Page 15 of Best Friend Burden

“Yeah,” I told him. “My dad never really got what I was going for with the cooking. He just wanted me to be running a business and, even after trying the food, didn't really get it. He's the kind of guy who saw food as a way to refuel and just wanted something quick most of the time so he could move on with his day. Even when I had some success, it was never enough for him. He didn't want me coming out here. To him, anywhere outside the Texan border might as well be Mars.”

Kiefer finished scrubbing the pot and put it on the drying rack. “Yeah,” he said, “but the good news is you're your own person and you get to do what you want to do.”

“I'm just worried that he's right,” I said, “that I won't be able to make it on my own without his support.”

To that, Kiefer just shrugged. “Maybe he is,” he said, “but the only way to know for sure is to try. If you fail, you fail, but at least you'll know.”

“Do you think I'm going to fail?”

He smiled at me. “Go to Pershing Square and get better ingredients. Then ask me again.”

There was a beat or two of silence, where I could see he was thinking.

“The queso was good, though,” he said. “You've at least got some potential.”

He flashed me that Kiefer bad boy smile and wink I remembered so well. It sent me right back to high school and our electric friendship, it was filling my stomach with butterflies and TKO-ing my panties in the process. And, in that moment, I knew my heart didn’t stand a chance.

CHAPTER6

***KIEFER***

By the time I showed up at the studio, Jackson and Natasha were already in the lobby waiting for me. They immediately stood to attention.

I hadn't expected to see Jackson there, but it was no problem. Any excuse to spend time with him was okay by me. As a lawyer, he worked long hours, but those hours were pretty flexible so long as he wasn’t actively meeting with clients. It wasn’t unusual for him to step out of the office and go to the movies if things were quiet. I imagine part of the reason he showed up was that he was simply bored and looking for something to do.

I put my bass down on the ground and gave my brother a hug.

“Hey, man,” Jackson said. “Thanks for doing this. This is my, umm, friend, Natasha.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” she shook my hand energetically. She was a tiny little thing, barely more than five feet tall next to my brother's 6'1” frame, with magenta highlights in her black hair.

But what she lacked in size, she made up in enthusiasm. The girl was almost like a cartoon character with her eagerness — I half expected her to bounce off the walls. She must have realized it, too, as she took her hand away from me and held it in place with her other, folding her body inward and becoming as still as a statue.

“Sorry,” she said, “I guess I'm excited. And maybe I shouldn't have had the double caff latte before coming here.”

I put on my best smile.

“It can be tough for us, too,” I said. “Especially within a session. When you get a bunch of good musicians in here and we really start cooking, man, I tell you, it's a good thing we've got that click track to keep us on tempo. I'm always having to slow myself down.”

“Are you recording today?” Natasha asked, gesturing to the bass case.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, and my nerves lit up. I remembered that I hadn't gotten around to practicing for the session and this was a session that I really needed to practice for.

“It's for a jazz pianist named Peterson Floyd.”

Natasha nearly squealed with excitement from that. “Oh my God, I love him!”

“You've heard his music before?” I asked. I tried not to make it sound condescending, but there was no way to avoid it. Floyd was not well-known outside of the inner circles of musicians, but within them, he was absolutely revered. This was not casual listening music. It required deep concentration to fully appreciate the magic of what he was doing and the sheer genius of what he managed to squeeze out of a musical alphabet built around only 12 tones.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “I did a few transcriptions of some of his pieces for fun. He loves those nontraditional time signatures, doesn't he?”

Floyd was inspired by Dave Brubeck, an old-time pianist who loved playing in unusual grooves. Very intellectual stuff. What Floyd was known for was loosening it up a bit and bringing the playfulness of someone like Art Tatum back into it.

“He sure does,” I told her and began to sweat. If this girl was doing transcriptions of Floyd's music — meaning she listened to the recordings and could write down what exactly she was hearing — she was no amateur. Even musicians with the best of ears would stumble during some of Floyd's faster solos. The way Natasha made it sound, it was just a fun exercise for her.

“Well, shall we?” I asked and gestured towards the inside of the studio.

* * *

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