My heart needs to get a grip, how can a voice make its rhythm so completely erratic? “Sure, I—thanks, that would be great.”
There’s a long pause as I wait for him to say . . . something, but nothing comes.
“Uh . . . what should I tell her?” he asks.
Did I not tell him? Oh my god, what is wrong with me? “Yes, I—” But the phone slips through my sweaty palms and hits the floor. I bend down to chase after it but the spiral cord catches the fallen receiver and it bounces back up—hitting me square in the nose. “Fuck!”
“Isabella?” I hear from a distance. My eyes are watering and my nose is throbbing. “Isabella, hey, are you okay?”
I stand, shaking out my hands and letting go of a long breath before lifting the phone back to my ear. “Yes, sorry. I uh—”
“Dropped the phone?” he asks. Somehow I can sense it. The sound of a smile in his voice. Can practically picture it in my head.
Sighing, I nod my head and tenderly touch the bridge of my nose. “Yeah . . .” I mutter.
Even though there’s no noise, I can almost hear him vibrating with laughter.
“Anyway,” I say, continuing on even though my cheeks burn, “I just wanted to let her know that my article about the band—well, I guess, your band, actually—it’s going to be on the front page of next week’s paper.”
There’s a moment of silence, then Dave’s excited voice sounds. “The front page? Izzy, that’s amazing!”
That name again. It cracks open my chest. The tiniest fracture in the walls I’ve built up around myself beginning to form.
“Isabella?”
I close my eyes, realizing I haven’t breathed in almost a minute, and I sharply inhale.
“Hey, are you still there?”
“Yes, I—” Another few deep breaths. “Sorry, yes. I’m still here.”
“Thought I lost you for a minute there,” Dave says. I glance down at the picture in my hand, the one I kept, the one I used to prove I actuallycanwrite, the one Randall convinced me to let them have a copy of for the paper. I wish I didn’t have to share it.
“I hope it helps you guys,” I say into the speaker. “Surely it’ll bring people out to your next show.”
“Yeah.”
There’s a long moment and my brain is spinning, not sure what to say. Should I hang up? Is he still there? I realize I only just called to leave Becks a message, and now I’m wasting his time. But what do I expect? If last night is any indication, he’s not into me the way I wish he were, so why am I grasping the phone like it’s a lifeline? Why am I secretly hoping and praying he’ll confess that he was sad I left, that he wished I had gone home with him last night, that he wants to see me again?
“You know,” he says, breaking the silence, “if we ever manage to score some studio time, you should come and check it out.”
My chest suddenly lightens. “Oh?”
“For a follow-up piece, maybe? You could write an articleabout the process of making an album. People would eat that shit up.”
“Oh.” Not quite the invitation I was hoping for. But it’s an invitation nonetheless. “I’ll have to run it by my editor, but you’re right. It’s a great idea.”
“Bitchin’.”
Another pause. It’s like neither of us wants to hang up . . . or maybe I’m just reading too much into this again, but either way, I find myself saying, “It’s actually thanks to you that the article made the front page.”
“Me?”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “What you told me about why you chose to play music. How it helps you understand people . . .”
He’s quiet, but I can hear him breathing.
“I think it really helped make the article relatable and compelling in a way you don’t normally get. Most people with incredible talent tend to be full of themselves and lose sight of why they’re in the business they’re in,” I ramble on quickly. I don’t even know what I’m saying. “So thank you, is all.”
