you stop by on Wednesday? The room should be ready for you by then.”
Jo said, “Oh, I’m glad you guys were able to work that out! Not that I mind having you here, Layla. I just think—”
“Wait, what?” Shane’s voice rose.
I faced him. “I’m talking to Zion about renting his extra room. I can’t keep living out of a suitcase in Jo’s guest room.”
“You could move your stuff to my place for now.” He scratched his chin and held his breath in a way I read as a mirror to my normal awkward posing.
“That’s really nice, Shane, but—”
“I mean, until Zion’s ready. I’ll be gone in a couple of days anyway.”
It did make a certain sense. I’d imposed on Jo long enough, and I’d assumed or at least hoped I’d be going home with Shane again tonight. “Okay.”
His face brightened, reminding me of the night when I’d first seen him sitting in this very kitchen. When I’d first locked eyes with him, like he’d been my destiny. And here we sat now, not even a full week later, with expectations, with history. He waggled his eyebrows, happy again. “Good. Now that that’s settled . . . Where’s the food?”
Diced chicken sizzled in a wok. Soon, Pratosh began ladling it out, and Micah popped a bottle of champagne.
“Hope y’all don’t mind, but this is non-alcoholic.” He poured and passed out six flutes. Raising his, he said, “Happy birthday, Jo!”
Everyone chimed in. “Happy birthday!”
As we ate, conversation went from hopes for Jo’s success in the next year, to the amazing food, to touring, and landed on the topic of writing music, which Shane eagerly joined in. Zion, Jo, and Eden started a side conversation on their end of the counter, so I sat between Adam and Shane while Micah cross talked.
“It’s the meter that kills me,” Shane said. “Do you just write without regard to meter and fix later?”
Adam took a drink of water. “Depends. The structure can change a lot as a song morphs, so I try not to get too bogged down in lyrics at first.”
I started to lose my grip on normalcy. The Adam Copeland was discussing his songwriting process a half a foot from me. I’d spent one third of my life trying to get into that man’s head, analyzing song lyrics with other fans, speculating how they related to things going on in his personal life or in the world around him.
“You write the music before the lyrics?”
He frowned, thinking. “Sometimes. It’s more that I don’t get married to any particular lyrics until we’ve hammered out the melody. Like with ‘New Dawn,’ there’s a line that goes, we welcome a brand-new sun.” He sang it, and I leaned forward, wanting to ask him if he was singing about his son, but he went on. “The original lyric went something like, in the light of the rising sun, but I had to re-tool it a bit to fit the music. I’m kind of happy with it.”
My eyes fell on his mouth as he spoke, and I could superimpose a decade’s worth of images on those lips, from photos, to music videos, to concert bootleg. I’d seen thousands of photographs of those lips. I’d watched them make love to a microphone. I’d watched them smolder on the jumbotron, sitting in the audience, too far away to see them for real.
The reality of those lips curled up, pursed, or moved with the words he spoke with that voice I’d heard nearly every single day for ten years.
I hadn’t started my fan site to drool over Adam. In fact, I’d started it to learn how to build a website. When the band blew up, and people flocked to my site, I learned how to put up ads so I could earn revenue. Traffic increased. I made it my mission to be a one-stop source of photos, videos, news articles, tour info, and community. And in time, the site consumed my whole life.
My whole life devoted to this one man.
What did Adam think of what I did? Did he approve? Did he even care? I wanted to ask. Did my fan site make him proud?
“Layla? Hello?” Shane tapped me on the shoulder, and I pulled my gaze away from Adam and refocused my eyes. All the guys were watching me.
Adam said, “The salt, please? I didn’t want to reach over your plate.”
“Oh, sorry.” I passed it over, wondering how long I’d been mesmerized into a complete drooling idiot.