Days 19 through 22 (NO REALLY I'M TRYING I BLAME HOLIDAYS)

Andrew (cont.):

I went to work newly caffeinated and inspired. It was amazing. Compared to the weekend and Monday, it was like someone had dumped a bucket of golden ink over my head and I could no longer do wrong when it came to composing. With some idea of who I was composing for – if all else failed, I could have Thomas do vocals and bass; I still had Rhiannon in my head as guitarist and vocals; I was going to do my absolute best to convince Cale to sign on for keyboards; and Chris, the session drummer, definitely showed promise – it felt like everything in my head was flowing onto the computer screen effortlessly. I knew what I wanted, and I knew how to write it so that they would know it, too. It was one of those moments of magic that make the sometimes boring work in the sound room completely worth it.

Morgan came down a little after noon. I didn’t notice her for a while, intent as I was upon my computer. I’d just finished the midi file for one of the songs, and while it didn’t sound anywhere near as good as the song sounded in my head, it was good enough to give others an idea of what I was aiming for. I unplugged my headphones from the jack and leaned back in my chair to listen to it over the speakers. It was loud, rhythmic and fast, an angry song that I’d started a while back, when I’d been having some money problems, and that I’d picked up again over the weekend when I was worried about Nathan. I’d finished it then, but hadn’t bothered to fine tune anything until today. I’ll admit, it sounded good.

Once it finished, I grinned, and spun my chair around, eyes still closed. That was a bad idea, because when Morgan started clapping from the doorway, I nearly fell out.

After regaining my balance and halting my spin, I looked up at her and said, “Hey.”

“Who’s that for?” she asked, coming in and leaning up against a bank of speakers. “Because the band that gets it should be prepared to start becoming popular. Does it have words?”

“That’s just something I’m working on for a concept album,” I said, hedging a little. “It’s not really for anyone specifically. And yeah, it has lyrics, but I didn’t have anyone to sing them for me.”

“Wait. You did all of that?” she asked.

“Yes?” I said. I will completely admit that Morgan still scared the crap out of me when she was in Scary Work Lady mode.

She gave me a speculative look. “Do you have an entire album like that?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “The album is sort of a rock opera – there’s a common tale told by all the songs, but they’re not all the same tone, or even same genre, really.”

“Show me,” she said, imperiously.  “Sing the lyrics, too, if you would.”

Meekly, I obeyed. I played the angry song again, and then I went to the keyboard and played a lullaby, a first love song, and a break-up song for her. She sat and listened to them quietly, like she was thinking hard. I was a bit paranoid, but by the end of the lullaby, I was so immersed in the music that I no longer cared. This was what I did, and if someone didn’t like it, I’d find someone else who did. My music was my life, and I’d figure out a way to make it work.

After I finished the final song, she sat there for a couple seconds, while I slowly regained awareness of my surroundings enough to fidget awkwardly while I waited. Then she shook herself and looked at me. “Are you planning on recording this album yourself?” she asked.

“Well, I was planning on putting together a band to –“ I said, but she cut me off.

“Do it. If anyone objects, you have my full approval, and if you need extra funds to work it out I’ll allocate them to you.” She stood up. “Also, give me one of the first albums recorded. I want to hear it when it’s finished.”

I stared at her. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” She shook her head. “Honestly, I haven’t heard anything with this much potential in… years.”

“Thank you,” I said, a little dazed. “Um. Was there a reason that you came down to see me originally?”

“Oh, right,” she said, slipping out of Scary Corporate mode and back into normal Morgan mode. “I just wanted to thank you for hanging with me on Saturday. Not a lot of guys would have done that for someone they barely knew, or for a man they didn’t like.”

“You were in trouble,” I said, with a shrug. “I couldn’t have just left you there by yourself.”

“Yes, you could have,” she said. “But you didn’t. That’s something special. Sorry I took up your time, I should probably go back and do my own work.”

“Alright,” I said. I watched her leave, closing the door gently behind her, and then went back to my computer. I had yet more stuff to do, now.

