Chasing Kane (21 page)

“Okay,” I answered in a sigh, ready to employ another tactic. Honesty. “I admit it. I
was
frustrated with your reaction last night. I felt like all of a sudden we were back at E’s bar a million years ago when we first met and you couldn’t even trust that the sun would rise the next morning.”

“But—”

I put up my hand, grinning so she knew I wasn’t upset, but intended to finish what I was saying. “But I
also
admit that if the roles were reversed, I’d probably have been the one to lose my mind. If I came downstairs and stood outside the door of the bakery and heard some guy saying all kinds of sweet stuff, even if it was about your food, I’d go mad.”

She snorted. “No you wouldn’t have. Even if you did, you wouldn’t have made a scene.”

I sighed.

“See,” she continued. “I’m right. You trust. Period.”

Rolling my eyes, I opened my mouth to speak. “What do you want me to say?” I felt the tension between us build again. “I know you mean to trust me …”

“I do. I mean, I trust you and I have to practice it,” she cut in. “Last night didn’t help.”

I sat up, leaning against the headboard, holding out my hands. “I don’t know how to help here. There’s always going to be fans, and female musicians, and … I … do you want me to stop touring? Change careers?”

She scrunched her eyebrows, twisting up her face. “Um,
no
. Did I say that?”

I huffed. “I don’t know how else to fix it. I’ve done nothing to prove untrustworthy, and I feel like I’m running into a brick wall, and the only thing that would make you happy is to have me in the bakery with you, or something.”

Georgia gasped. “That’s not true. I’m not something to be
fixed
.”

I grumbled, thumping my head against the wall behind me. “I didn’t
say
that.” We weren’t yelling, but our volume increased by the minute. I decided to keep my tone as level as I could.

She sighed pinching the bridge of her nose. “Can we back up?”

“Please.”

“I feel like this trip has just been a total nightmare.”

“I …” I trailed off for a second. “What do you want me to say?”

She brought her knees to her chest. “So you’re saying it
has
been a nightmare.”

“
You
did!” I laughed incredulously. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I
hate
it when you do that. I didn’t say that,” I reiterated. “
You
did.”

“But you agreed.”

“So that was entrapment? Look around, Georgia, this isn’t exactly a honeymoon state of affairs. I’m trying to work through this. Join me.”

She was quiet for a long time, taking deep, loud breaths. My eyes traced the intricate tattoos up and down her arms. Many themed from Alice in Wonderland, reminding me what a complicated puzzle she really was. A comical doorknob with a keyhole for a mouth, Alice falling butt-first down one of her forearms, and
We’re all mad here
etched on the underside of one of her wrists.

Ain’t that the truth.

“This is what I get for planning a trip around my ovulation,” she finally said.

Heat filled my neck and tightened my jaw. “What?”

She looked up at me, “What?”

I ground my teeth together as hard as I could. I did
not
want to talk about this now. “I think we’re too tired for this conversation.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t think we are.”

My eyes felt scratchy from exhaustion and hotel room air conditioning. “Georgia,” I took a deep breath, “I just thought you did this for me. For us. I … I’m too upset to talk about this right now,” I finally said out loud. “Can we table it?”

“For when?” she demanded. “Texting later? A late-night phone call?”

I leaned forward, rubbing my hands over my face. If she pushed much more, I wouldn’t be able to hold it in.

“And,” she interrupted my screaming thoughts, “I figured a baby
was
kind of for both of us.” She misinterpreted my angry silence.

“It is,” I said, exhaling in defeat. “I’m just … I can’t force myself to be in the mood every time the calendar says I should be. I’m tired and upset. What do you want me to do?”

She turned her head slowly to me, sucking in her top lip. “Nothing. I don’t want to make you do
anything
you don’t want to do—like sleeping with your
wife
.”

I pressed my lips together. “Georgia, don’t start. This isn’t about not
desiring
you.” I threw the covers off me and slid out of bed. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Yeah, you go do that,” she snapped back.

Grabbing the large coffee off the table, I took it with me into the bathroom. “Thanks for the coffee,” I mumbled before shutting the door behind me.

