The studio was in an old warehouse building with big windows right at the level of the elevated train tracks. A heavyset man buzzed her up and curtly informed her that Dylan hadn’t arrived yet, so after looking around at all the expensive gear in the cavelike loft, she just sat and ate her bagel, looking out the window at the trains, waiting. Every train that passed could potentially have him on it, and though waiting and watching like this made it seem like he would never come, Laura felt strangely peaceful sitting there at the window. The sun was beautiful, not scorching, somehow casting more light than usual on the elevated tracks and torn awnings and old dirty-windowed buildings. Summer hadn’t really gotten started yet; it was still cool in the early mornings and late at night, and you could still sleep under a blanket.
Laura thought about sharing Dylan’s tiny bed, being forced to have some part of her body touching his at all times even as they slept. The first few times she’d thought she would never be able to fall asleep like that, but the long nights had caught up to her, and she’d even dreamed a little and woken up staring into his face, watching his eyelids twitch, free to stare at him for as long as she liked until he woke up.
She got out her notebook and started to write down some of her lovelorn thoughts that could be turned into lyrics later on. Eventually she got bored of that and just started doodling. After half an hour she started to feel slightly angry, then even more angry, then resigned. Then angry again. In the end, he made her wait an hour and a half.
He looked hungover as usual, wincing in the sunlight that streamed through the big windows. He put down his backpack and glanced around the room, taking in Laura, her bagel, and her notebook. “Oh, good, you brought something to do. This might take a minute,” he said, and then he went back into the booth to confer with the stern large guy who’d let Laura in. When he came back out he hardly even looked at her again. He sat down with his guitar and tuned it, then nodded to the guy in the booth. The room flooded with the track that Davey and the band had already recorded, another fuzzy banger that wasn’t too hard to imagine playing over the PA in a bar or even at a baseball game. Dylan put his head down and played over it with the same detached intensity that he always did. Laura didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Stare at him worshipfully? Part of her wanted to, but she was also annoyed that their date seemed to consist of her in a corner with a bagel watching him play. Then again, this was what he’d invited her to do, and she’d said yes. She picked at the bagel.
About half an hour later the guy in the booth gave Dylan a thumbs-up and then, within minutes, had packed his stuff and left. Dylan stood up and shook out all his long limbs, then turned to Laura. “Did you bring any more bagels? I’m starving.”
She tamped down a rising surge of annoyance and shook her head. “I brought my guitar, though, I thought you said …”
“Oh, right! I still need to hear you play.” He made this sound like it was something he’d forgotten to buy at the grocery store, eggs or dish soap.
As she unpacked her small guitar from its dorky soft-sided case and sat tuning it, Dylan kept himself busy by rolling a small joint. By the time she was ready to play he was smoking it as casually as if it were a cigarette. He pushed the window open a crack and ashed on the sill.
She paused before starting to play. It felt like an audition. Or she assumed this is what an audition would feel like; she’d never auditioned for anything before. “Well, what do you want to hear?”
“I don’t know, whatever you want to play. Your favorite song? Your best one?”
“People seem to like this one,” she said, then played him “I Want My Tapes Back.” She didn’t know exactly what to do with her face and eyes while she sang, so she mostly looked at the neck of her guitar and out the window. Dylan stayed halfway across the room, smiling inscrutably. He laughed a small knowing laugh—thank God—at the line where the audience was supposed to laugh, the part about “I miss my mix of all Liz Phair / Heavens to Betsy and Huggy Bear.”
“That’s really cute,” he said when she was finished. “I feel like you could make bank if you busked on the subway.”
She stayed silent, hoping that he would say something else that would redeem what he’d just said.
“I mean that in a good way. You’re a great guitar player.”
“Oh! Thanks. No, I’m not.” She deflected compliments habitually, as though to accept one might be rude, though it was probably ruder to tell someone they were wrong. She didn’t play like someone like Dylan, who could probably do things like improvise a solo. She had mostly taught herself, but she liked how she played.
“So … ,” he said, stepping toward her. She became more aware of how they were alone in the studio and felt her whole body flush as she imagined fucking Dylan right where they were standing, or possibly, more comfortably, in the booth, in one of the large, cushiony chairs there. He reached past her, toward what was left of the bagel, and stuffed it in his mouth. “Sorry! I’m totally starved. Let’s get out of here and find a diner or something.” He brushed the crumbs off his mouth and, in the same movement, grabbed her by the hand and pulled her toward him.
“ ‘I want my tapes back,’ ” he sang in his dramatic, growling deep voice, nothing like Laura’s clear, no-nonsense alto. He spun her around the room in a little waltz. “ ‘I hope you know where they are.’ ” She was intoxicated by sheer physical proximity to him, and so flattered that he’d remembered the words to her song.
* * *
Dylan had been gone on tour for two weeks, and Callie and Laura were on their way to alt.coffee to check their email when they passed the magazine store on A and Fifth Street and saw the cover of NME with Dylan on it. The other band members were on it, too, but the photo was mostly Dylan, standing in front, looking into the camera like he was sad and annoyed about having his photo taken. They both saw it at the same time and came to such a screeching halt that the man walking behind them bumped into them.
“Fucking morons!” he shouted as he pushed on past. They ignored him and kept staring at the magazine.
“Oh my God, you’re dating a rock star,” said Callie.
“Dating?” said Laura.
“Oh my God, we’re groupies!” said Callie.
“Gross, no. Do you think he’s famous now?”
“Yes! If you actually want to be his girlfriend now, good luck. Girls are going to be throwing themselves at him after this.”
Callie was always so pragmatic, but she was probably right. The way Laura had felt about Dylan the first time she’d seen him play hadn’t just been lust, it had been admiration for his talent; his magic was real. It was inevitable that other people would acknowledge it, too.
She felt both vindicated and frustrated—it was good to have been proven right about Dylan, but she also wanted something like credit for having known him before he became more generally known. Mostly, though, she wanted to actually talk to him.
They hadn’t said anything about how they would stay in touch while he was away—it hadn’t seemed like a long enough amount of time to justify a plan for keeping in touch—but now Laura wished she’d said something. He didn’t have a cell phone, but that was probably for the best. If she’d been able to call him at that moment, she would have asked whether he loved her. Asking someone you’ve had sex with a handful of times whether they love you, especially if they’re turning out to be a famous rock star, is not the right move, she knew. But she also knew that if he called her at this exact moment she wouldn’t be able to stop herself. She decided instead to email him. She didn’t know whether he would be checking email, but she had his address that he’d scribbled somewhere and she would be able to control herself better if she could revise what she wanted to say to him as much as she liked before sending it.