Perfect Tunes - Emily Gould Page 0,70
like a distraction might be just what you need right now!”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I have a gig guest-curating a playlist for Google Play, like, a mixtape of sorts, and I want to put one of your songs on it. A new song, not one of the old ones.”
Laura gave herself time to think by signaling to the bartender to top up her glass again, which this time she managed easily. Her gut reaction to any addition to her workload, mental or emotional or physical, was a resounding no. But Callie wasn’t going to keep offering her third and fourth and fifth chances forever, and she had recently touched her guitar for the first time in years.
“You really don’t have to do that. It is so nice of you to want to do a favor for me,” she hedged.
Callie sighed. “I’m not doing this as a favor for you. I don’t do favors, really, you know that. I got this assignment, I’m supposed to come up with stuff no one else could get, and I think you’d fit in perfectly with the other things I’m putting on there. I’m going for a sort of low-fi vibe, a little bit retro. It’s due next week. I just thought I’d mention it.”
“I have so much stuff I have to do between now and next week. Maybe if I had more time?”
It was rare for Callie to betray exasperation, but her patience seemed thinner than usual. There were bags under her eyes, too, Laura noticed, though she had taken pains to conceal them.
“You’ll never have more time, Laura. You keep saying things will be different in the future, but it’s never happening.”
“Well, I still have hope!” Laura tried to say brightly, but there was an edge of desperation in her voice.
She signaled for the check but then didn’t even feint toward it when it came. Callie could afford to pick it up. Callie had no idea what anything really cost.
* * *
Walking back to the subway Laura felt numb, and not in a good way. Callie’s offer made it seem like the universe was trying to tell her something, but for the moment at least she was determined to ignore it. The universe could go fuck itself.
She got a seat to herself on the F train when it came. Even better, the seat next to hers had a pen mark on it that looked like dirt, so no one sat down next to her. She spread out into the unaccustomed space, took out her phone, and prepared to lose herself completely in a stream of images of other people’s happy lives.
Sunsets, succulents, babies, pets, and food usually soothed her, but right now the magic wasn’t working. She had an echo of the same thought she’d had about the window boxes that morning—someone had fanned out that avocado, planted those succulents, given birth to that adorable baby, and picked out the organic cotton onesie and then buttoned it up despite his thrashing. All of that labor, all for what? So that Laura would have something to immerse her tired brain in on the way home to her less picturesque life? She had the impulse to add her own photo to the top of the feed, and she scrolled through her camera roll looking for something to add, but there was nothing there that might make her life seem desirable to any imagined outside observer. She should have taken a selfie with Callie. That would have gotten a ton of likes, but it wasn’t the kind of thing she would ever do. It would feel wrong, for the same reason accepting Callie’s offer would seem wrong. She was determined to succeed or not based on her own merit, not her proximity to Callie’s fame. Part of her knew this was dumb. If you really wanted to succeed, you’d use everything in your arsenal.
But what would “success” mean, then? What would constitute success for Laura? It was too late to replicate what Callie had, and anyway, that was a level of fame she wasn’t even sure she wanted. Just being able to make music, and perform for people who liked it, would be enough, she thought. Not having to listen to flat scales played on the recorder by bored eight-year-olds anymore would be a bonus.
But she was too scared, or too busy, or too distracted, or just too tired, to do what was necessary to make her dreams come true. And also, if she devoted