I imagine Aubrey at this hour with Tyler. Prancing to a tune that’s favored at the clubs in Miami. “Something About Her,” by the Kents, or Everywhere’s “Some Other Dude,” perhaps. Less classic rock, more indie pop. Lyrics that do not espouse a love that could elevate—take us above the rest. Milling about, mingling with the crowd until their band goes onstage. She’s in one of her old Hervé Léger minidresses, which cling to her body, and wearing Pour la Victoire stilettos, purchased at a secondhand shop. Perhaps they’ll head next to the Rockcellar, where it fills up steadily, arriving before the second set.
“Elodie, it makes sense. Think about it, the idea of it.”
I’m at the kitchen table. James comes close and kneels beside me. His eyes are near enough to mine that his love and appreciation are reflected back at me.
“Elodie, it could work for us. Aubrey is like my little sister. She is your little sister. We love her. What could go wrong?”
“Do you know what I’ve learned, James? Something I never needed to know. How at risk a woman is when she is trying to get pregnant. When she is pregnant.”
“Aubrey is younger, she is in fine shape.”
“I realize that, intellectually. What if she gets sick, what if the baby isn’t okay?”
Instinctively, I move away from him, stretching my spine.
“Why not at least run it by Aubrey?” he asks.
Run it by Aubrey? Sort of like shopping for boots at a designer sale together. Do they suit me? Do they suit you? Here, you take them. No, no. You’re my sister, you should have them. We could share them. Like that?
My husband comes close yet he doesn’t take my hand, kiss my face. I remember when I was in fifth grade and Aubrey was in preschool. We would visit our grandparents in New York and our grandfather would take us to Central Park. The sparrows would flit about and we’d break and scatter Aubrey’s animal crackers. We hoped the pigeons wouldn’t force their way in, devouring our crumbs. Aubrey begged to touch the sparrows. She wanted to take them with her, while I flinched if they came near our feet, near the trail we had made. Am I not maternal and Aubrey is?
“You’ll at least ask her. Elodie?”
Aubrey’s profile last night, outlined and in shadow, the sound of the Intracoastal lapping against our new, unknown neighbor’s dock. How easily she escaped with Tyler to the life they might have together. How dare we intrude? How could we?
“You’ll consider it?” James persists.
“James, listen…”
“We need to do this.”
“Sure, I’ll ask,” I lie.
Because in the moment I doubt that I will.
CHAPTER 6
AUBREY
At midnight Tyler and I are ushered past the rope line at Pascha’s. We shake hands with Marco, the bouncer, and step inside. The club is magnetic tonight—the three tiered dance floors, the scene, the music furiously loud. VIP customers are being seated and served, while those who didn’t buy the package are treated like they don’t exist. Left of us two “girls” about my age—my sister would call them “young women”—are passing a packet while looking around for someone or something. Everyone who stands, crushed together, is trying to figure out who gets what at this club tonight. Some of the women use their iPhones to check their lip gloss, blush, false eyelashes. Most have long hair, but a few have bobs or punk cuts. Who isn’t tattooed—at least on her shoulder, forearm, ankle? Plenty wear tight, short dresses, short shorts, boots or stilettos. Some seem more in a hurry—like they’re at a flea market where the best stalls are emptied fast. They assess the men, perhaps in search of the ones with day jobs, money earners, who graze the clubs at night. These men seem aloof; they hold drinks or beer bottles while walking slowly around the perimeters.
Beyond are those who come only for the show, buy tickets, relish the songs. Plenty like that fill the venue. Their bodies shift impatiently. Despite the AC, the room smells of damp skin, sweat, and perfume. Voices float upward between sets: babes, rooftop … not tonight … no jazz … white powder, pearls, Ecstacy.
“Feels good, right? A good vibe,” Tyler says. “Sold out.”
“Yeah,” I say. “They’re here for the partying and the music. Better than on weekends.”
Out of nowhere, more dancing starts. Othello D, the DJ, is moving genres around, reggae, hip-hop, salsa. Soon the group will go on. Dirk O—Tyler’s favorite band among his clients, a pop rock group whose music reminds me of Maroon 5. There is this retro feel; they use synthesizers.
Tyler puts his mouth to my ear, runs his hands across my body, and whispers, “I’d like to take you home about now.”
“Soon,” I whisper back. “We’ve got a band to play.”
Behind him, by the bar, I notice two men, older than the rest of the crowd. Anderson and Douglas, longtime industry guys. They’re holding glasses of bubbly water and waving at Tyler. We steer past a group of people and walk across the sticky floor to where they stand.
“Here for your new discovery?” Anderson asks. The neon lights show off his wedding ring and slight double chin. Tyler has told me that Anderson is the longest-standing music rep on the lookout for new artists in Miami.
“I’ve known Dirk O awhile. Who thinks they found ’em, you or Aubrey?” Douglas asks. As a scout, he wants only to be a liaison for the recording labels.
I don’t like the question or the tone. Could it be that Dirk O really belongs with Douglas? I feel around in my bag for my small angel pillbox and wait for Tyler’s answer.
“Aubrey. She’s the one—about four months ago. We’ve been managing them ever since.”
More anxiety. I rarely take Xanax, so this pill might be expired. I put it in my mouth anyway and swallow without water.
“Congratulations,” Douglas says. “What’d ya think?”
“It’s about the guitar,” I say. Not about how intimate the music feels. Like it’s you alone with the band.
Since Tyler is sometimes quiet with reps and scouts, I smile.
Once the men leave for backstage, we head for a booth. I hold out my pillbox to Tyler. He shakes his head. “Nothing for me tonight.”
“Why?”
“I want to pay close attention. What plays best for this band. Sober.”
“You already know, don’t you, Tyler?”
“Ya. Still, I’m counting on this singer-songwriter part. I don’t always find that fusion.”
Not that he can’t drink a couple of dirty martinis or a few ginger-tinged margaritas and still discern the quality and unrealized talent of the musicians. I’m the one who nurses a wine spritzer the whole night and becomes too loopy to pay careful attention, then wake up the next day with a nasty headache.
Suddenly the lights splattered over the carved-wood bar seem less intense. I’m calm and kind of doughy, soft. I lean against Tyler and tuck my head into his shoulder.
“Y’know, I bet business doubles by spring. Fucking doubles.” He puts his hand over mine.
“Wow, really?” I sound slurpy.
“Yeah, and I’m your boss.” He laughs.
“I keep forgetting.” I do a mellow laugh. “What a boss!”