More Than Anything (27 page)

When I return, Sebastian is still talking to Melody. She’s so radiant she’s glowing, and I clear my throat.

“Any progress on the mix?”

Sebastian tears his gaze from Melody and gives me a grin. “I think we’re almost done with this one. You want to come in and listen? Melody – want to hear a track off the next number one album in the country?”

“After that, can I hear one of Sage’s? I’m supposed to be supportive.”

Sebastian stares at her like he doesn’t know what to say, and then he laughs deeply, from his stomach. I look at Melody, and she’s got that “Score!” expression I know all too well. I titter politely, and we move into the control room – Sebastian never, ever allows anyone who isn’t involved in the production to hear a mix, so it looks like Melody’s made an impression.

I had no doubt she would, but I can’t help but feel just a little disappointed in Sebastian being so easily ensnared by her. I mean, it’s not like they’re buying each other jewelry, but he’s doing that whole gracious host thing, and I realize I’m a tiny bit jealous. I’m used to being the only female who’s not his sister anywhere around the studio, and now Melody’s in the house and she’s pouring it on.

My attitude makes no sense. I have no interest in Sebastian. He’s my producer. We work together. I’ve got the guy I want. There’s no reason for me to feel anything but amused and happy.

I sit next to Sebastian where I normally do, in one of the captain’s chairs he has in front of the console, and Sebastian wheels another seat over for Melody – John’s, I see. John has no problem standing.

Melody offers another blinding smile and bats her eyes. “Thanks, Sebastian. What a beautiful studio. Is it yours?”

She knows damn well it’s his. I’ve only told her a hundred times.

Sebastian looks embarrassed. “Yes. I’m glad you like it. We’ve had a lot of great sessions here. This one’s probably going to be Sage’s third single. It’s called ‘Time’s Up.’ Kind of a Black Crowes, Stonesy thing.”

He’s not talking to me. He’d normally be telling me what he’s changed since the last mix. Suddenly I’m invisible.

John rolls the tape, and we all sit back and listen. Sebastian has automated all the moves on the board, and Melody watches the faders sliding back and forth as though pushed by ghostly fingers, her eyes wide. I’ve been around it so many hours I take all this for granted, but I realize that Melody’s never seen anything like the half-million-dollar mixing board or the racks and racks of effects.

When the song ends, she claps, and I groan to myself. Oh, brother. Pour it on a little thicker, won’t you, Melody? Then I see that she’s genuinely impressed – the applause wasn’t fake.

“That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. Sage, you’re incredible. I mean, I’d buy that in a heartbeat.”

Sebastian is beaming. “I think we got it, Sage. You hear I boosted the bass a little and pumped the third on the chorus harmony?”

“I like it better like that. It grooves more,” I agree. This is probably the thirtieth take of this song. Sebastian will keep at it like a dog at a bone until it’s perfect. That’s just the way he is.

We file back out of the room, and I show Melody around. She loves the arcade, and we busy ourselves with some
Grand Theft Auto
while Sebastian fiddles with more levels.

Two hours later I’m yawning, and Sebastian takes the hint. “Let’s call it a day. Don’t want to fry your ears,” he says. Audio fatigue’s a real danger – once you’ve heard the same song enough times, your brain will fill in the levels that aren’t right, compensating for what’s on the tape. It takes a special skill set to do what Sebastian does without burning out.

“Sounds good. I was telling Melody about Dan Tana’s. You want to come?” I ask, fulfilling my part of the bargain with her. I promised I’d introduce them and try to wrangle him to dinner one time during her trip, so I’ve done my duty.

I’m completely surprised by Sebastian’s response. He looks at his watch and then to John. “Take two hours?” he asks, and John nods. Sebastian looks back to me. “Sure. But I’ve got the Porsche. You think you can fit in the back seat?”

Right. I get stuck in the child’s seat. I notice Melody didn’t get asked about stuffing herself into the cramped back. Then again, she has about four inches on me and a lot more curves. Apparently in the right places to get Sebastian’s attention.

