Chapter Text
I know microwaved food is supposed to be bad for you. But you can't really expect me to eat cold pizza leftovers, right? The microwave wouldn't have been invented if it didn't have a purpose. At least that's what I tell myself as I make myself comfortable on my shitty bed, switching on the TV, a plate with now-warm pizza in my hand. Just as I'm about to take the first bite, my phone starts buzzing beside me. Maybe it's the universe trying to save me from microwaved food.
It isn't. It's Ryan, my roommate, and I'm a bit caught off guard because he never calls me from work.
"Hey," I answer, not masking the surprise in my voice.
"Mitch!" he exclaims, sounding relieved. "Listen, what are you doing right now?"
"Uh …" I glance at the pizza. "Nothing, really."
"You're not working tonight?"
"Nope." My shift ended an hour ago.
"Oh, good!"
I frown. I'm beginning to be suspicious.
"Would you mind coming down to the studio for a bit?"
My frown deepens. Ryan works as an engineer for a really successful label, which I can't help feeling jealous of. It's a great success, especially in L.A. I glance at the guitar hanging on my bedroom wall. Playing it is the closest I've been to doing anything remotely to do with music in months; ever since Ryan and I finished the EP we recorded in our apartment. Music is all I've ever wanted to do, and yet Ryan is the one working with millionaire producers and I'm a dishwasher in a pizza shop.
"What would I do at the studio?" I ask.
"I wanted to ask you a favor, actually." He sighs. "There's this kid at the studio … we're working on his debut album, and one of the guitarists just bailed on us. Jeff – the producer – said he'd find a couple of guitarists by tomorrow, but we're already all there now and you're the best guitarist I know …"
I laugh. "Stop kissing my ass."
"I was just hoping you could jump in," he says, chuckling. "Just for one day. Since you live close, and you're not doing anything right now …"
"But I just got off my shift," I whine. And the last thing I feel like is participating in writing some been-there-done-that pop album for a spoiled L.A. kid whose rich daddy probably got him the contract.
"C'mon, Mitchie, you've been begging me to show you around the studio for months," Ryan says, his voice pleading. "And you'll love the music. It's not pop, I promise."
I roll my eyes, annoyed with myself for instantly being curious. Ryan knows me too well. "I'll be there in twenty."
I walk to the studio with my guitar case. Ryan is waiting for me outside. He pulls me into a hug when he sees me, which surprises me – we don't really hug often.
"Thank you so much for coming," he says, his eyes bright. "You totally saved us here. You'll love it."
I still highly doubt that as I follow him inside.
I can't help but gape. I've never seen so many instruments at once; the wall is basically covered in just about everything possible, from synthesizers to flutes. Bringing my own guitar seems a bit silly now, because I can see at least a dozen of them, most acoustic and a few electric ones, in all colors imaginable, some even with patterns on their bodies. I think I'm in heaven.
"Told you you'd like it," Ryan says, his hand clapping my shoulder. I'm too awestruck to respond.
"Is this him?" comes from behind. I turn around and face a bearded forty-something guy with wild long hair, wearing shorts and a fringed white shirt that looks like something you'd see at Coachella. He seems like the type to have a degree in music. Ryan beams when he sees him.
"Yes, this is Mitch Rowland, my roommate," he says, gesturing at me. "Mitch, this is Jeff Bhasker, the producer."
Jeff shakes my hand firmly, giving me a bright smile. "I hear you're the best guitarist in the US. You better not disappoint."
"I'm actually a drummer," I say, smiling back, "but I'll do my best."
"Is he here yet?" says a male voice tinted with a strong British accent. I turn to see the head of a curly-haired boy peeking through the door behind me. He looks about twenty, maybe twenty-two, and he has one of those ridiculously handsome faces that are rare even in L.A., one with cheekbones and flawless skin that would look amazing even if he was dressed in a curtain. The curls are short and dark, a perfect frame to his features.
"Yeah, that's him," Jeff says, nodding towards me.
