𝙹𝚄𝙽𝙺𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳༉‧₊˚. ᴄʜʀɪꜱ ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʟʟ

𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆-𝗼𝗻𝗲.

MARCH 1991
ON THE WAY TO SAUSALITO,
CALIFORNIA ࿐ྂ

MANY TIMES CHRIS HAD MADE THE TRIP FROM WASHINGTON TO CALIFORNIA,

stuffed in an old Econoline with his three bandmembers, sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder and making sure he drank enough gas station coffee or smoked enough reds to stay awake behind the wheel.
The Pacific Coast highway voyage with Delia was quite different; they spaced out the eight hundred miles, stopping in various coastal towns in Oregon and marveling at Northern California's redwoods.

It was a much-needed break from Seattle, especially for Chris, who was finally getting time to fine-tune songs he'd be recording once they reached their destination at Sausalitos Studio D. Sitting on the tailgate of Delia's Toyota with his guitar in his lap as the sun disappeared behind a tree-lined hill definitely beat the constant dreariness of Seattle and the consistent pestering calls from A&M.

Many nights, Chris found himself sharing things with Delia that he'd always thought he'd keep to himself, out of fear of steering a potential partner away—things from his childhood or personal issues he considered shortcomings, and even places where he thought he'd gone wrong with Delia. If it were any other person, he would assume she was playing along when she shrugged these things off or was unfazed by one of his stories. But Delia had always been honest and consistently reminded Chris of her many mistakes and colorful past, which, in her opinion, certainly undermined whatever he shared with her.

Of course, Chris brushed those off, too. The only thing Delia's past had ever made him feel was concern, which was now quickly fading, replaced with something reminiscent of love. He had no reason to worry when she slept beside him each night, assured she was safe and sound. That was the one thing he wouldn't tell her, though, that he worried, as that was the one thing Delia hated to hear, that her issues caused distress for someone other than herself. She'd always held onto some guilt for that reason but felt a little less every day when Chris assured her she had no reason to feel that way.

Despite all their deep discussions, Delia and Chris had yet to truly address the Astoria occurrence and each subsequent moment of intimacy over the past month.

Many nights they would end up in the same bed, fighting over Chris's quilt, only to end up entwined with one another. Oftentimes, they shared a few kisses while Chris pretended that Delia's pinky finger hooked on the waistband of his flannel pajama pants wasn't intentional.

It was in fact an incredibly calculated move by Delia, but she wasn't one bit upset that the pinky was the farthest they had gone. She enjoyed the lighthearted teasing, yet also knew that once that line was crossed, something would shift between them. She was almost scared to see if that shift would bring them closer or upset the already fragile non-relationship.

Chris's apprehension to continue mainly revolved around the fact Delia was one of his closest friends, and his roommate, and apparently the second parent to their now domesticated, once stray kitten. He was also in a relationship for five years- where stuff like initiating didn't matter so much. Now he felt like he had to think about things like timing and how much was too much. Which was tough to consider when his hands wandered her lower back, over the tattoos he'd once pretended not to watch as they'd move with her hips.

At least now Chris allowed himself to be less sly, letting himself notice things about her he never would have before- like the few freckles descending on her collarbone and the way she looked so calm when she slept next to him. Even small things he found too much enjoyment in, like now, with his hand drumming on her thigh in time with whatever song echoed through the pickups cab.

✺ ᥫ᭡꧂

Delia settled into the passenger seat when Chris took over the driving duties for the last stretch of road before they reached their destination. The sun was setting fast, and the skies were clear. The now visible cirrus clouds streaked across the warm orange and pink backdrop as the San Francisco Bay came into view.

Delia had also journeyed many times back and forth from California to the Pacific Northwest, most often during her elementary years to visit her mother in her freelance days as a journalist. Her mother would describe those times as her most creative, freely writing about the socio-political movements of the era and the music that emerged from them. But really, beneath the lofty descriptions she often used, much of Diane's late seventies was spent in a haze, lost in counterculture and dropping acid until her rainy day fund ran dry, forcing her back into the rituals of an 'office' job.

Delia would love to reject those antics of her mother and question her morals, but she knew she would do the same if faced with a choice between being anchored to one city and one little kid. In truth, she had enjoyed her travels, experiencing far more of the states than any of her peers in grade school.

But the road trip with Chris was far better than any plane or train ride she'd ever been whisked away on. Each stretch of road felt like a different world, each city illuminated in a new light, even the ones she'd visited before.

Delia hardly noticed the rhythm of Chris's fingers tapping on her thigh, that kind of casual touch had become familiar over the past few weeks. Still though, it usually came with a quick glance or small smile as if he was checking in just to be sure it was still alright.

It was always alright with Delia, and as much as she had hated on PDA (or really just any display of affection), she was more than okay with Chris's little touches, even if they were out at a show at the Off Ramp or hiking in Discovery Park. She loved that despite his weathered palms with the scars and battered fingertips, the weight of his hands was never overbearing or too much.

She realized how hard she had been staring at his hand, how focused her eyes were on every ridge and vein. She caught herself, forcing this admiration out of her head as she glanced at the side of his face before looking out the window, watching as they took the final exit to Sausalito.

They pulled into the Holiday Inn, and Chris promptly hopped out, starting to grab their bags. Delia took a second, groaning to herself as she stretched, sore from the day's driving. Chris tossed her a bag, laughing to himself when she failed to catch it.

"You're way too happy for having been in the car ten hours today." Delia sighed, but the random smile he sported made the corners of her lips turn up, too.

"We only did five today," Chris reminded her, grabbing the last of their items and taking the bag he had tossed back. Even though he carried all their luggage, Delia trailed behind as he grabbed the room key.

✺ ᥫ᭡꧂

It really wasn't too cold, a little over fifty accompanied by a crisp bay breeze. Nothing Chris couldn't handle from all his years in Seattle. So he sat outside, hunched with his guitar on a pool chair, the pool glistening as he stared off into the teal water.

His guitar was now neglected in his lap, Chris's distracted gaze in the water taking over as his thoughts spiraled. You'd never be able to tell either, how much he was in his own head.

Maybe it was because he was trying to force a melody that simply was not coming. Or maybe it was the lyrics he wrote- how even a band like Poison wouldn't use them. Chris didn't want to confront the fact he was cursed with a creative drought, as he was finally in Sausalito, about to begin recording for Badmotorfinger. The ideas needed to be flowing. Yet they were not.

And Chris knew why, even if he didn't want to admit it. It was hard to find space to create songs when his mind had been hindered simply by the thought of the hotel room waiting for him, the hazel eyes he knew were waiting to study him, to ask how his songwriting was going.

His songwriting wasn't going at all, because love songs weren't suited for Badmotorfinger with its strange tunings and time signatures. Unless he wished for side-eyes from his band mates for far too soft lyrics, Delia occupying his head was not something he could turn into material.

If it was, he'd have written a novel already, not the sorry beginnings of a rock album.

࿔･✮⋆𖦹