'Til You're Mine

2015

I don't know what to expect when Dani drops me off at Alex's next for work. I worry that things will be different, but in the worst way: that it will be awkward, things will be stilted, he'll regret it and say it was unprofessional. On the other hand, I'm terrified everything will be exactly as it was before– as if nothing happened at all.

It's hard to tell though, because James is there when Alex lets me in, and they're both already talking about the new song and making plans for the days ahead. Before we even start working– while they're still casually sipping coffee in the kitchen, talking about fucking chord changes or something– I'm leaning against the counter, feeling as if I'm underwater, because Alex won't meet my eyes, but he's acting like everything's fine.

Things don't get much better once we get to work.

Writing, singing, even talking about music, feels like a labor from the second we go into his basement studio. It's like banging my head against a brick wall, or scratching myself raw but never relieving the itch. Everything we do is reminiscent of standing in the dead end of a maze, and every word or gesture from Alex seems like a riddle I'm trying to work out. And James is inflaming my frustration by merely existing; which isn't fair, because he's the only one engaging with me today as far as I'm concerned. Alex is acting as if I'm part of the furniture, and I'm not breathing properly because of it.

"That doesn't sound right," he says, over and over, while I sit before the mic. And he's not being mean about it, but he never looks at me, and he never expands on why. And any suggestion James makes as to why my voice sounds off, or why something just isn't working from my end, makes me tense up even more. Despite the fact that, once again, he's just trying to help.

By the time James has to leave around two o'clock for a meeting, we've barely gotten anywhere. I stay in the studio, pretty sure I'm vibrating out of my skin, when Alex walks him out, saying that we'll keep working and see if we can get somewhere.

Once I hear the door close behind James, I feel as if I'm about to tear my hair out. Not just because I can't read Alex, but because I don't want to be this affected by it to begin with.

When Alex comes back he sees me pacing, and he asks: "What's up?"

"What?" The word falls out before I can think of anything more eloquent to say.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," I blurt, suddenly desperate to be the cool, aloof girl I could picture Alex with– and already failing. "I'm fine."

"Why don't we go out?"

"What?"

Goddamnit. If I meant to seem cool at all, I'm shooting that straight to shit with my monosyllabic grunting.

"Yeah, let's get out of here," he says, grabbing his black, studded cowboy-esque jacket off the back of his chair. "We've been cooped up too much, 'aven't we?"

Other than running out to get coffee or sandwiches, Alex and I have spent very little time alone outside of his house. Aside from the Chateau Marmont and Joshua Tree. It seems strange– given how well I feel I know him, and how much time we've spent sharing our lives through music, over the phone, in conversation. It's almost like I can imagine him in any scenario, transposed against any backdrop. As if I've already seen him in every setting without ever having actually experienced it. Or maybe that's the phantom Alex I've dreamed up in my mind.

"Come on," he smiles crookedly at me, and heads back out of the room.

We don't speak as he leads the way out the front door, and we get into his car. Or when he starts to drive down the winding hills and into Studio City. The question as to where we're going flutters behind my breastbone, soothed into submission by breathing in Alex's cigarette smoke and listening to The Doors play on the radio. I want to ask, but not enough to break the magic of the silent afternoon between us. And we don't drive long anyway, before Alex is parking outside of a dingy-looking bar packed into a nondescript strip mall.