Georgia wasn’t able to stay for a show, since our first one wasn’t until tomorrow night, and I didn’t have enough room on my watch to bring her to the airport this time, so we had to say our goodbyes in front of the hotel.

“I love you, so much,” I said, breathing in her scent before she entered the cab. “I do.”

Her response was a cold silence.

“Georgia, I don’t want to leave things like this.”

She shrugged, looking up at me sympathetically. “We might have to.”

I frowned, gripping the tip of her chin between my thumb and index finger as she slipped into the white taxicab and rolled away.

For now, Georgia and I were treading through normal, post-storm waters, but I couldn’t fully shake the feeling of uneasiness. The familiarity of the uncertainty. Absolutely an oxymoron, but one that matched the complexity of my wife.

I knew she loved me the way I loved her, but I was sometimes holding myself back from shouting,
show me!
Maybe I needed to call my therapist for a little Skype session. We’d been over this, my therapist and I, that couples don’t
always
show each other love the way the other needs, but rather the way
they
need to be loved. It’s like a malfunctioning closed-loop circuit. Not manipulative, because it lacked intent, but destructive in its own right if left unchecked. Dr. Weeber assured me that the only way to make progress in that area was to bring all of this up with Georgia in our couple’s counseling session.

I was nervous. I knew Georgia well enough to know that she’d emotionally self-harm, beating up on herself if she felt she was failing with me. But, Weeber was quick to remind me whenever I argued this point with her, wasn’t that self-inflicting emotional harm on myself? Putting on the martyr’s cloak? Or, as I countered back, was this really what marriage and love was about down at the core? Love and sacrifice? Linda Weeber liked to toss back that self-sacrifice only serves the greater good until the one doing the sacrificing starts to whither inside.

Taking a deep breath as the taxi drifted out of sight, I wondered if my reaction last night was a sign of the dry soil inside me. I’d been running for a long time on loving her enough for the both of us. Preaching to myself that the fact that she
let
me in was all the love she needed to show me. That her trust in me was love enough.

The problem was, I didn’t think it was anymore.

Within an hour of Georgia’s departure, I was at River Junction Studios with CJ and members of The Brewers, and Moniker, too, to make things extra cozy. Our performances in Minneapolis were at two different venues over several days, but they were both outdoor spaces. Since a lot of the groups were working on new material, we all needed a little extra practice time than would typically fit in the hour or so warm-up time we were afforded before shows.

Luckily, Yardley had amicable business ties with River Junction, and they afforded us full use of their studio for a couple hours each day we were in town. Most large, national labels have several studios scattered across the country. In our section of the industry, it was far more common for the label and studio to be one entity, making their offerings as unique as they were grand. River Junction had a lot of artists under them, and sacrificed a significant chunk of space for us. Three whole studio spaces. I was baffled by the graciousness of the deal until I saw the way their president and Yardley looked at each other.

As soon as she blushed in his presence, that was the only answer I needed.

“Yo,” CJ whispered into my ear as Yardley and RJ’s president, Norio Vincent, decided where we’d each practice. “Do you think they … you know?”

Impressed by his seemingly accurate social assessment of Yardley and Norio’s apparent flirtation, I wanted to tease him a little. “You know? No … can’t say as I do.”

He didn’t let me have fun for long. CJ got a wicked grin on his face and arched his eyebrow, slowly gyrating his hips in his seat. “Oh,” he said, “
you know
.”

I laughed despite myself. “Who knows. Or cares.”

Still, I took a second look at their interaction unfolding ten feet away from us. Norio was Japanese-American, about as young as Yardley—early thirties, if that. He was tall and lean with shaggy, jet-black hair. He looked tired, but a lot of the managers looked as such for most of the year.

Large record companies have many more layers of bureaucracy than smaller, independent labels do. There’s typically a president and executive vice president, with legal departments and business affairs at the top. Just below them is a host of jobs like promotion, artist development, marketing (with sales and art departments beneath them), publicity, new media, and A&R (artists and repertoire). Each of these jobs is a full time
plus
job in their own right, but with Grounded Sound, for example, there are far fewer people than that to fill the roles.