Nathan:

I spent the three days after I got out of the hospital alternately lying in bed and suffering from the worst hangover/general exhaustion/full body pain that I’d ever experienced, and trying to power through said pain to get all the work I was undoubtedly letting pile up sent to me so I could do it. It never worked. Morgan, being the semi-omnipotent harridan that she was, had turned all my employees against me, and none of them would so much as email me a summary of what happened that day. It was awful.

By Wednesday, though, I’d given in, because the people I’d emailed, phoned, and occasionally texted had started giving me a single word in response, different every time. I got through five people before I realized that somehow, for whatever reason, Morgan was having them tell me, a single word at a time, “Morgan says you need to” something or other. 

I called her, then, and she said, “Relax,” when she picking up.

“I hate you so much,” I said. “So much.”

“It’s for your own good,” she told me. “You need to rest, you need to sleep, and you need to relax, because otherwise you’re going to give yourself a heart attack at age thirty and Uncle is going to be pissed at me.”

I cringed on the other side of the phone at the mention of my father. I hadn’t had any contact with him since Friday night, which was probably not a good thing. I could only imagine what his reaction had been when he found out his only child and heir had gotten himself thoroughly shit-faced and hospitalized. Morgan, whom I’m sure has installed cameras in my house just so she can appearing wise and all-knowing at every possible moment, said, “By the way, you might want to call Uncle. I haven’t talked to him since I emailed him that you were fine. Putting it off is only going to make it worse.”

I hung up on her. She deserved it. I lay back on my couch, which for something so expensive was not as comfortable as it should have been, and stared at the ceiling. Dammit, she was right. And putting it off longer was going to only exacerbate matters. Feeling a leaden weight of dread settle in my stomach, I picked up my phone again and dialed my father.

It rang once, twice, thrice, and I was about to hang up when the phone was picked up and a smooth female voice said, “Hello, this is the Harding residence, I’m Becky, how may I direct your call?”

“This is Nathan Harding, Mr. Harding’s son,” I said. “Could you connect me to him?”

“Indeed, just a moment,” she said, and there was a click and thunderous classical music began to play. I knew that my father was strong on formality, but honestly. A secretary at home was just unnecessary. 

After the longest piece of Rachmaninoff music I'd ever endured - perhaps to scare off the undisciplined? - he finally picked up. "Nathan?"

"Hi, dad," I said. I sounded pathetic and scared. I thumped the back of my head against the arm of the couch, gently. 

"I heard you got in some trouble over the weekend," he said. He made it sound like I'd gotten in a fender-bender or something, not what had happened.

"A bit, yeah," I said. Whenever I talked to my father, I reverted to childhood speech patterns and such, and it made me sound undignified. I hated it. There was a reason I tried to avoid talking to him.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asked. "Remember to eat up - even a day or two of hospital food can leave you the worse for wear if you don't make up for it later."

"I've been eating, dad," I said. "I'm honestly mostly well again. I'd be back at work if Morgan weren't being a pain."

"She's right, you know," he said. "You need to rest occasionally. Well, I'm glad you called - I'm working on some proposals from the town council right now, a bit busy. We should talk later though. Bye, son." And he hung up.

I took the phone away from my ear and just looked at it. He hadn't yelled. That was good, I supposed. But he had barely even cared. He'd sounded, the entire time, like I was just another responsibility, and that talking to me on the phone was an obligation to be fulfilled as quickly and painlessly as possible. Shit.

I pressed my fingertips against my eyes, then scrubbed my face. I might have preferred him yelling, to be completely honest. At least that would have been some indicator that he cared what I was doing. As it was, I knew that he honestly didn't give a flying rat's ass.

I called Morgan again. She didn't answer - unsurprising, considering it was the middle of the day, and she, lucky woman, was actually at work. I left a message, though. "You know, as much as I dislike you, I honestly might hate him more. That call was a bad idea. Thanks for that." Then I hung up and went back to bed.