“Maybe we should get a cab. We can meet you there,” I say. “I’m still not a hundred percent from the accident. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy playing pretzel in the land rocket.”

He looks shocked, and I can tell he didn’t even consider it. “I’m sorry, Sage. I wasn’t thinking. It’s been a long day. Of course we can take two cars. John, would you call the girls a taxi?”

Melody smiles and goes in for the kill. I already know what she’s going to say before she says it.

Her voice is so velvety it’s like she has angel wings. “Is that yours? Wow. I’ve never been in a Porsche. Sage, would you mind if I rode with Sebastian?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say. I hope I don’t sound bitter. Sure, I’ll sit on a cracked vinyl seat while you ride in the hundred-fifty-grand sports car. No problem. Maybe I can wash it for you two when you’re done?

Sebastian grins. “I tend to drive too fast. Fair warning.”

I have to work on controlling my gag reflex when Melody answers. “Sometimes you have to live dangerously.”

The restaurant’s packed, but Sebastian uses his producer superpowers, and we get the next available table. He and Melody are laughing easily together, and I have to hand it to her – she’s got a gift. My equivalent seems more like a curse.

We order, and Sebastian regales us with stories about bands he’s worked with. He’s funny, in a bitter way – acerbic and sarcastic and irreverent. In a way he’s never been with me.

The salad comes and we dig in. Melody’s asking all the right questions, keeping it light, giving him ample opportunity to talk. I concentrate on not vomiting up my greens all over the table, and I wonder again why I’m suddenly so anti.

“So, Melody, what do you do?”

I snort and resist asking, “What doesn’t she do?” He looks at me and I shrug. “Sorry. Something went down the wrong way.”

Melody smiles brightly. “I’m getting ready to start college.”

My brow furrows. This is the first time I’ve heard about it. Maybe if cosmetology school can be considered college, she’s getting ready to go. In another ten months. She leaves out that she’s a senior in high school. I don’t volunteer it. None of my business.

“Oh, really? Which school?” Sebastian asks.

I set my fork down. Now this I have to hear.

“I haven’t made up my mind. My mom really wants me to go to Stanford, but I’m thinking I want a change of pace. Maybe something in L.A.” She focuses on Sebastian. “I like what I’ve seen of it so far.”

“It can be a fun town, but the colleges here are hard to get into. If you’ve got Stanford on the table, though, that’s going to be tough to beat.”

“I know. Nobody said it would be easy. That’s one of the reasons I’m down here. To try to decide. Check out the different aid packages and all that.”

That’s rich. If I didn’t know her I’d be falling for it hook, line, and sinker. But I know her. My admiration of her skills ratchets up another notch. She’s got the best game face I’ve ever seen. She should be going to Vegas to beat the house, not BS-ing about university. Last time we talked about it, she was pulling a solid C+ average, so I seriously doubt that she’s going to be getting a scholarship – or even admission – unless every other candidate dies.

“How old are you?” Sebastian asks.

Melody smiles flirtatiously. “Almost eighteen.”

Ha! As in, seven more months if a day. She’s closer to sixteen than eighteen, but why split hairs?

Sebastian finally comes to his senses. “That’s a great age. Ah, to be young again.”

Right, Sebastian. To be jailbait. The operating word in that term being the ‘jail’ part.

Melody senses where this is going and does an end run. “I know. I feel like I’m missing out, though. I look at Sage, who’s the same age, and she’s cutting a record and has been on national TV. Or look at the girl who was dating Seinfeld. She was seventeen when they tied the knot.” The clear message being that a few months one way or another are meaningless details. Especially for a famous producer.

“I don’t think they got married, Melody,” I say.

“Same difference. They were together for a long time.”

I’m pretty sure Melody was three years old when that happened, but I don’t push it. The point goes to her. She’s established that it’s completely fine for love to find a way, even if the guy’s in his thirties and the girl’s in her teens. I actually have no opinion on it – the truth is that if I hadn’t met Derek, I might have been way more interested in Sebastian, and he certainly seems interested in me.

