Chapter 143

• I tapped my foot. Studio time was bought by the hour and not cheap, yet Gabby and I were the only ones there. She was at the piano, of course, running her fingers over the keys with her usual brilliance, but it was only therapy, not real practice. Darren’s drums took twenty minutes to set up. The chitchat and apologies would take another fifteen minutes, and I still had to practice some dumb standards for the solo gig at Frontage that night.
• I sat on a wooden bench facing the glass separating the studio from the control room. The room stank of cigarettes and human funk. The soundproofing on the walls and ceiling was foam, porous by necessity, and thus holding cells for germs and odor. Though I thought I’d rubbed away the ache Jonathan had caused, I woke up with it, and a good scrub and an arched back in the shower did nothing to dispel the feel of him. I needed to get to work. Letting this guy under my skin was counterproductive already.
• I whispered, “I’ve got you, under my skin.” Then I groaned the rest of the lyrics like I was in heat. No. But yes. It was a good song. It was missing how I really felt: frustrated and angry. So I belted out the last line of the chorus without Sinatra’s little snappy croon, but a longing, accusatory howl.