Andrew:

I got two more midi files finished and the opening score for some Sundance Festival wannabe drafted that day. I powered through them like nobody's busniess, and I was beginning to consider paying someone to give me good news on an hourly basis just to keep up my production level, that's how much I was doing. I stayed late, until about six, just because I didn't want to interrupt my flow. When I realized it would be a good idea to maybe go home eventually, I was still too energized to just go home. So instead, I texted Tammy and Cale and told them to meet me at yet another local bar, for a 'young artists night' (capitalization theirs).

Tammy texted back /would love to, but cant, have to close up. be there in an hour?/

/sure/ I replied. /see you there./

Cale's response, which came a bit later, said /sure, be there in 20/

I could deal with forty minutes with just Cale, I decided, as long as Thomas was correct and he wasn't going to shank me unexpectedly or anything. On that note, I also texted Thomas and Grace. It never hurt to have an extra layer of protection between yourself and unexpected shankings. 

We met up outside the bar at about seven. Of course, as Grace went, so did Jim, which I'd sort of been expecting. The five of us wandered through the half empty seating area and found a booth that looked like it could fit Tammy, too, once she showed up. Thomas even did me the favor of sliding in next to me, to, again, prevent unnecessary shankings. Cale didn't look too hot, and I was becoming more and more paranoid that it was because of Tammy. I knew that look. Once or twice in college, I'd had that look. It was the, 'Oh god, the obvious love of my life, for whatever reason, doesn't like me. Woe is me,' look. He, at least, wore it with some dignity and did his best to hide it. He was a truly good man, far better than I had been when I'd felt abandoned.

I spent most of the next half hour talking with Grace and Thomas, pointing out women for him to pay attention to. Cale just was not talking a lot, and Jim seemed content to hold hands with Grace under the table and watch what was going on. 

"Ooh," Grace said, pointing at one of the women coming in the door. "Hippie. Has crystals hanging from her ceiling, regularly realigns her chakra, and believes hemp is the One True Fiber." Said hippie ended up walking towards and then past us. We watched her covertly as she walked by, blonde dreads swinging gently, a hint of patchouli hanging on the air even once she was gone.

"Not a chance in hell," Thomas said, firmly, once she was out of earshot in the slowly filling room. "I'm not nearly good enough at yoga."

"She probably is amazing at it, though," I said. "Just think. And she could teach you, too."

"That's what I'm afraid of," he said. "There are certain directions that I refuse to be able to move in."

"Scaredy-cat," Grace said, teasingly. I was still a little shocked at how quickly her hero-worship of him had disappeared once Jim stepped onto the scene. Now she was just acting like a little sister to him. 

"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread," he said. "And that's why fools often end up dead."

"Isn't that a lyric from one of your songs?" I asked, suspiciously.

"One, you should know that, as my best friend and former producer," he said. "Two, so sue me for using a good line that I came up with."

Cale stood up and started edging out of the booth, almost having to climb over Grace and Jim to do so. Grace, leaning around his torso, said, "You honestly think you were the first person to ever come up with that couplet?"

"Hey, could I talk to you for a minute?" Cale asked me. My fears of death by stabbing were suddenly revived full force. I sent a pleading look towards Thomas, but he completely ignored me in favor of arguing for the originality of whatever it was he'd said. Some bodyguard he was.

"Sure," I said, smiling a little uneasily. "What about?"

"You probably know what," was all he said. My mind was not eased.

He led me outside, out in front of the bar, just off to the side, where we wouldn't be in the way of incoming customers. That was a small blessing, because if he'd have started going towards an alley, then I would have run away, bravery and trust be damned. I liked my blood. I wanted to keep it inside me, where it belonged. 

"So," he said. "About that signing deal." And I nearly collapsed from relief. He kept going, saying, "I've thought it over, and sure, I'll do it. I'd like to have some say over what I play and sing, though - I won't do whatever random pop crap gets thrown at me, okay?"

I was parallel-processing relief and elation now, and the small portion of my brain left over dealt with translating what he'd just said into 'He wants what you were going to give him anyway! Hurrah!' and telling him, "Of course, that's standard. I don't do pop crap, and I don't expect anyone on my label to do it, either."