Seemed. He’s now focusing his energy on more fertile ground.

I have to admit that Melody is exuding youthful sex appeal and freshness, which has to be attractive at any age. I can’t blame Sebastian – she’s got mad ninja skills when it comes to guys, and she’s using them all on him.

I resolve to sit back and watch her work instead of sniping at her. She’s my friend, and if what she wants is a roll in the hay with Sebastian, I’m not going to be the one who ruins it. I’ve almost wrecked my own relationship enough times – I don’t need practice.

Melody soldiers on after taking a ladylike sip of her soda. “Sebastian, tell me more about your work. It’s fascinating you’re so successful. And so young? What are you? Twenty-two?”

He laughs. “Hardly. Twenty-seven.”

“Still. That’s so young. My ex was about that age. It’s a shame he had to move to Europe. But tell me – how did you do it? How did you achieve all that in so little time?”

It’s like watching Yo-Yo Ma play the cello. A virtuoso performance. In less than two minutes she’s established that she’s mature, has dated a worldly guy Sebastian’s age, who I’m pretty sure is as invented as Bigfoot, and considers it normal – no, considers it a strong positive – to date older guys. And that she thinks it’s cool for them to date teenagers. All packaged so plausibly you can’t help but nod along.

I tune out as Sebastian describes his history. I’ve heard it before, and sitting in an Italian restaurant has reminded me of the times Derek and I had Italian together. Which takes me down the long road to where I miss him so much it’s like a sucker punch to the gut. I’m counting the hours until we’re done recording and I’ve picked a band for the tour.

Melody taps my hand, and I realize I spaced. She’s saying my name.

“Do you, Sage?” she asks, and I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“Depends,” I say, opting for the vaguest reply I can think of.

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that about you,” Sebastian says.

I feel like I should totally ask what it is I think ‘depends,’ but I already feel like an idiot, and I don’t want to compound it. Melody picks up the slack.

“Our Sage is a very modern girl,” she says, and I suddenly wonder whether she was describing something gross.

I’m saved by the waiter arriving with a plate of pasta the size of a Thanksgiving turkey and, the old standby, lasagna. It’s more than five people could eat, but waste not, I figure, and hold my plate out while Sebastian spoons a couple of pounds of heart clog onto it. It’s Melody’s turn next, and I just about faint when she gives Sebastian a demure look.

“Just a little. I eat like a bird.”

“Five times your bodyweight?” I ask under my breath and then catch myself. Well, birds are big eaters.

“What?” Sebastian asks.

“I said, it seems like forever since I ate.”

Sebastian nods and returns his attention to Melody, who’s picking at her pasta like it’s radioactive. I contrast that to the girl I know, who can wolf down a carton of Reese’s in seconds flat, and decide that all of this acting is way too much work. Thank God I don’t have to do it with Derek.

Which takes me right back to the place I was hoping to avoid.

Sebastian samples the pasta and grins. “Tell me this isn’t the best ever.”

“I’ve never tasted anything like it,” Melody says. “What an awesome place.”

“How long are you here for? We can come back before you leave,” he suggests.

“I fly out Sunday night. But I’m thinking of maybe switching my flight to Monday morning. Are they open Sundays?”

“If they aren’t, I’ll ask the chef to come in especially for you,” Sebastian says.

A piece of lasagna sticks in my throat, and I grope for my water glass like a total retard. Both Melody and Sebastian are frozen in place, horrified expressions on their faces as I make a hacking sound before I manage to swallow. I give them an embarrassed smile.

“Happens sometimes. Since the accident,” I say, taking advantage of the collar.
I’m not well. You’re lucky I don’t lose control of my bladder at the table.

“That’s terrible, Sage. You should talk to the doctor,” Melody says.

“I’ll be okay.” Maybe if I chew my food instead of swallowing it whole, like a boa constrictor.