I can’t hide my surprise. Or my guilt, because it sounds like he bought me something without Claudia ordering him to, while I didn’t get him a single thing. Not even a Valentine’s Day card. Should I have?
“Anyway…” Another shrug. “Here.”
He hands me a square of paper. I stare at it, because, well, I wasn’t expecting a folded-up piece of paper. Did he write me a letter? My heart speeds up. Or maybe a song?
My confusion returns once I unfold the sheet and see what’s written on it. It’s a list of ingredients, followed by instructions like stir and mix and dust with cocoa. It takes me a second to realize it’s a recipe for tiramisu.
“Oh,” is all I can think to say.
“You said you were looking for a good tiramisu recipe, so…” Oakley shifts in his seat, looking slightly uncomfortable. “So I called Francisco Bello—you’ve heard of him, right? He’s on—”
“Cast-Iron Cookoff!” I finish, naming one of the most popular cooking competition shows currently on TV. Excitement builds in my tummy. “Are you saying he gave you his recipe? His secret recipe?”
“Yup.” He offers a half smile. “It pays to know Oakley Ford, huh?”
I can’t even believe this. Francisco Bello is notoriously tight-lipped about his dishes. Outsiders aren’t allowed into the kitchens of any of his restaurants, and on the show they blur out some of the things he does so that the audience can’t guess the recipe.
“Oh, my God. This is…” I shake my head in astonishment. “So cool. I can’t wait to make this!”
That gets me another smile. “Thought you’d like it.”
Like it? I love it. Except, it’s just another gesture on Oakley’s part that fills me with pure and utter confusion. Why is he giving me gifts? And why won’t my heart stop racing every time he’s around?
I swallow hard, wishing I had answers, but it seems like lately all I have is more questions.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“You’re welcome.”
Our gazes lock for a beat. I think Oak wants to say something more, but the car comes to a stop, and we abruptly break eye contact.
“We’re here,” Big D announces.
“You been to a studio before?” Oak asks as we wait for a gate to open. The moment between us has passed, but my chest still feels warm and gooey as I tuck the prized recipe into my canvas purse.
“No, never,” I admit.
“It’s not very fancy. Soundproof rooms, a lot of equipment. Want a tour?”
Outside the gate, a few photographers who must camp out at the studio waiting for artists to show up yell for Oak to turn his head. Some of them even yell my name. Big D positions himself between Oak and the street, and Oak ignores them as he pulls the door open.
“Sure.”
The studio is two stories. “Offices are up top, three sound studios down here and one upstairs.”
“How does it work?”
“Depends on if your band is getting along.”
“Really?”
“Yup.” He throws one door open and gestures for me to go in. “If you’re all getting along then you record together. Otherwise, you have a session band record the melody and then each band member comes in and lays down their individual tracks. The sound engineers put them all together and then everyone comes back to do their vocals.”
“That sounds complicated.”
“No question it’s a lot easier when the band is a big happy family.”
In the room, there are black leather sofas sitting at an L, a couple of stools, guitar stands and a synthesizer. “No drums?” I ask.
“Nah, drummers are the worst. Each guy has his own kit. The best ones refuse to work on anything but their own.”
Oak lets me poke at a few of the instruments before opening the door to another room—this one with a ton of machines with dials and levers, three huge computer screens and more sofas. It’s littered with empty beer bottles and reeks of cigarette smoke.
“Stinks, doesn’t it? This is Ren Jacobs’s mixing room. He’s a genius with the computer, but smokes like a chimney. If he wasn’t so talented, they’d have kicked his ass out a long time ago.”
“You don’t record here?”
“Nope. Thankfully, these pipes don’t need Auto-Tuning.” He taps his throat.
“What is that exactly?”
“It’s a computer software program that allows a sound guy to nudge a note up or down the scale, making sure everything’s in tune. I prefer to sing until it’s perfect and my engineer splices the recordings together. More timeconsuming, but at least I know it’s all me. Okay, so here we have the different mixers—analog and digital for the multitracks—”
I watch his arm as he points, his muscles flexing. I guess I’d be proud of my arms, too, if I had “guns” like his. They really are impressive.
Oak catches me looking and gives me a knowing wink. “Every piece of equipment in here is state-of-the-art.”
So I was staring. Sue me. “Why are you so…”
“What? Good-looking?”
“No, built. Like, why do you have muscles? Is it because you like looking that way or for the image or what?”
He tucks his hands into the tops of his pockets. “Playing tours is hard work. You gotta be fit. And yeah, looking like this sells records. Not gonna lie. Plus, the ladies love it.”
It’s a good thing he doesn’t wink again, because I would’ve hit him, but he’s not wrong. He is lovely to look at.
“Why are you so eager to work with Donovan King?” I ask when we reach the hall again.
“You’re full of questions today, aren’t you?”
I shrug. “You seem full of answers.”
He stops and leans against the wall. I take up a position opposite him. “King’s a genius. He can pull music out of you that you didn’t even know existed. I’ve been trying to make a new record for two years. I’ve been through four different producers. I’ve collaborated with a dozen different songwriters. I’ve invited in all kinds of artists to jam with me. Pop stars, rock bands, reggae, rap. I even did a session with an acapella group. Every time I’ve cued up one of the recordings, they’ve all sounded exactly like my previous three albums. I don’t need to record a new album. I’ll just mix up the previous three and shit that out.” He drags a frustrated hand through his hair. “But I don’t want that. I don’t think my fans want that. At the very least, I can’t go on tour and sing this same crap over and over. The idea of going on a multicity tour all over the world in a replay makes me want to drown myself in the ocean.” He gives his hair one last scrub, tips his head and looks at me.
“When you were at the club singing, every person in there thought you sang to them. It doesn’t matter what your sound is. People are always going to want to hear you.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“I’m never nice to you.” We both snicker. “It’s the truth. I wish I was half as passionate about something in my life as you are about your music.”
He cocks his head to the side. “What about your art?”
I wave a dismissive hand. “That’s just a hobby. I’m not interested in being an artist.” I pause. “I’m going to get my teaching degree.”
“But if you’re not passionate about that, why do it?”
“My parents were teachers,” I explain, trying to articulate something out loud that’s not entirely clear in my head. “My father was a middle school science teacher and my mom taught fourth grade.”
“So before the kids become little shits.”
“Basically. They were—We were happy.”
“Hmmm.” He slowly nods. His face shows that he understands without me having to say another word. How my dreams of the future are tied with my loss of the past.
But teaching makes sense to me, or at least it used to make sense. I mean, I have to pick something. I can’t exactly go my entire life without any direction. I’ll need a career, and following in my parents’ footsteps seems like the logical thing to do.