"Good," he said. He didn't seem finshed, though, so II waited and braced for whatever 'but' that was about to be dropped into my perfect deal. "By the way, about Tammy."

I nearly had a heart attack. I controlled my suddenly numb legs and said, "Yes?"

"Hurt her and die, and lose my contract," he said, suddenly fierce. "She's like my little sister. Don't screw her over."

Little sister. So I was safe from undeserved shankings. That made me feel so much better. "Got it. I will do my absolute best to treat her in the best possible manner at all times," I said, as sincerely as I could. "You have my word."

He gave a short, sharp nod, and then relaxed. I don't think either of us had realized just how tense and wound up he was, until he loosened up. It was like watching a string that had been spun tight be cut, and seeing the tension just bleed out. We walked inside together, business partners and brothers-in-arms. 

Of course, the solemnity of such an accord was immediately broken when I heard Thomas say, loudly enough for us to hear as we approached, "Boo, hiss! Two definite no's, coming our way."

"Shut up, Thomas," I said, laughing. "Go hit on hipsters."

"No," he said, as Cale, then I slid into the booth. "I've got standards."

"I think I might resent that," Jim said, affably - the first thing the plaid-shirted, Buddy-Holly-glasses-wearing guy said all night.

The table burst out laughing.

Of course, that's when Tammy arrived. "Did I miss something?" she asked, sitting down beside me. "I feel like I missed something."

"I gave in to peer pressure," Cale said, making a face at her.

"Congratulations!" she said, beaming. I was completely lost, and from the look of it, so was everyone else at the table, except Cale. Tammy looked at me and said, "I had to remind him that getting paid money for doing fun things is considered a bonus, not a temptation towards evil."

"If I sell out, it's all your fault," Cale said, firmly.

"Oh, right," I said, nodding. The other three turned their blank looks towards me, and I nudged Cale into telling them that he'd agreed to sign onto Farthing Records (now a subsidy of Cobalt Records).

"Awesome!" Thomas said, and his sentiment was echoed around the table. "I'm planning on playing bass for his stuff, so we'll probably be seeing each other at work and stuff."

"Nice," Cale said. "What's your bass like?" And then they were off and running on a discussion that I could have only just followed, if I'd had any interest at all in the exact technicalities of seven different kinds of basses, none of which I or anyone I knew had ever owned.

The rest of the table managed to have a decent conversation while we ignored them, one that continued even once the young artists began to take the stage. I didn't hear anything particularly inspiring that night - one or two of them showed promise, but it was all raw, unfinished, undirected. It might have worked for someone looking to put together a boy band or for a sound they could completely mold, but I wasn't looking for that. I wanted a sound that I could add to the symphony in my head, something strong, ready to be put together. I ignored most of them in favor of actually socializing.

When we all went home that night, I walked Tammy home again. "Be careful with Cale," she said, leaning on my arm as we walked. "It was freaking hard to convince him to even consider signing on with you. He's got some issues with Cobalt Records. If they try screwing with any of his stuff, he might just abandon ship."

"Got it," I said, miming writing something down in front of me. "Cale is skittish - handle with care."

She laughed and shook her head. "But seriously. He wants nothing more to make music, but..." She trailed off. "He's not sure if he can anymore."

I said, more softly, "I'll do my best to help him." We were outside her door.

"Thank you," she said. Then, standing on tip-toe, she brushed her lips against mine. ""Night," she said, and went inside.

Going home, I'm pretty sure my feet might have left the ground completely once or twice, I was flying so high.

Tammany:

Cale started spending less time hanging out at the cafe and more time working with Andrew at his and Grace's apartment after he signed on with him. He was beginning to come alive in a way I hadn't really seen since college. I'd always thought he'd just settled into himself, but no. He'd run away from himself, and was beginning to remember who he'd been again. It was fun to watch. He'd come to the cafe the morning after a jam session looking like he'd just won a million dollars, or been elected president, and spend the first two hours we were open telling me about the music they'd made, absolutely electrified by the whole deal. I understood about one word in three, of course, but I'd known him long enough to learn when to simply smile and nod and let him get the excitement out of his system a little.

