More Than Anything (32 page)

I check another site, and the coverage is more lurid. Someone purporting to be the victim’s friend described Derek as being drunk and aggressive. The closing comment from the unnamed witness sticks in my brain as I close the browser: “Who gets wasted and goes looking for trouble on a Wednesday?”

Jeremy answers, and he sounds subdued, his usual singsong tone flat. “I gather you already heard.”

“How could he do this? I’m coming to New York on Saturday. It’s like he’s trying to ruin everything,” I say.

“Don’t ask me, girlfriend. I’m a lover, not a fighter. But it seems like your boy there gets all
Fight Club
when he has a few.”

“I just can’t believe it.”

“Are you still coming out?”

“If he’s in jail, what’s the point?”

“I don’t think he’ll be in for more than twenty-four hours. It’s not like he robbed a bank.”

“He’s underage, in a club, drunk, and in a fight. Doesn’t say a lot about respect for the law, does it? Maybe they’ll want to teach him a lesson. Make an example out of him since he’s a celebrity.”

“Don’t get too carried away.
You
get into a fight, that’s news. Derek? No offense, and I love his work, but you won the contest, not him. His newsworthiness has a much sharper drop-off than yours. Have you tried calling him?”

“Not yet. I’m trying to calm down and think of what I’m going to say.”

“Give him a ring. If he answers, then you know he’s not in jail, so that’s a start.”

I disconnect and take several deep breaths. I remember Helen’s advice about not being judgmental, but that’s easier said than done. All I could think about is being in Derek’s arms, and meanwhile he’s out at clubs until all hours, drunk and violent. I wonder whether that’s his typical weeknight out, and wonder what else he does that I don’t know about. I remember his being spotted with Serena, and my stomach twists. I realize I have no idea what he’s up to when I’m not there. And the evidence isn’t exactly positive.

I call his number, and he answers on the fourth ring. I hear conversation in the background, so he’s probably in the studio – or at his lawyer’s.

I want to say something kind and supportive, but what comes out is anything but. “So did you break your hand again?”

“Sage! No, I’m fine. This is all getting blown way out of proportion.”

“Yeah, I woke up to my phone going berserk with messages about you in the news. Out drunk and fighting. Typical Wednesday night.”

“I wasn’t drunk.”

“Right. But you did get into a fight.”

“He got into my face and started pushing me, being a douche bag. I tried to get him to back off, but he was looking to beat me down. Probably recognized me from the show.”

“Huh. But they didn’t arrest him?”

“He knows everybody there. So he had a lot of people lying for him.”

I can’t take this. I start sobbing. “Derek, I’m coming on Saturday, and you go and do this. It’s like whenever we have a chance at something, you trash it–”

“Sage, last time I checked, I didn’t crash into you on the way to the airport.” His voice is soft, but the steel in it is unmistakable.

“You know what I mean. The drinking, breaking your hand, now this…”

“This is some punk deciding to get into the news, Sage. That’s all it is. It’ll go away. You’ll see.”

“So they dropped the charges?”

He pauses. “Not yet. But they’re investigating. I’m hoping someone besides my engineer comes forward. He was with me.”

“Then it’s just the other guy’s word against yours?”

“I’m hoping it isn’t. Other people must have seen it.”

“How much did you drink, Derek?” I ask and hate myself for it as the words come out of my mouth. I sound like a total nag.

“Two beers. Maybe three. I wasn’t drunk.” Now he sounds defensive. The discussion’s quickly going in the wrong direction. I want our interaction to be about how much we mean to each other, but it’s turned into me ragging on him and him tuning out.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later once I’m done for the day,” I say, stifling the anger that’s bubbling up like acid.

“Sage…”

“I’m already late.” I hang up before I can do any more damage. Going off on Derek does no good. And I have no proof that he isn’t telling the truth – in which case, he really hasn’t done anything wrong.

But I’m furious as I hurry to get ready. I don’t want another tense day with Sebastian because I’m late. I forego breakfast and make it on time, and thankfully someone’s brought a dozen donuts and left them in the coffee room. I gratefully munch on a chocolate glazed as I pour myself some coffee, and then move to the couch by the control room. Sebastian is sitting across from me, a troubled look on his face.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. Rough morning.”

He’s obviously heard. “You talk to him yet?”

“Yup. He’s out of jail. Nothing’s broken. Says it was all a big mistake.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrow. “I’ve been going to clubs for years, and I’ve never gotten into a fight.”

Point taken. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now. Did you work on the song any more?” I ask, knowing the answer already.

“Of course. I think we’re good to go. You okay to give it a listen?”

I shrug. “Sure.” It’ll be good to have something to take my mind off Derek.

We pad into the studio, and John rolls the tape. Sebastian isn’t completely happy and adjusts a few levels and then plays it again. And again. And again, fiddling with faders and knobs and gain structures until my eyes glaze over.

I decide it’s an emergency, so two donuts are warranted. The second tastes better than the first, and I consider diving headfirst into the bag and wolfing them all down, but restrain myself. I check in the bathroom mirror to make sure I don’t have powder or glaze ringing my mouth and then return to the control room, my black cloud of rage slowly dissipating as the day wears on.

At lunch I call Melody again and tell her Derek’s side of the story, but she sounds unconvinced. “I suppose it’s possible. Anything’s possible,” she says.

“Right. But he wouldn’t have had the problem if he wasn’t at a club, drinking.”

“True. Then again, he’s a rock star, right? What’s the point if you’re not going to be out partying?” She pauses. “You sound totally pissed.”

“Do I?” Of course I do. I am.

“Uh, yeah. I’m glad you never get angry with me.”

“How can I? You’re my chocolate bud and my BFF.”

