Page 40 of Ambiguous
He smiles at me. “Your place is fantastic. I like being this close to the water.” He steps through the open doors to the balcony, tugging me with him.
“Me, too.” The late afternoon sun gilds the ocean, making it sparkle.
We stand for a moment looking at the Pacific, and then I remember my manners. “Want a drink?”
“Water would be great.” He lets go of my hand but follows me into the kitchen.
I tilt my head. “Do you not drink alcohol?”
“I do. But not when I’m working.”
That disappoints me. Not that he doesn’t want to drink alcohol right now—that, I don’t care about. But that he thinks he’s working. Still, I fetch him a glass of water.
Colin pads out, clad in jeans and looking like he’s going to leave as I requested.
“Oh, Sam,” I say. “This is my brother, Colin.”
Sam holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m one of the lawyers representing Lighthouse Records.”
Colin looks between us, interested. “A lawyer?”
“Yeah.”
Colin opens his mouth to say more, but I butt in. “Colin’s going to let us have the house tonight.”
“Right, see you,” Colin says. He grabs his keys and scurries out the door.
“Thank you,” I call after him.
Even though I’m the one who asked Colin to go out for the night, whenever he leaves, my heart squeezes. I’ve been responsible for him for so long. And yet we both need to be on our own.
Sam follows me to the studio. As we walk down the stairs, he chatters, pointing out that he has the same couch I do, and we both have art by the same artist. He shrugs. “I like things sleek and contemporary, too.”
I would’ve thought we’d have different tastes, given how we dress, but perhaps we’re more alike than it seems.
There goes Sam Stone, warming my heart again.
We enter the soundproof room bunkered into the hill, and Sam takes in the banks of recording equipment and the instruments scattered about.
“Have a seat,” I say.
He settles in, crossing one ankle on top of the other knee. “What would you like to show me?”
I pick up my guitar, feeling nervous all of a sudden.
I can do this. Letting out a breath, I say, “I’ve been writing an album about facing my fears. My particular and very specific fears. Ones about lifts breaking down and about not being good enough. Ones about never finding someone to love. I dunno, maybe I’ll end up writing about how I’ll never touch an octopus.”
He grins. “You’re scared of octopi?”
I shudder. “Yes. Very much. They’re too smart.”
“Aren’t a lot of animals smart?”
“Not smart and squishy.”
He presses his lips together, trying not to smile.
“Okay, maybe it’s not the smart part that’s entirely the issue. Once, in primary school, my class visited the London Aquarium, and I got separated from my group. The place was packed, and somehow I ended up pressed against a tank with a big octopus, and it decided to stick itself—with its suckers, or whatever they are—on the glass right by my face. It seemed like it was ten times my size. I think I screamed the place down.”