That next Monday, for example, he came in, practically vibrating, and said, "This album is going to be a huge thing. It's going to be the next Tommy, the next Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts' Club Band."

"That's awesome," I said, warmly. "How do you like the music you're playing?"

"Andrew is freaking amazing," he said, reverentially. "Some of the stuff I'm playing - I've never played anything like it. I love it."

"You should play some of it for me," I said, heading to the door and flipping the sign from 'closed' to 'open'.

"And ruin the surprise of the finished stuff?" he asked, appalled. "Never."

That, of course only made me more curious about it. 

Of course, Andrew was no better about the music-creation project than Cale was. He was like a little kid who'd just been let loose in a candy shop, not knowing which way to turn. Now that he had a keyboardist who could do vocals in a pinch, too, he was at the studio at all hours. I'd get the most random, adorable texts from him at odd hours, saying things like, "is it too cliche to rhyme night with flight?" at three am, or "can't wait to play the new song for you" at midnight-thirty, followed shortly after by, "actually, no, want you to hear it first completely finished". I will admit that I ended up turning my cell off at night after the first week or so of this, just because otherwise I'd never have gotten any sleep ever again.

Thomas was more laid-back about it, but I got the feeling that he was the type to completely suppress any undue emotion, just in case it might make him appear uncool. Even he seemed pumped about it, though, whenever he stopped by at the cafe. I ended up chatting with him on Tuesday, because he'd stopped in around ten, when there was absolutely no one at a little regional cafe that mostly did sandwiches. "So how long are you going to be here for?" I asked. The fact that he was still here was honestly a little confusing, because as far as I knew, he had a job in another state, with another band. That sort of required him to be there.

He shifted a little uncomfortably. "Well, don't tell Andrew this," he said, "But I've started looking for an apartment here. The Dreams aren't looking so dreamy right now. Kevin and Jenn - our drummer and guitarist - started dating, then broke up, and now they aren't speaking to each other, or for some reason, me. I'm pretty sure the band is about to die. And Andrew's new album is amazing, and I've got enough royalties coming in, so I'm set, as long as I can find a roommate." He looked up, suddenly hopeful. "You wouldn't happen to know someone who needs a roommate, would you? Grace is getting sick of me sleeping on the futon."

"You better believe it!" Grace called from the freezer alcove. "You need to move!"

"As a matter of fact," I said, "You should talk to Cale about that."

"Really?" Thomas said. "Nice."

About nine days later, two Fridays after Cale had agreed to sign on to Farthing Records (subsidy of Cobalt Records), Grace and I managed to convince the three of them to get some, if not fresh, then different air, and come to an Oyster concert with us. It was Rhiannon again, something I neglected to tell Andrew. He still went a little moody when her name was mentioned, or at least as moody as Andrew could manage. Despite what had happened to Nathan, he couldn't quite manage to forgive him for ruining his shot at an amazing guitarist.

It was just the five of us, for once - Grace did not have her Jim, as he'd had to go home to do something or other for whatever reason. She'd explained it to me that day as we were closing up, but I'd tuned it out. Instead, I'd paid attention to how to get Rhiannon to agree to see Andrew, which was a much trickier concept. I knew the backstage people working tonight, because they'd worked a bunch of Cale's shows in years past. So getting back wasn't really the issue. Having her not yell at me and throw me out - that right there was the issue.

Although I came up with various Mission: Impossible schemes, what I ended up doing was pretty simple. I just showed up half an hour before the rest were supposed to appear and headed backstage. I waved at Greg, the guard, who just smiled and kept at his post. There were a couple people milling about in the back hallway, the resident sound techs and the like, but nothing much. They knew me, too. The first person to not recognize me was Rhiannon herself, when I knocked on the dressing room door and she answered it. "Hello?" she said, curiously. "And you are?"

"Someone you're not going to be thrilled to see, in about ten seconds," I said. "I want to talk to you about a certain set of scouts whom you threw out a couple weeks ago."

She nearly closed the door on me right then and there, but I stopped it with my foot. "I don't want anything to do with them," she said. "That dude was a dick."