“Don’t forget how I’m almost your producer’s girlfriend.”

“Almost?”

“Technical difficulties.”

“The age thing?”

She laughs. “More like the NorCal, SoCal thing.”

“Mmm. Well, maybe you’ll move down here if you decide Stanford isn’t for you.”

“Very funny. This is serious. I have to figure out some way to make it down again, this time for good.”

“Isn’t that a little…rushed? I mean, you’ve known him for, what, a couple days?”

“How long did Romeo know Juliet? Brad know Angelina?”

“I don’t remember. But I think it was more than two days.”

“Why are you trying to kill my buzz? I had an amazing time, Sebastian and I have something powerful going on, and you’re being all negative.”

“Reading about your boyfriend getting arrested does that to you, I hear.”

Melody’s always about Melody. At least she’s consistent. But I’m surprised at how determined she sounds about coming back down, and I hope she won’t be disappointed by Sebastian. He’s got a completely different life than she does, and I wouldn’t bet money on them getting past the torrid sex stage.

Not that I can speak to that. Although I’m certainly hopeful. Or I was.

Now I don’t know what I’m feeling. I still want Derek in the worst way, but the arrest has thrown me and has me questioning how much I trust him. Which gets my negative inner voice going.

I turn the phone off and trudge back into the studio for another six hours of working on the song, which sounds fine to me the way it is. But Sebastian has different ears than I do, and he’s still not happy with the mix. So we go through it again and again, but my mind’s not on it.

By the time the day ends, he’s finally satisfied, and we only have two more songs to mix before the album’s done. We’re going to shoot for having one finished by the time we leave tomorrow night, and he’ll do the final one without me – a standard, which will pose no challenge for him.

The truth is he could have mixed the entire record without me, and I would have been happy with it. Everything so surpasses my wildest expectations it’s impossible to hurt the songs, and having me in the room is more about Sebastian making me feel involved in every step than about necessity. I can see how it would get crazy with a band, four or five different members with different takes on what should be highlighted, but with a solo artist it’s hard to go wrong.

I’ve mellowed out over the course of the afternoon and call Derek on the way to rehearsal. He sounds excited when he answers.

“I told you it would go away.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, I thought that was why you were calling. The cops dropped the charges. Some witnesses came forward that backed my story. It’s on the web.”

“Really? That’s awesome.” And it is. What isn’t so awesome is that I didn’t believe him. I was so quick to assume he’d gotten into a drunken fight and think the worst of him. I feel like a clump of goo under a rock.

“They asked me if I want to file any charges, but I said no. That just gives him what he was after.”

“I’m glad it turned out okay, Derek. It’s pretty heartbreaking to read about you on the web and not know what’s going on…”

“Don’t worry. You’re here in just a couple of days, right? Two more nights?” His voice softens. “That’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

Well, not all, exactly, if you’re out at clubs
, but I don’t say it. “That’s right. Saturday night.”

“I can hardly wait.”

A thrill shoots through me as I envision Derek holding me in his arms. In his naked arms, glistening with shower spray. The mental image makes a part of me melt, and suddenly two days is an eternity.

“I know. But only for four nights.”

“Right, but then in a few weeks I can come out to L.A. I’m still working on that, but the label’s really putting pressure on me to finish the record and get ready to tour. I think they’ve negotiated a deal to put me out with Boomerang for their East Coast tour.”

Boomerang’s an indie band that’s gotten popular over the last couple of years and has a lot of fans. “That’s great! When does it start?”

“We’re still waiting for confirmation, but they’re thinking in a month.”

“Wow. How’s your band?”

“Pretty good. We should be ready.” Derek’s gone through the same process I have, and we’re in lockstep in terms of timing. No surprise there – both labels want the records released yesterday, if not sooner.

“Great.” The cab arrives at the rehearsal studio, and I fumble some bills out as I shoulder the phone. “Hey, I’ll call you later, okay? I’m at rehearsal.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Do what you need to do. I’ll be around,” he says.

I stop on the sidewalk and take a deep breath. “I miss you, Derek. More than you know.”

His voice softens and I can barely hear his response. “Me too.”

By the time Saturday arrives, I’m a wreck. I haven’t been able to sleep for the last two nights, as I play and replay every possible scenario in my head. I know I suck, but I can’t help myself. I hate that I’m such a spaz – I’ve worked myself into a complete lather by the time I board the plane.

Fortunately, nobody recognizes me with my baseball hat and oversized sunglasses, and I busy myself playing with my tablet so I don’t have to talk to the lady next to me, who seems about as interested in doing so as I am in eating a fistful of ants. We sit in our little spaces, carefully not looking at each other’s stuff, making sure we don’t touch when our meals arrive, our elbows locked at our sides like penguin wings.

The flight’s turbulent, completely different than the first crossing, and the pilot comes over the speaker several times to warn us that it “might get a little bumpy,” which I’ve learned is code for “now’s when you’ll run through every prayer you’ve ever learned.”

Our arrival at JFK is anticlimactic – there’s some kind of delay, so we sit on the runway for a half hour until a gate clears for us to deplane. I’m gnawing on my fingernails, and I’m surprised they aren’t bloody stubs by the time we make it down the Jetway.

When I walk into the arrivals area, I look around for the driver with the sign – Terry arranged for a car service to take me to Jeremy’s, which was thoughtful of her.

A tall man with olive skin and a bored expression on his face, wearing black slacks and a white dress shirt, spots me and motions with the Sage sign. I approach, and he’s got that fan boy look on his face. I hope this isn’t a mistake, but relax when he turns out to be nice, funny, and not at all interested in serial killing me or raping me or anything.