The British kid joins us in the hallway. Now that the door isn't blocking the view anymore, I can see the rest of him is just as attractive as his face. He's quite tall and quite muscular, but not too much of either. Washed-out jeans and a simple white T-shirt look amazing on him.
He's gotten very close while I was admiring him and extends his hand to shake mine now.
"I'm Harry," he says with a smile that reveals dimples in his cheeks. Just when you think he can't get any more perfect.
"I'm Mitch," I say, contemplating whether I'm jealous or attracted to him. I wonder what he does here. Part of the band, maybe?
"Very pleased to meet you. And thank you so much for helping us out, I really appreciate it. It's my album we're working on."
My eyes nearly pop out. His album? But he isn't an L.A. kid at all. He doesn't seem like a stuck-up airhead either.
"I'm sure you already knew that," Jeff says, looking amused, "but Harry is still convinced people don't know who he is."
"I don't know who he is," I say, not masking my confusion. "Should I know who he is? I'm sorry, have we met?" I'm sure I would have remembered, with a face like his.
"We haven't," Harry says, giving Jeff a smug smile. Both Jeff and Ryan look as baffled as I feel. "I used to be in a boyband, but I wouldn't expect you to have ever heard of it."
"Oh." Boyband. And to think Ryan said I'd like the music. "What was it called? Were you famous?"
He shrugs. "In some circles. Doesn't matter. Let's get to work instead, yeah?"
"What was it called?" I repeat curiously.
"One Direction," Jeff answers for Harry.
It actually sounds familiar. I scrunch my eyebrows, trying to remember where I've heard it. My cousin back in Cincinnati might have a poster with the name on it. I catch Harry trying to stifle laughter as he watches me wrack my brain.
"Come on, let's go," he says, beckoning us after him. Jeff is the first to follow him, looking equally amused. Ryan slows down his steps to walk behind with me.
"How can you not know who he is?" His eyes are wide with outrage.
"So what if I don't," I say, rolling my eyes. I don't see the big deal about it, Harry doesn't seem offended at all. "You know I don't keep up with popular music. And he says they weren't that big."
"They were huge!" Ryan whisper-yells. I choose to ignore his over-reacting.
"He's British, isn't he?"
Ryan nods.
"Can he sing?"
"You'll see for yourself."
I'm led to what they call the "live room", which turns out to be a spacious room with cabernet wooden walls, a beautiful grand piano, an acoustic drum set that captures my attention the most, and two tables full of scribbled papers and notebooks. I can tell the area is designed to have excellent acoustics. Two women and two men are sat on the floor, mid-conversation, an acoustic and a bass guitar on the floor beside them.
"This is Mitch, guys," Jeff says, gesturing at me. "He's jumping in for Sam."
I'm guessing Sam is the guitarist who bailed on them.
Four pairs of eyes glue to me, instantly making me uncomfortable. I have to try not to avert my gaze. There's no doubt that this is the band, and all of them must be educated and versed with years of experience, while I've never even been in a studio. I know I'm only here for a day, but it's hard to expect them to take me seriously.
Then again, they seem to be taking Harry seriously, and he's a decade younger than them and interested in pop.
I get introduced to band members one by one, finding it difficult to memorize all the names. First there's Alex Salibian, a lanky, bearded guy who is both a guitarist and a producer. Next, I meet the drummer, Sarah Jones, who I immediately like for having a drumstick stuck behind her ear. I used to do that a lot. I also shake hands with Clare Uchima, the charismatic keyboardist with Asian features, and Adam Prendergast, the tall bassist who, in his late thirties, seems to be the oldest in the group. I'm also introduced to Tyler Johnson, another producer who joins us a few minutes later.
The plan for today was apparently to test out some of the music they've written in the last few days. They don't really explain much, but it isn't difficult at all to integrate. All I have to do is plug in my guitar and play by the music sheets they give me.
I feel eyes on me about a minute into the first song. I glance around the room and catch Harry watching intently me from the microphone stand. I raise my eyebrows and see his lips twitch into a small smile before I look back down at the sheets.