"The shorter one was a dick, yes," I said. "Undoubtedly. However, he was also an apprentice who'd been told not speak, but did so anyway. He's no longer with us." I used 'us' liberally, because technically, it was completely accurate. Nathan wasn't with our group anymore. He was up in his penthouse or whatever, healing and probably feeling sorry for himself. "We're extremely sorry for any offense he may have given."

She lessened her push on the door. "Look, what do you want?" she asked. "I don't want to sign. I like my freedom right now. I really doubt anything anyone's got to say is going to change my mind on that."

"Andrew isn't just anyone," I said. "And all I want is for you to hear him out. He's a freaking amazing music writer. That's what he does, normally. The scouting is just something he does so he doesn't have to pay someone else for it."

"He gave me his card," Rhiannon said. "It was for a subsidy of Cobalt Records. I don't want to deal with them."

"As far as I've been told, the link is mostly in the way of funding," II saiid. "They don't screw with him, they give him ready cash, and he gives them a set cut of the profit." That was definitely oversimplification, but Cale was the one with the Accounting major, not me.

She sighed. "Fine. Have him come back here after the show. /After/," she said, stressing it. "I hate it when people interrupt me during my set break."

"Got it," I said, smiling. "You won't regret it."

"That's a bald-faced lie," she said, sounding tired. "But whatever." Then she nudged my foot out of the way and clsoed the door.

I walked back out into the main hall, still smiling to myself. Andrew was going to freak. It would bee fun.

I found the group sitting in what was becoming our customary booth. Andrew had a spot open beside him, so I slid in. "Where were you?" he asked. "We nearly ordered a drink for you."

"I'm still ten minutes early," I protested, shaking my head. "That's more than acceptable."

"It is not," he said, with a snotty British accent. "You are completely outside the bounds of basic decency. Ow!" He glared at Grace.

Grace looked innocent. I assumed she'd kicked him.

"We do still need drinks," Thomas said. "Who wants to go grab them?" Everyone stared at him. "Really?" he said. "You're going to make me do this?" 

Synchronized nods. "I hate you people," he sighed, and got up to go fight his way to the bar. 

"Gin and tonic, extra ice!" I called after him. He flipped me off. I laughed.

The opening act, some kids who were only not a garage band because they probably didn't have a garage to play in, was less than stellar. I could practically see Andrew deeming himself a martyr for the cause, forced to sit through such horrible musicc simply to appease those strange heathen who considered themselves to be his 'friends,' when any thinking person could see his time would be better spent making his own music. I let him think that for the half an hour they played, just to watch his expression change when they announced the concert's main attraction.

He turned and glared at me. "You never said she was the concert," he said, accusingly.

"I didn't think you'd care, considering you thought you ruined it with her already," I said, doing my best  'innocent Grace' impression.

"But still," he said, staring at the stage, longingly. "I could have made arrangements to go back and talk with her."

"Oh, is that all?" I asked. "I talked with her earlier. She'll hear you out after the show."

He switched back to staring at me. "Really?"

I nodded. He leaned forward and kissed me.

A couple minutes later, when I was about to happily pass out, he pulled away and said, "I think I love you. Do you mind? Is it too early to say that?"

"No, you're good," I said, catching my breath. "Feeling's mutual, by the way."

He grinned at me. That's when I noticed Grace rolling her eyes and Thomas making gagging motions. Cale simply looked pained. "Hey," Cale said. "Just because I'm not going to give you a hard time does not mean I want to watch."

"You're going to have to deal," I told him.

He simply groaned and buried his face in his arms, folded on the pitted wood of the table top.

The concert was typically Rhiannon - good, eclectic, and preventative of all conversation. I started to wonder about halfway through her first set if I should be jealous of her, because Andrew was staring at the stage with rapt attention. Then he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and shouted above the noise, "This is awesome!"

I relaxed and paid attention to the concert for a while.

That lasted until the set break, when we sent Cale up to the bar - he had the pointest elbows and was readily recognizable to the bartender as a regular and occasional performer. Then Andrew was distracted, and disappeared into the crowd to talk with someone. I watched him go, and realized he was talking to Morgan. Shit. Cale wasn't going to be happy about this. 

