Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(31)

“Mister Drazen?”

Laurelin’s voice sounded a million miles away.

“What?”

“Are you all right?”

I tore my face from the screen and looked at her. Her brow was knit, and she was packed to go.

“I’m fine.”

“I think I should take your BP again.”

“No, no. I’m fine. Let me walk you out.” I smiled, but I knew no joy reached my eyes. I hustled her to the front door.

“Mister Drazen,” she said when we got there, “really, you need to avoid stress.”

“Stress is part of life. Don’t worry. I’m good.”

She left. I went upstairs and paced. Looked at my watch. Did some math. I couldn’t keep Monica enclosed. I couldn’t keep men from wanting her. She only got more beautiful every day, and men were disgusting creatures who cared for nothing but the daily mounting pressure in their ball sacks.

I trusted her. With every cell in my body, I trusted her. But when I thought about how I’d almost lost her, how she hadn’t been happy and I’d just kept letting shit slide, I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t gone to the studio that day and reasserted myself.

She could be away. She could travel. Her career was necessary to her happiness, and more than anything, I wanted her to be happy.

So why did that picture bother me? We’d reestablished ourselves. I trusted her. She needed to do her job and make her art. What was the problem?

The problem was that we had a disconnect, and that disconnect was me. She’d come back to me fully, but I hadn’t broached my side of the distance. I hadn’t gone to her with an open heart the way she’d come to me.

That was going to change.

chapter 20.

MONICA

The balcony had room for two, maybe three if everyone liked each other. It overlooked a tiny cobblestone street in Chinatown and onto the tops of the beat-down signs in Cantonese. Manhattan had many of the same structures as Los Angeles. They were straight up from the ground at ninety degrees, had corners, straight walls, windows, and roofs. Some buildings were made well and some were sad. But the whole proportion of the place was different. It couldn’t be absorbed by car; it could only be experienced on foot or bike. Then the flower boxes, cornerstones, and cobbled streets took on their natural life.

I had no business being on the balcony off the studio, since Omar and Trudy were smoking and I wasn’t about to even try it.

“It gives me my edge,” Omar said. “Biggest secret in music is how many of us smoke.”

“The other type of smoke, not such a secret,” Trudy said.

She was a guitarist and could smoke her brains out for all I cared. From Omar, well, I admitted to being a little disappointed. I took so much care with my vocal chords. I could tell when there was a forest fire in Flintridge based on how my throat felt.

“Does he do this all the time?” I jerked my head toward the inside, where Hartley had abandoned his drums to throw up last night’s party.

Trudy smashed her cigarette underfoot and blew a cloud carelessly. It landed in my face, and I resisted the urge to wave my hand in front of me.

“Constantly,” she said. “But he never pukes. I think it’s a flu or something.”

“Oh.” I tried to not look more worried than any normal person would. Normal people got the flu and just suffered through it. But I had a husband on immunosuppressants, and a flu could kill him.

“Quentin’s looking for another drummer.” Omar shrugged. “Or Franco can do it.”

“Nope,” Trudy said. “He’s down with it too.”

“What is it? A percussionist’s strain?” I joked.

“All those guys hang out together. It’s like incest without the sex.”

I didn’t know what came over me, but the words shot out of my mouth before I’d even thought about the logistics. “I know one. He can be here tomorrow. He has something today. He’s really good.”

“Do I know him?”

“He’s from LA originally. So probably not. He’s super-hot in indie circles.”

“Not that husband of yours, is it?” Omar smiled a half moon of perfect white piano keys. It was the third time he’d mentioned Jonathan that day, as if he was trying to gauge my reactions.

“The only instrument Jonathan plays is me.”

“That can be good or bad.”

“He’s a maestro, trust me.”

I went inside. I’d wanted to learn from Omar, and he’d taught me a few things, but I was starting to feel as if it all came with a price. Maybe that price was simple flirtation and attention or maybe he expected more, but I was getting irritated with his off-color comments and sultry eyeballing.

Everyone was filing back into the studio. There were fifteen actual musicians. Some kept klatches of preeners and hangers-on. Others traveled alone. Add to that the engineers, press, security, and agents, and the room was as hot as a sweatbox and smelled only ten percent better.

I couldn’t believe there wasn’t a drummer among us, but it was worth a try. I found Quentin in the middle of eating a slab of crunchy fried fish, surrounded by people I didn’t know.

“Hey,” I said, trying to slink into the tiny room unobtrusively and failing.

“Faulkner! Everyone out!” He made shoo-shoo motions with his fingers, and everyone shooed. He closed the door behind them.