I notice several things while they discuss what they're satisfied with and what could use some changes. First, most of the songs do in fact have little to do with pop, there's more of rock, soft rock, with a seventies feel. Second, it doesn't look like the band members had a big role in the writing, as most of the discussing is between the producers and Harry himself. It's another thing about him that catches me by surprise; I expected him to only be the face of what others have come up with, not the mind behind his own music. He doesn't just give input, no, the producers are the ones listening to him. He has a lot of say in what is being done, which is surprising for a young artist, and even more ideas. And third, the kid can sing. I'm not an expert but even I know you don't hear a voice like that often – a voice that can both lure you to sleep and make you feel the most alive you've ever felt. His voice is rich and warm and powerful, filling up the entire room, and the most important part is that he knows so well how to carry it.
He's a surprise in all means of the word. It's hard not to look at him, and every time I do, it's only a matter of time before he looks back.
I listen and watch first, but soon I can't help myself, I have to chip in.
"What if we brought some more drums into this?"
Harry raises his eyebrows. "Oh, you play drums too?"
"Well, I'm a drummer," I say, shrugging.
"Astonishing," he says, his eyes lighting up. "Then let's see what you've got."
I tell him my suggestions and find he's more than willing to listen to them, which is about the fifteenth time he catches me off guard. My input is anticipated for the rest of the session, and I have to admit it feels good. I've forgotten all about how much I enjoy writing since Ryan and I finished our EP. I didn't even realize I've been missing it.
We finish sometime past nine. I feel exhausted, and judging by the looks on the team's faces, I'm not the only one. Ryan and I are on our way to the exit, me with my guitar case and him with a messenger bag at his side, when I hear someone calling "Hey!" behind us. I turn around and see Harry rushing down the hallway after us. I smile awkwardly.
"Thanks for your help today," he says, both his eyes and smile bright and genuine. "Ryan wasn't lying, you're really good. You're amazing. I haven't heard you drumming, but you were truly impressive on the guitar."
My expression gets even more awkward, if possible. "Thank you. I … do you play?" Most singer-songwriters do, though I still don't know whether to call him that.
He shrugs. "I mean, I started learning late. I'll never be an expert but I can play a bit, yeah."
"Don't be so hard on yourself," Ryan scolds him, "you could play for the crowds easily."
"I'm probably going to," Harry says with a laugh. They must be talking about touring. How can he be confident enough to talk about crowds at his concerts when he hasn't even finished his album? "We'll get there eventually. What I wanted to ask you, Mitch, actually," I raise my head at the mention of my name, "was if you're busy tomorrow? Because you were … really astonishing, I think you're exactly what we're missing. I was so impressed, and I don't say that often. I'd love to work with you again."
"Can you do that?" I ask, in order to stall because I really don't know what to tell him. "Can you just invite me along without asking the producers and everyone?"
He seems amused by my second thoughts. "It is my album, so I believe they'll allow it."
"Yeah, your debut album," I say with a heavy emphasis. "I feel like you have a lot of say in what is being done for a relatively new artist."
"I guess I do." He's still giving me that smirk, and the mystery surrounding him is starting to annoy me. Why does he constantly look like he knows something terribly funny that I don't? "Maybe I'm just lucky Jeff lets me get away with it. Maybe I'm not the only one you've impressed. So what do you say?"
I bite my bottom lip. I kind of want to, but I know I can't get tomorrow off this late. And I don't want to give myself false hopes when I know it isn't going anywhere. The opportunity is completely out of blue and too good to be true. Those kinds of things always fall through.
"I can't make it tomorrow," I say at last, the words heavy on my tongue. "I'm working all day."
"Oh." He seems disappointed for a second, then curiosity lights up his face. I've been noticing all day that it's like the atmosphere in the room changes with his mood. "Where do you work?"
"The pizza place around the corner."
He nods slowly. "I get it, no worries. But we'll be missing you for sure."
I smile politely. He sounds sincere, but I don't really believe him. "I'll … see you around, I guess."
"I should hope so." Already walking away, he grins over his shoulder.