When he eased his way back through the crowd, carefully clutching our drinks, I immediately started trying to distract him. "So how do you think Rhiannon will fit in with the group?" I asked him. "Well, or what?"

To my shock, that tactic actually worked. Continuing to look in my direction - aka the exact opposite direction of Morgan and Andrew, whom i could see laughing over Cale's shoulder. "Pretty well, actually," he said. "From what I've heard, she's sarcastic, snarky, and doesn't take well to overbearing direction or condesenscion. that sees like a pretty good mix for the band."

"True," I said, keeping half an eye on my boyfriend and the woman who broke my best friend's heart. "i think that you'll all get along famously."

"Do you have an eye twitch or something right now?" Cale asked, starting to turn around. Crap. "What are you looking at?"

"Just the hipsters," I said, grabbing his arm and point about sixty degrees away from the pair I was trying to avoid. "They're bugging me and being irritatingly ironic." 

He looked, and raised an eyebrow. "Lying doesn't become you," he said, looking around some more. "Really. What is it?"

Then his eye fell on Morgan, whom Andrew was dragging back towards us. I would have facepalmed if I hadn't tried it before and found out that my lack of coordination means I usually just hit myslf in the face. Cale's face just fell. It was sort of heart-breaking to look at him - dejection, despair, dislike, and a whole host of other dark D words crowded across his face, before he dipped into some hidden fount of resolve and pasted an amazingly insincere smile on.

"Morgan's got some amazing ideas for the marketing end of the band," Andrew said, excitedly. I mentally cursed his utter lack of people skills into a smoldering little pile on the ground. "I wanted her to tell you them herself, Cale."

"Oh, look," I said, desperately, "Rhiannon's about to come back on. Cale, we should go find Thomas and finish this no doubt stimulating discussion later!"

"No," he said, sickly sweet smile still in place. "I'm good here. I'll listen."

I was out of ideas, and I could feel the tension building up like static electricity on woolen socks. I bailed, hard and fast, looking for Thomas and Grace, who'd disappeared sometime during the set break.

The concert was still good, even from a distance of all the way across the place, by the main doors, scanning the room for a tall, bouncy brunette chick and a performance dude with eyeliner. I will completely admit that I had failed to think this tactic through, because there were approximately eight hundred people each who fit those descriptions wandering around the room. Well, maybe not eight hundred, but you get the idea. A freaking lot. Still, it was better than standing in that pea-soup fog of loathing that was no doubt building up between Morgan and Cale. I felt like a bit of a bad friend, abandoning him there with the bitch who'd hurt him, but surely Andrew would defuse enough tension just by acting as a sort of innocence black hole, sucking in all the bad feelings without anyone noticing. that was an awful analogy.

In any case, I didn't find Grace until half way through the second set, when I saw her stumbling out of the ladies restroom.She seemed a little tipsy, which was surprising. It was, as far as I'd been informed so far, her brother who had the crappy alcohol tolerance lever. "Grace, you okay? I asked her.

"I think I shouldn't have had that extra shot," she said, swaying. "It's not goood."

I swore, creatively, at length, and with as much venom as I could muster. Then I took her shoulder and steered her back towards the bathroom. I never did find Thomas, because I was too busy doing that friend thing where you hold their hair for them. Honestly. People are gross, I need to stop hanging around with them.

When she was sober and not-puking enough that she could tell me coherently that she'd be fine, I left the bathroom and headed back into the hall. There, the concert was wrapping up, the crowd cheering loudly enough that it had to be the encore. I fought my way through the melee up to where I'd left the group, and discovered Thomas awkwardly standing between Morgan and Cale, who were refusing to look at each other, Andrew staring raptly at the stage, and a subdued-looking Nathan sort of awkwardly standing nearby. I didn't know what had happened while I was helping Grace, but I was beginning to suspect that for poor Thomas it had been the psychological equivalent of holding someone's hair.

