Page 110 of Composed
Ticket stubs from all the shows Reckless Abandon played before they got signed. Old CD recordings of songs that never made it onto theiralbums. Piles of notebooks filled with all our ideas and dreams for the future.
Every friendship bracelet, handwritten note, and photo Cole and I ever took as a couple—everything we shared with Saint, Axel, and Carter as a family.
Every moment of our lives for five years lives in the boxes lining their live room wall. And if Cole and I are ever going to move forward, collaboratively,personally, it’s time to let it all go.
“Why?” Saint asks, gunmetal eyes locking on mine.
I tilt my head, rolling a frayed festival wristband between my fingers, as a sad smile curves my lips. “Because I’m tired of disappointing him.”
“Run that riff again,” I tell Axel.
He scowls as he fingers the strings of his bass.
Carter grunts from behind me.
Both of them came in with faces like thunder this morning. Probably because Saint dragged them out of bed before the sun rose at my request—for Axel, anyway. I’m not sure Carter has any other expression these days.
At least, not when I’m around.
I slide the fader, cranking the volume only for Axel’s section as I run Saint’s already recorded riff in the background. Amps hum, vibrating softly through the floorboards, and I tug my headphones off one ear.
I twist the EQ dial, the bass pulsing steady in my chest.
A smile lifts my lips as the two sections weave seamlessly.
It’s been a long time since I’ve worked like this. As a mixing engineer, most of my job is done post-recording. When the artist is finished in the booth, I get the raw sounds, and my job is to polish and perfect.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t missed this.
Axel strums the last chord.
I press the talkback. “Nailed it. Out you get.”
The chair spins beneath me as I kick my legs up.
I pull the sticks out of my hoodie pocket and hold them out to Carter. “You’re up.”
His gaze slants when he snatches them.
I tug my lip stud between my teeth, my chest tightening.
If he notices they’re from a concert they played two years after I left, he doesn’t say a word about it. Just shoves them in his back pocket and marches into the booth.
I release the breath stuck in my throat.
Nothing quite as embarrassing as admitting you snatched up all the picks, drumsticks, and set lists you could find at the concerts you hid in the back of.
Saint rolls up beside me, an ankle propped on his knees, mischief sparkling behind his blown pupils.
I fiddle the dials, watching him from the corner of my eye.
I swat his hand away when he reaches for the pan knob. “Don’t touch my board.”
He holds his hands up and pushes his lips out into a pathetic pout.
I roll my eyes, shifting my weight on the chair as Carter rolls the snare.
I twist the volume until it’s nothing more than a soft trickle in my ear.
