Page 47 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
“The acoustics are completely different from live performances,” Ryder continues, leaning forward in his chair. “Like, in a studio, the microphone picks up everything. Every breath. Every tiny sound your fingers make on the guitar strings.”
What is he talking about? Why is he talking?
“I sneezed once during a take, and the producer made us start over. He was like, ‘That’ll be audible on the final track.’ Like, apparently the label wouldn’t find my allergies professional.”
Why is he rambling?
My chest rises and falls.
I’m breathing.
Four counts in.
Holy crap. I’m breathing. His stupid rambling is helping.
“And the food in studios is always terrible,” Ryder continues. “Like, you’d think with all the money they spend on equipment, they could afford something better than stale donuts and coffee that tastes like…”
Food. Studios. Catering.
Mom and Dad’s catered events. The wedding cake in the back of the van, smeared across the twisted metal. The Henderson wedding that never got their food because my parents died delivering it.
My breathing grows shallow as the panic claws its way back up my throat.
“But anyway, the weirdest part is the cables,” he says, quickly pivoting. “There are so many cables in a recording studio that there’s actually a guy whose only job is cable management.”
Cables?
“Like, that’s his entire career; making sure the right cables go to the right equipment.”
Seriously? Is he talking about cables right now?
“I unplugged a few things, my first time in the studio, and the engineer looked at me like I’d just burned down his house.”
Breathe. Just breathe.
“And don’t get me started on the mixing boards,” Ryder continues. “Some producers guard them like nuclear codes.”
In for four. Hold. Out for four.
“There’s this one guy who literally puts tape around his workstation with ‘do not touch’ written on it. Like, dude, just because we’re in high school doesn’t mean we’re not professionals.”
My breathing slows down. The ridiculous story cuts through my panic.
Ryder tilts his head. “You normal again?”
My breath hitches. Normal? Why would he say that to me? Why is he always such a nasty piece of—
“I had a two-hour meeting about my social media presence,” Ryder blurts. “They want authentic posts, but every post needs pre-approval from three different people. I don’t even want to post at all, so tell me how I’m supposed to be authentic?”
I blow out a breath and watch the tremors in my hands subside.
“They even have opinions about my hair and how I dress.” He blows out a breath. “Like if I change my style, whatever fans we have might revolt.”
I realize I’m actually listening. “Because of your hairstyle? Even if your music doesn’t change?”
Ryder smirks. “Ridiculous, ain’t it?”
Four counts in. Hold for four. Focus on how ridiculous this sounds. Four counts out.
