After we say goodbye, I put away my things and head for the shower, running through my mental to-do list. I’ll schedule an appointment at the salon later. Because before I worry about what I look like, I need to make sure I actually have enough songs to sing.
Chapter Twenty-One
Colt
We spend the next three weeks working so hard that I almost don’t even notice Alexis’s lack of clothes when we’re at home. After over a month of this, I’d honestly be more shocked if she came out of the bedroom fully dressed. Nope, we eat, sleep, and live in the same uniform day after day, only changing for the odd excursion and after showers, which we both do daily.
The rest of the time is spent breathing music. Writing it, rehearsing it, recording it, listening to it. Until we both know all the songs forward and backward and could perform them in our sleep.
“What about choreography?” I ask at one point about a week before the show.
She giggles. Looks at me. Then laughs even harder, her giggles turning into guffaws. “Oh, honey, we’re not a boy band.”
I give her my best disgruntled look, but secretly I’m fighting back my own laughter. Hers is just so contagious. “I know that. But you did choreography with your band too. It’s not ridiculous.”
Still spluttering occasionally, she seems to actually consider the question, then shakes her head. “I’m no good at coming up with choreography. Are you?”
“Uhh …” I think back to my brothers mocking me for my suggestions back when we were kids. That was over ten years ago, of course, but it’s not like I’ve practiced coming up with anything since then. And we had professionals handling that for us when we were touring.
“That’s what I thought.” She pats my arm, the touch of her hand electric. “We won’t worry about it. This is a stripped-down set at an intimate venue. No one expects choreography at these things anyway. We don’t have time, even if we wanted to do it.”
“Which we don’t,” I state.
“Which we don’t,” she confirms.
As the performance date draws closer, my nerves ramp up until I’m so jittery I can’t sit still, and I spend half my time running when I’m not rehearsing, needing to work out my nervous energy somehow.
I come back from my run two days before the performance to find Alexis eyeing me, fresh from the salon with her trimmed and a little darker blonde than before. But she’s not giving me the behold the sweaty specimen of male beauty in my apartment kind of look that I’m used to. It’s more of a, Uh oh, is Colt cracking up? kind of look.
Sucking down a water bottle, my chest still heaving as my breathing and heart rate slow, I eye her back in the same way. “What?”
She shakes her head, her feet curled under her on the couch, the scarf she wears when she doesn’t feel like doing her hair tied around her head, wearing a black tank and bright purple booty shorts. She taps her pen on the notebook balanced on her legs. “You’ve been running a lot.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yeah.” I have been. That’s not exactly news. I lift the bottom of my shirt and wipe the sweat off my forehead. Alexis’s eyes flare wide, which is funny, because it’s not like she hasn’t seen my abs before.
When her pink lips part, I’m expecting a comment on my body. But what she says isn’t what I expect. “You’re losing weight.”
Holding up my shirt, I look down at my abs and flex, ignoring the strangled sound Alexis makes. I’m not even sure she realizes she did that. Huh. She’s right. My abs are more cut. I’ve been doing more cardio and haven’t upped my calories to take that into account.
Dropping my shirt, I meet her eyes. “So are you.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “You didn’t need to lose anything, though.”
With a shrug, I stroll into the kitchen to refill my water bottle. “You didn’t either,” I call back over the sound of the faucet.
“Colt,” she warns. “We’ve discussed this.”
“Oh, so you get to be concerned about me losing weight, which I’ve only done by increasing my activity level, and I’m not showing signs of overtraining, so I’m clearly okay. But when you starve yourself to meet a moving goal post, I don’t get to be concerned? That’s how we’re playing this?”
I lean in the kitchen doorway awaiting her response, but the look on her face has me reconsidering my stance. Just a little.
She looks murderous. “Yes,” she spits. “That’s exactly how we’re going to play this. Because you and I both know that the standards for women are way different than the standards for men. I have to be hot and skinny and perfect twenty-four seven or I become a thing of the past. Since I’m already on my way there, I have to work extra hard to take myself seriously. And once I get signed and start working on a new album, I’ll have to completely reinvent myself. Because haven’t you noticed? Female artists reinvent themselves every few years if they want to stay on top. But even with that, I have to fit the standard. I can’t just eat whatever I want and wear whatever I want and look however I want. Not when I’m climbing out of a hole I didn’t even create.”
I let out a slow breath, taking my time to process everything she’s said. Finally, I nod. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Our situations aren’t the same.” And once again I bite my tongue on the rest of what I want to say. I want to tell her that Charlotte James faces the same pressures, but she still maintains a healthy weight and a healthy diet. I want to tell her that building muscle mass will allow her to eat more calories while still looking fit and thin. I want to tell her that I care about her and I don’t like watching her look longingly at my salad dressing or cheese or fucking bread because she’s cut out processed carbs and most fats.
But I can’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to do.
Her face relaxes and the tension drains out of her shoulders. “Thank you,” she says quietly, her attention back on her notebook.
“What are you working on?” I ask, looking for a neutral subject change.
She shrugs one shoulder. “Another song. Just the lyrics and some chord ideas. I didn’t feel like getting out my guitar. Obviously it won’t be ready for tomorrow. But the words were there, so I wanted to capture them before they left.”
“That’s great.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it again and shakes her head, her brows drawn together and a little of her tension back in the way her shoulders creep closer to her ears.
“What is it?” I prompt. “You were about to say something. What?”
She glances at me and looks away again, offering another shrug. “I don’t … I mean, I’m not trying to criticize. I’m just wondering … are you worried? About tomorrow, I mean? Is that why you’re running so much?”
Letting out another sigh, I drop into one of the dining chairs. “Is it that obvious?” I give her a lopsided smile to show I’m not upset about the question. I work out regularly, but running like this isn’t part of my usual routine, and it’s not surprising that Alexis noticed. And I’m sure there are other tells that I’m really just a big ball of nerves.