Page 17 of Love on the Tracks
“What about ‘yes’ do you not understand?”
He freezes, his dark eyes getting huge and his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as though maybe he’s not thinking about music anymore. He wouldn’t be the only one. But he nods, heading over to the table and picking up the acoustic guitar. When he brings it closer, I can see it’s beat to hell; scratched all over and with a strap that looks like it’s seen better days.
“There’s one more thing you should know before we get started.” He throws the papers down in front of him with a pen. There’s chicken scrawl all over them—how does he even read these himself?—stuff crossed out and circled again, doodles, numbers, and arrows. I force my gaze to his face because there’s clearly something he feels the need to say. “This isn’t . . . It’s not for License to Game.”
The corners of my mouth pull down. “Who else would it be—”
“Me. Just me.”
Zane
Could Rowan look more like I’ve murdered her puppy? It’s my own stupid fault for telling her. Of course she’s upset. She loves LtG, and if she thinks I’m breaking up the band to start a solo career . . . Yeah, I basically ran over her dog.
“Hey, not any time soon, okay? Actually, I’m contractually prohibited from doing any solo stuff any time soon. I’m starting to plan my exit strategy, you know? I’m twenty-six, and you can’t be in a boy band forever. Not without being fucking creepy at any rate. It’s like how you can’t compete at luge forever. So you must have a plan for what you’re going to do when you’re done on the track. You want to be a paramedic. Right?”
I want her to understand, I need her to understand, and I don’t want her to feel betrayed. God, if this is what it’s like telling a girl I’ve only known for less than a week, what is it going to be like telling the guys? Torture. They know, of course, but only in the vaguest terms. Like this is a thing that’s happening . . . someday.
The fans, though, they have no clue. They think we’re going to be around forever. My exit strategy had best involve hiding out in some third world country with no extradition policy for a few years until the statute of limitations on crimes against tween-dom runs out. I am so completely fucked.
“Yeah,” she says. “I get it. I do. You surprised me. I had no idea you were unhappy, that’s all.”
I want to say I’m not, that being a pop star is the greatest gig in the whole world. Because the truth is, in some ways it is. I get to play music for a living, and how many people dream of that? The reality is often different from the dream. Way more paperwork, way more politics, and it’s less about the music and more about the promotion—I’ve gotten jaded. “I’ve loved doing this with my buddies for the past ten years. We never imagined when we were playing in Benji’s basement that we’d ever be here. It can’t last forever, though, and I don’t want to wake up one morning and realize I have nothing left. That I’ve sold my whole life and any talent I ever had, and didn’t keep anything back for myself.”
Rowan nods and licks her lips. “That’s allowed. I’d still love to hear it. If you’re still willing to let me.”
So maybe I overreacted. She’s not angry, she doesn’t hate me, she’s not accusing me of ruining her life. I surprised her, and she understands. And she still wants to hear it.
“You’re sure? Because it’s not going to be pretty.”
“You think the first time I took a run down this track it was anything like what you’re going to see the day after tomorrow?” She shakes her head. “No way. And I promise I won’t tell anyone. Anything. On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You have to put your glasses back on.” The look on Rowan’s face is downright impish; in this moment she looks more like a puckish fairy than a Valkyrie. I like her this way too.
“You drive a hard bargain, Andrews.”
“Not that hard. I could’ve said you have to play naked.” As soon as she’s said the words, she claps her hands over her mouth and mumbles through them. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that.”
Truth is, I’d almost rather do that. I’ve played shirtless I don’t know how many times and sat for magazine shoots with only a sock-like thing to cover my junk. Physical nudity is nothing compared to the vulnerability I’m about to impose upon myself.
For the past ten years, the only people who have heard unfinished work have been my bandmates. The guys can be turds, but they also know when to shut the fuck up, and how to pull and push me through writing new music. We’ve got it down now, and they know all the ugliness. Rowan will be seeing it for the first time, and now she wants me to wear my glasses too?
“Hey, I’m all for no clothes. But if I have to play naked, you have to listen naked.”
She looks at me through her fingers and shakes her head. Her face must be burning up under her hands. Her blush cracks me up. “No. Just your glasses please. You said you need them if you’re going to be reading or writing, and judging from your notes, you’re going to be doing a lot of that.”
She’s right. “Fine. But you promised, no pictures. If this winds up on fan forums, I’ll know where it came from.”
Finally she lets her hands fall away from her face, and holds one out for me to shake. “Deal.”
I try to sit in the chair I was occupying before, but there’s not enough room for my guitar.
“Here, we can trade.” Rowan starts to get up, but I wave her off.
“No, stay. As long as you don’t mind me parking at this end.”
So she scoots over to the end of the couch, tucking her knees up and biting her lip, her eyes lit up like a kid who’s actually managed to wait up and hears Santa coming down the chimney. She looks as though something’s about to explode out of her mouth. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
