Perfect Tunes - Emily Gould Page 0,46
alone with her thoughts, was almost better than having a drink with a friend. Okay, it was better. But any longer than thirty minutes and she would relax too fully, get too luxuriously wrapped up in her solitude, and Callie’s eventual arrival would be as jarring as an early-morning alarm clock intruding on a pleasant dream.
She ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and a pint of IPA, then claimed a seat close to the front windows of the dimly lit Pencil Factory bar so that she could read. She had forgotten to bring a book, so she had to read the daily free newspaper that she found on a barstool. Any text that wasn’t about Busytown was a balm to Laura’s brain.
When Callie finally arrived, the grilled cheese was long gone and Laura was well into her second IPA, a decision she would likely regret at five forty-five the next morning. The sun was setting, and the bar was fully transitioning from late-afternoon sleepiness to its more bustling nighttime mode. Callie had done her eyeliner in the same way that she’d worn it in the music video where Callie and Davey, who were no longer romantically involved, made out in a field of poppies that turned into dripping hearts as they slid hypnotically down the screen toward a puddle of what looked like blood on the floor. That particular song wasn’t like the rest of the Clips’ second album; it sounded more like one of Laura’s songs, with a simple structure and a basic, hooky chord progression. That was because Laura had written it. The songwriting credit, especially since it had gotten licensed to a commercial, had provided enough cash to pay off one of her credit cards, and it continued to provide a small but much-needed cushion of what now felt like checks for nothing. Whenever Laura heard it, which was rarely because she never really sought out new music these days, she felt like she could hear something missing in it. Possibly her voice.
Callie seemed, on the surface, not to notice that people were looking at her, but Laura had known her long enough that she could see the emboldening effect a little bit of attention had on her. She straightened up and became more poised and pretty. Looking at Callie was like looking at an image of Callie: her edges were so crisp. Laura had taken some pains with her own appearance, but she was very conscious of her own blurriness—the halo of frizz across the surface of her air-dried, split-ended hair, the pills of fuzz on her years-old black acrylic cardigan. Laura wasn’t unattractive, she knew, by anyone’s standards—she was young, and thin because she barely had time to eat, and her face was still open and inviting. But Callie was an idea that people were already familiar with. They looked at her and saw their memory of her superimposed on her actual self. That was being famous.
“You have a little something … here, let me,” she said as she reached over to dislodge the tiny piece of burnt grilled cheese crumb from the corner of Laura’s mouth. It was a disorienting moment of humiliation mixed with pleasure; she was a slob, but also, how nice to be gently touched. It had been a while since anyone had touched her.
“I’m just going to grab a drink. You need a refill?” Callie pointed to Laura’s glass as she walked to the bar. Her glass still had a few sips left in it. Laura hesitated, knowing that if she did, Callie would decide for her. The drinks she ordered came quickly, even though there had been several people waiting before her, and she set another beer down in front of Laura, and a vodka soda in front of herself. She clinked the rim of her glass against Laura’s and started politely asking her about her life and politely listening to her answers, or at least pretending to.
Laura had long since stopped trying to fill Callie in on specifics. Spinning the latest events of Marie’s life into a funny anecdote for someone who didn’t have any points of reference for what little kids were like just made her feel gross, like a bad stand-up comedian, and like she was selling out Marie’s intimate little details in a way that was disrespectful to her. With a fellow parent—someone from Marie’s day care or one of her coworkers—she would not have hesitated to share the week’s big events, which had included Marie