I stepped in next to him as the music crescendo'd, and he gave me a grateful look. The crowd went wild, people jumping and screaming and laughing and singing and shoving us this way and that. It was intense. I was sorry I'd missed the rest of it, but as the music died away and Rhiannon headed off stage, I felt the atmosphere of disliked between the two of them started appearing again. I stood still, sort of hoping that Morgan would just leave, and that the stuff that was about to go down wouldn't.

Of course, the universe thinks that sticking me in extremely uncomfortable situations that I have a moral obligation to at least pay attention to is funny, so Andrew kissed me, said, "I'm going back to talk with Rhiannon," and left me with Cale and Morgan staring daggers at each other.

There comes a point when you just step out of the way of the oncoming train, because you know there's no way you're going to be able to stop it. I moved out from between the two of them.

"Hello, Morgan," Cale said, coldly. 

"Cale," she said, with a nod. "How are you?"

"I'm doing well," he said. There was so much icy formality in the air that I wanted a parka.

"That's good," she said. "How's that music career? Not so good since you turned down the Cobalt contract, I hear."

"In fact, I just signed on to a Cobalt subsidiary last week," he said. "You may have heard of it. It's run by one Andrew Farthing, whom I believe you know." Cale was being amazingly precise with his grammar, diction, and general speech. It was sort of alarming.

"Oh, really?" she asked, apparently actually nonplussed. Score one for Cale. "That's good to know. At least you seem to have come to your senses somewhat in the past six years. I hope you're more reliable than you were then."

"I've always been far more reliable than you," Cale said. "I know how to at least return a phone call."

"I can tell you for a fact that that's a newly acquired skill," she said. 

"Older than your ability to kick people out of a job because you lost interest in them," he said, beginning to raise his voice.

Morgan blinked. "What?" she asked, apparently honestly confused. 

"Don't act like you don't remember," Cale said, the tension of years of simmering tension beginning to finally spill out. "You got tired of me one day and just kicked me to the curb. You wouldn't answer a single one of my calls, you never showed up for anything I tried to schedule, and you freaking cut off my contract."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Morgan asked him, her calm facade finally giving way. "You just disappeared. You broke up with me, idiot!"

My face was going back and forth, like watching a tennis game. Attack, riposte, parry, attack. 

"That's funny, considering that I showed up at your freaking office and was told that I had been banned from you office," Cale said. I could practically see the catharsis healing him.

Morgan, however, was looking more and more wrecked. "You never did. I specifically told anyone in the office to page me immediately if you showed up. They never did. Not once."

"That is beyond damned lies and into political territory," Cale said. "Every day for a week, I showed up. No one even looked twice at me, except to tell me to leave. And then my contract was severed." He took a deep breath. "You broke me, for a while. I almost gave up music entirely, because of you and your freaking contract. But I'm back, and nothing is going to screw with my head anymore. Especially you." He turned and walked towards the door, leaving Morgan standing there in the middle of the room, alone and friendless. Nathan was just sort of staring at her, and then at Cale's retreating back. Thomas was, as far as I could tell, at the bar, trying to beat last call. The room was, if not silent, than at least quieter enough that the lack og argument seemed dramatic, important. 

I walked after Cale. There really wasn't another choice I could have made. Morgan was just some chick, and one who had her emotionally stunted brother to help her. Cale was my almost-brother, and he needed someone to calm him down.

I texted Andrew quick, as I hurried after Cale, /your sister is prbly still in ladies'. thomas is at bar. cale and morgan had fight, dealing with cale, sorry! see you tomorrow?/ Then I shoved the phone in my pocket and caught up with my quarry.

"No," he said, before I could say anything. "I don't feel particularly better. I don't feel vindicated, or whatever the hell you think I should feel. And I don't want to talk about it."

"I wasn't going to make you," I said, lying. "But if you want to..."

"Not a chance," he said. "Except for this: I thought that I was over her. Over Morgan, completely. Nope. And that freaking fight just made it worse."

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, trying to convince myself that 'accidental' vehicular manslaughter of a certain music exec was unacceptable, then I said, "That's probably not healthy."