'Til You're Mine

2015

In the spring, there's more talk of finding a studio, bringing in Zach, contacting some sound engineers James knows, but nothing ever gets nailed down. We continue to work in Alex's studio, mostly just Alex and me, but very often the three of us all together. And though we so often are working alone, or end up alone in his house when the sun is going down, having a drink and dinner, there's no conversation about what happened between us after Joshua Tree. Or any indication that it's going to happen again. Other than a pretty steady flow of what I would have always called flirting. And texting when I'm not at his house. Which, to be honest, isn't that often.

I can't say I'm not disappointed. One, because I'm desperately trying not to have any actual feelings of romance towards Alex; and two, because I can't pretend he didn't give me the best orgasm of my life.

The two best orgasms of my life, actually. He made me come twice.

But I act like nothing is amiss. Other than what I write when I'm home at night and bring to him in the morning. Sometimes it's only a chord progression, or bits of lyrics that I can't fit into anything specific, but always inspired by or directly about him. And if he can tell, he doesn't let on.

We spend one day in late April playing that song I brought to him after Joshua Tree– the one called 'Til You're Mine'. James was going to join us, kept pushing off when he'd be able to get to Al's, and then said he wouldn't be making it all together. But we keep working until dusk, and then break to order food. Alex pours us both a drink and pulls out his swatch of menus.

"What'll it be, McDermott?"

I scan the options, tequila still burning my throat from my first sip, and then say, "I actually don't think I'm that hungry."

He shrugs, tosses the menus onto the counter and picks up his drink. "No rush."

I take another large drink and then look out the back door, to the light glinting off the pool as the sun begins to dip behind the mountains. Soon the heat will burn off from the day, and it will actually be chilly outside. But until then, it still looks dazzlingly hot out.

"All right?"

My eyes have gone soft and unfocused staring at the surface of the pool, and I have to blink to pull my gaze back to Alex. He's smirking at my distractedness, and I smile, saying, "Just thinking about how the weather here is still a novelty."

He nods, turning to look out onto the pool too. "Fancy a bit of sun?"

He grabs the tequila bottle and I follow him out onto the patio, where we sit on lounge chairs by the pool. Though the sun is low in the sky, it's still harsh, and I'm immediately sweating in my jean shorts. I lay back on one of the chairs and close my eyes, feeling the air conditioned cold seep from my fingers, chased away by the California heat.

I hear Alex refill both of our glasses, but I don't move. We're both quiet for several long minutes, and I think I could doze off when he speaks again, asking, "How long have you been in L.A.?"

"Two years. About," I reply, prying one eye open to look over at him. He's still sitting up on his lounge chair, turned to face me. "What about you?"

It occurs to me that I don't know when Alex made the move from England to the U.S., or if he's technically living transatlantically. Maybe he has a house in London that's sitting there, currently unused. I have a vague memory of coming across an article in my initial online stalking of him– before we even met– about him making the move to L.A., but I only saw the headline in passing so I don't even know when it was written.