Unlike Phoenix, I have no problem owning up to it when I’m in the wrong.
And I was this time.
Slipping back into bed, he grabs the pile of papers and his reading pen off the nightstand.
He scans over the first few lines and from what I gather, they want the album to release at the end of January. Given this tour hasn’t even ended and they still have a European tour after this one, it doesn’t leave a whole lot of recovery time.
Visibly irritated, Phoenix places the pen down. “I can’t concentrate on this shit.”
Since I don’t want him to make the mistake of not reading it and signing the contract Chandler will undoubtedly hand him first thing tomorrow, I grab the packet.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna read it to you.” Digging around the nightstand drawer, I find a pen. “Anything you don’t like or want to follow up on, I’ll mark. This way, you’ll be able to address everything before you sign the contract, okay?”
He gives me a soft nod.
As I read, Phoenix makes comments. A lot of stuff he’s fine with, but some he’s not…like the lack of downtime.
Appearing calmer than he was earlier, he rests his head on my lap. “I’d kill to have a week where I could do nothing but stay in bed and order takeout.”
“You’re allowed to ask for time off, Phoenix.”
I don’t realize I’ve started massaging his scalp with my free hand until he says, “Damn. That feels good.”
Continuing, I flip to the last two pages. “Okay, so it looks like all that’s left is…” Awkward. “Song choices for the album. There are thirteen tracks listed.”
“This should be interesting. Let’s hear them.”
“Well, they want the lead single to be a song called ‘Breathe Dust.’”
Instantly he tenses. “Fuck that. None of us like that song. When the guys and I talked, we agreed the lead single should be ‘Existentialism’ since it’s the strongest and sounds the most like us.”
“Then you guys need to be a united front and tell them that.”
He huffs out a breath. “What are the other songs?”
I rattle off the list. Phoenix stays silent until I reach the end.
“What happened to ‘Don’t Take Your Vitamins’”?
I scan the sheet, but don’t see it. “It’s not listed.”
“That’s bullshit.” He lurches up. “That was our second favorite song. It’s like Vic didn’t hear a fucking word we said.”
There’s an easy solution to this problem. “So why don’t you tell him you want it on the album?”
“Because it’s Vic’s label. Which means what he says goes.”
“It shouldn’t be that way.”
He closes his eyes and sighs. “I know. It’s why Josh was learning production. He was getting good at it, too. We were planning on having a meeting and telling Vic that we wanted him to produce this album because then at least we’d know it would be authentically us, but then…the accident happened, and he died. Now we’re stuck with Vic’s producer again.” An ugly snort leaves him. “We’re no longer Sharp Objects…we’re dull fucking puppets.”
“Well, if you guys band together—pun intended—and threaten to walk, I guarantee Vic will let you have more control.”
“Fat fucking chance. Vic swears he knows best—and his track record proves it since he’s a legend.” Looking defeated, his shoulders sag. “I just wish he’d actually listen to us instead of placating us with his typical, I’ll consider it bullshit.”
“Once again, there’s a resolution—”
“Threatening to quit isn’t an option.”
“Why?”
“Because if Vic calls my bluff, I’ll lose everything, Lennon. Singing and performing a few shitty songs on an album is better than not singing and performing at all.” The fear and desperation in his eyes has my chest clenching. “I’ll die without it.”
I get it.
Sure, I still have a pulse and I’m still breathing.
But vital parts of me are dead.
“I need that magic,” he whispers. “It’s not just the most important thing to me. It’s the only thing.” He breathes in deep. “It stays when everyone else leaves.” The veins in his neck flex as he swallows. “It will never abandon me.”
Like his mom.
My heart compresses so hard it hurts. “I still think it’s worth talking to him. Maybe he can add them as additional songs on the album and then everyone gets what they want.”
Only not really. Because what Phoenix wants is to have both his human and his creative needs taken seriously and implemented...as he should.
“Yeah…maybe.”
A lengthy yawn leaves me as I place the proposal on the nightstand, and I glance at the clock. “It’s four-thirty.” Reaching over, I flick off the light. “We both need to get some sleep.”
A few minutes later, I’m drifting off… but Phoenix isn’t.
His unsteady breathing fills the dark room, and I can feel the tension coursing through him as he grapples with his thoughts.
Assuming his focus is still on his career problems, I murmur, “The worst Vic will say is no, but you won’t know until you ask him.”
“Quinn looks just like my mom,” Phoenix utters unexpectedly.
Shifting, I turn toward him. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling.”
“That’s the thing…I don’t know.” His arm brushes mine. “When someone’s been absent from your life for so long, all you’re left with is this mental picture of them. One you base all your thoughts and emotions off of, because you don’t have anything else.”
He audibly swallows. “And the more time that passes, the more concrete that image becomes.”
Those long fingers reach for mine. “The image I have of my mother is constructed from a seven-year-old boy’s head. And in his head, his mother left him because she needed to save herself. In his head, she wanted to take me with her, but she couldn’t. Maybe because there was no time, or maybe she didn’t want any ties to the man she was terrified of. Maybe she didn’t want the reminder every time she looked at me…or maybe she truly believed my father would kill her for stealing his kid.”
I squeeze his hand when he stops talking, silently urging him on.
“Either way, the seven-year-old boy forgave his mom and made excuses for her because in his head she was perfect and beautiful, and she could do no wrong, but…”
I place my free hand on his chest, right over his heart that’s beating so hard it feels like it’s going to explode.
“But what?” I whisper after a moment passes.
“If Quinn is my sister—and I’m pretty fucking positive she is—then the image I have of her…” A shaky sigh escapes him. “The one I’ve been holding on to is shattered.”
A cold sweat breaks out over his skin and his breathing becomes rickety and shallow, like his lungs are unable to draw in enough air.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” A tremor runs through him. “I don’t know—”