GSE did have legal and business departments, though Yardley was heavily involved on the business side of things, given her MBA education. But Yardley was the president, acting manager of most groups under the small, but growing label, publicity, and A&R. A&R is a
tough
job, but it was Yardley’s passion. She loved seeking out new talent, developing set lists for albums, and all that goes along with it. Still, if the label was going to continue growing the way she’d designed it to and gunned for, she’d have to give up some of her hats at some point.

River Junction was run very similarly, from what I understood, and Norio had acted as a mentor to Yardley when she first took over GSE. Norio’s talents, according to Google, centered around A&R, of course, but also in new media. He coached Yardley on how to maximize artist exposure and brand recognition through social media. Truly independent labels aren’t as numerous as many people think. In the US, anyway, a shitload of them are actually funded by Sony. So, social media was the best chance indie outfits had to combat the thick wallets of the major labels—to get our music into the hands of those who loved it, and coax them out on tour. Most labels couldn’t afford a tour like this, but Yardley seemed to know what she was doing. Kicking ass and taking names, as CJ might say.

I’d never seen, or heard discussed, Yardley dating anyone, but who would have the time with a schedule like hers? Maybe Norio was up her alley. Maybe I needed to stop thinking like a girl.

“Okay, guys …” Yardley was bright as she returned from her pow-wow with Norio. “Brewers, you guys are in the large studio. Run through some of your instrumental stuff with no lyrics first. Moniker, the same goes for you in Studio B. Nessa and Regan, I want you two in Studio C, running through those numbers for Moniker forward and back. I’d like to push those out to the listeners by the end of the week.”

CJ moved into Studio B with Moniker, and The Brewers walked down the long hall to A. Meanwhile, Nessa’s chest and neck turned red as she stood to address Yardley.

“This
week
?” she questioned, her voice sounding dry. “Chicago. Not Minneapolis.
Chicago
.”

Yardley’s eyes didn’t move from her iPad, where she was scrolling through lists and schedules. “Yes, but things have changed. There are some high-profile music bloggers who are coming to the shows all week. They’ve kept their eye on Moniker, it seems, since we took them over. For the label’s sake, and the bands, we need to put their best face forward.” Yardley took a deep breath and eyed Nessa carefully. “I don’t think I need to explain to
you
how big of a deal this could be for Moniker if they get a good write-up from any one of those bloggers. And, of course, that will help the label and those signed to it, but that’s just icing on the cake.”

Nessa swallowed, placing her hands on her hips and taking in a heaping serving of humility with her breath.

“Understood,” was all Nessa said before gathering her things and heading into Studio C.

I lifted my eyebrows, nodding once to Yardley in reverential appreciation of her skill, before following Nessa into the tiny studio.

Well played, Yardley
.

It was a San Diego music blogger who had followed The Brewers on the California music circuit for years and opened doors for Nessa and The Brewers they’d have almost certainly missed otherwise. The independent music scene is a real bear.

This blogger, though, was ruthless.
Tough Critic Band Blogger
struck curiosity and fear into the hearts of many small bands if the bands knew the blogger was in the house for the night. Which they never did because Tough Critic—TC—was an expert at keeping their identity hidden for just that reason. So, it was all rumors whether or not TC was in the audience during any given show.

Anyway, this blogger had taken on bigger and bigger shows over the years, and criticized and praised acts big and small. What caught the attention of those who ran labels was the no-holds barred attitude the blogger took to their reviewing. They didn’t seem interested in blowing smoke up anyone’s ass or giving credit anywhere other than where it was due. Tough Critic took on indie bands that had already made household names of themselves. Their purpose wasn’t to get or prevent bands from getting record deals. The purpose of the blog seemed to give true, honest reviews and critiques of the songs, music, and ensemble make-ups.

A three-note rating on a five-note rating system became equated with success and cheers around the bar. Four and five-note ratings gave bands hope that a call from a record company might be around the corner. If not, at least a visit by one at their next show.