“No,” I said, although I was. I shifted slightly, trying to get out from under him, but he was too close, and now squeezing again.
“You’ll be great. Just relax.”
I swallowed, doing the exact opposite and tensing up, hoping he’d take the hint and back off. But no. He was still right there, his fingers lightly on my shoulders, when Mac looked up and saw us.
Seeing his face, I had a flash of Layla’s, all those weeks ago at the courthouse. But while her expression, as a stranger, had been a question—You okay?—Mac’s was different. Like he knew I was not, and because of that, he wasn’t, either. He was just getting to his feet when Eric spoke.
“Okay, Sydney. You ready?”
I pulled away quickly, then walked into the recording room, where Eric was setting up a microphone. As he waved me behind it, Layla leaned into my ear.
“What’s he doing here?”
“He’s staying tonight. But he wasn’t supposed to come until ten.”
“Huh.” She adjusted her headphones. “What are the chances. Is he going to tell your mom?”
“He says we’ll talk about it.”
She made another pointed look as Ames gave us a thumbs-up. “I’d stay if I could, I swear. But I’ve got to get home to my mom.”
“It’s fine,” I said. Then I turned, glancing behind me at Mac, who, as I expected, was watching me. I only had a second to try to convey that he shouldn’t worry, I was all right. But just in case, I said it, too. “It’ll be okay.”
At that point, despite everything, I still believed this. This confidence stayed with me as we ran through a quick rehearsal, then started to record. I could almost forget about Ames on the other side of the glass and whatever might happen later; right then, there was only the music. Eric’s guitar, and Ford behind it. The haunting sweetness of Layla’s voice moving over the words I knew so well, and then my own, blending with it if only for a moment. Through it all, Mac was behind me, keeping the beat, holding it all together. Later, I’d look back at this as the last time things felt perfect, and be so grateful for it. Some people never get that at all.
*
“Do we have it?”
We all waited, silent, as Eric punched a few buttons, his brow furrowed. Then, finally: “Yep. We’ve got it.”
“Hallelujah,” Irv said, speaking for everyone. “Can we go eat now?”
“You’ve been eating the whole time,” Layla pointed out.
“I’ve been snacking,” he corrected her. “It’s mealtime.”
“Actually, it’s go time,” she said. “Rosie’s waiting for us. Let’s get packed up, okay?”
Mac nodded, then headed back into the recording room, where he, Irv, and Ford began dismantling the instruments and equipment. Upstairs, I could hear Ames moving around as Layla turned her attention to Spence, still crashed out on the couch. He hadn’t budged since falling asleep.
“Luckily, he sobers up fast,” she told me, walking over and shaking his shoulder. “Spence. Wake up. Time to go.”
“Just five more minutes,” he mumbled into the cushions.
Layla shook her head, then picked up the vodka bottle from the floor. She began to twist the top on, but then changed her mind, opening it and taking a swig. Then she handed it out to me.
I’d go over this moment again and again in the coming weeks. It was just such a stupid thing, a handful of seconds. And yet it was a pivotal point, the shift between before and after. I don’t know why I took the bottle, tipping it up to my mouth. Maybe it was the long night. Or what still might lie ahead, with Ames. Whatever the reason, I did it, taking one big gulp and closing my eyes, tight, as I swallowed. When I opened them, my mother was in the doorway.
Like Ames, she’d just appeared. As I looked at her face, everything crystallized: the smooth glass of the bottle in my hand; Spence’s foot, hanging off the couch; the guys moving in my peripheral vision, talking amongst themselves; Layla beside me, equally surprised. That bottle, again, in my hand.
“Sydney?” Like she wasn’t sure it was me, either. The crease between her brows was deeper than I’d ever seen it. “What is going on here?”
“Mom,” I said quickly, putting down the bottle. This seemed important, although I already knew it wasn’t going to make any difference. “It’s not . . . They were just using the studio.”
“You’re drinking.” A statement, although she sounded so incredulous, it might as well have been a question.
“I wasn’t, actually.” She shifted her gaze to the vodka, then to Spence, snoring softly on the couch. “I mean, I just took that sip. Just now.”
“You’re drinking,” she repeated. She looking into the recording room. “Who are these people in Peyton’s studio?”
“My brother’s band,” Layla said. My mom looked at her. “Mac. You met him at the pizza place? They needed to record a demo, and Sydney—”
“I told you, remember?” I cut in.
“And I said no.” Her voice was clipped, each syllable sharp. She looked at me. “You deliberately disobeyed me, Sydney. And you have alcohol here in our house, not to mention people I do not know.”