Page 34 of Stray for You

The experiences replay involuntarily in my head, and a confusing mix of hot and cold batters at my chest. Even when I’ve dated a guy for months and months, none of them treated me the way Julian did that one night. It was like every single individual hair on my body, every flake of skin, every breath was so precious to him that he meant to imprint them on his lips.

I shiver and only then realize all of my bandmates are staring at me.

“You alright, man?” Tim says.

“Huh? Yeah,” I say.

“You’re kinda spacing out on us,” Kelsey says.

I look to Erin, the unofficial leader of the group, but she offers me no help whatsoever.

“If you’re tired from work or something…” she says.

“I’m fine,” I insist with a bit too much bite. “Let’s do the next song.”

My bandmates share a glance, but none of them protest. I make sure I’m on my game when we launch into the next song. It’s the chorus of something Erin is still hammering out, but the skeleton is solid. I already have the music in my fingers, and I make sure I hit every note so that by the time Erin waves us off, no one can complain about my playing.

Erin grabs a notebook off a table. We’re in her parents’ basement in a suburb of Seattle. Studio space is way too expensive for us to waste the cash on practice, and fortunately her parents have a recurring date on Tuesday nights. It gives us an opportunity to practice for free without disturbing a whole apartment complex.

Still, a basement is a basement. Tim quiets his drums with pads. Kelsey and I aren’t using amps. Erin sings without a microphone. The sound isn’t quite right. It’s not close to what it would be if this was “real,” but it’s the best a struggling band like us can do. We all know we can step up if we get a chance, that nice equipment and a nice space won’t change the fundamentals that we’re hammering out here today.

Erin nods and smiles as she jots something down in her notebook. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I think that’s coming along.”

She speaks half to herself, but the rest of us are used to her creative process by now. This is how Erin molds the shapeless putty of an idea into an actual song. She’s written most of what we’ve played, with the rest of us contributing our knowledge ofour instruments. I’ve thrown in bits and pieces now and then, but Erin usually does the writing when it comes to lyrics. She’s our leader for a reason — she’s good at the ideas, at the logistics, at seeing the big-picture vision. When she talks about The Ten Hours, we sound like a real band and not some dopes in a basement.

“Let’s do it one more time,” she says. “I need to see how the bridge connects to that last verse. That okay with you guys?”

We all nod, more than happy to follow her vision. I’m especially grateful, I suspect. Working on something new requires more concentration than replaying the stuff we’ve performed dozens of times. Those songs are imprinted into my fingers; the new stuff hasn’t transformed into muscle memory quite yet.

We go through the section a few times before Erin calls us off. She grabs her notebook and flops onto the beat up on couch in her parents’ basement to start scribbling. There’s not much down here with us besides that couch and the coffee table. We cleared out the storage area of the basement to make space for Tim’s drum kit. The floor is cold concrete. Cobwebs cling to the exposed wood of the unfinished ceiling. A single bald lightbulb hangs down, accompanied by a chain for turning it on and off.

Despite that, this has become a cozy space for all of us, a place where we’re free to do our music however we want. Honestly, I kind of prefer it to a bar or stage. Here, it’s just about the music. It’s raw; it’s real. We’re not performing for anyone but ourselves, even if we do plan to take our art out into the world eventually.

Erin is still furiously scrawling notes. Idle and awkward, I pluck at my guitar. Without intending to, I pick at the chords of my own song, humming the few lines I’ve managed to write.

For the second time this evening, I look up to find my entire band staring at me.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Erin says.

“What is?” I ask, already suspicious.

“That was your song, right?” she says. “We should work on that a little.”

I flush with cold dread. “It’s … it’s not even done. We… I can’t. I haven’t even…”

“There’s something there, though,” Erin says. “I heard you just now.”

“It’s a couple chords and a few lines,” I say. “It’s nothing. You guys would hate it.”

“We won’t,” Erin says. “And besides, we’re a band. We’re here to help each other with stuff like this.”

“But it’s…”

Erin tosses her notebook aside and stands, planting her hands on her hips. “We never make lyrics alone. These areoursongs, Cameron. You’ve written for us before. It’s a good thing. It brings some fresh ideas and a new voice to our songs. I can’t write everything. It’ll sound like me all the time.”

“But…”

I look to Tim and Kelsey, seeking any safe harbor, but Tim shrugs and Kelsey smiles wickedly. I back up a step, but there’s nothing behind me except cold concrete. I’m not escaping this basement so easily.

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