” Her smile is adorable.

“Thank you. I appreciate the help.”

“Anytime!”

She leaves a few minutes later. But I don’t. I spend a nice long time strolling around in the empty rooms, thinking.





Silas





At about six o’clock I shoot a text to Delilah. We’re going to watch some film, and I’ll be home by seven thirty. What do you want to do about dinner?

She replies immediately. Takeout! I’ll handle it if you tell me what you want. And it’s okay if you say pizza again. I won’t judge.

I laugh out loud. A week in Brooklyn, and she already knows which things my friends give me crap about. My pizza addiction and my musical habits. Although they don’t tease me about listening to Delilah’s music anymore now that they understand why I was her superfan.

Pizza, though. It’s still a problem. Since you brought it up, pizza sounds great. I’m in the mood for a meatball pie.

Will do! See you at 7:30!

I’m the first guy out of the video room when our session is over. They guys will give me some shit about that, too. I don’t care, because I get home right on time. But when I arrive at my apartment door, there’s a sticky note on it.

I remove the sticky note and just stare at it for a second. Silas—I’m in 309. That’s Dave’s apartment—the empty one. I’ve managed not to bring it up again—not since that one time I sent her the photograph. She’s been enjoying herself this week, and I wasn’t about to ruin it by pressuring her to stay.