It was only around four in the afternoon when we sailed back to the dock. We had spent the day together, and I still didn't want it to end. He had held my hand helping me off the catamaran and still hadn't let go. We walked slowly on the beach, fingers laced together.
"Did you want to do anything this evening?" I asked him.
"There's more?"
"There's your suite or my house," I suggested, inviting him over.
"Your place is closer. Did I leave anything behind the last time I was over?" he asked.
I smiled to myself. The only reason why he would ask something like that was if he was planning on staying the night. We walked the short stretch to my house and to
ok turns under the shower. He was standing with a towel wrapped around his waist at my small bookshelf, looking at something when I came out of the shower.
"Abby?" he said. I was grabbing some clothes out of my closet.
"Hmm?"
"What the hell?" he said. I turned and saw him holding a CD. His CD. Well, his band's CD. Their first independent record. He didn't really sound mad, just surprised. "You didn't tell me you were a fan."
"You didn't need to hear that from me. I'm sure people always tell you they listen to your stuff," I said, pulling a tank top and shorts on.
"I would have actually wanted to know. Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. I walked over to him with a pair of his underwear that had gotten left here during one of his visits.
"Would that have changed the way that you spoke to me?"
"Probably," he said honestly.
"That was why. I didn't want you to care that I was a fan. You were on vacation. You didn't need to have to watch your back and be paranoid about what I wanted whenever I would speak to you or if I would try to steal your stuff and sell it on eBay."
"What's your favorite track?" he asked. I smirked looking up at him.
"They were all a little blah. Not really my thing," I said, dismissively. He laughed, sensing that I was making fun of him.
"As long as you like this record more than the second one, you're good," he said, sitting on my bed. I joined him.
"What's wrong with the second one?"
"Did you listen to it?" he asked. I nodded.
"Didn't it sound a little off to you?"
"It sounded different," I supplied.
"That was because it was our first with a major label. What they don't tell you when you work with them is that they care more about the money than the records they're making. They make music that they can sell. They produced the hell out of our sound. They rewrote lyrics, chopped up tracks, and changed the music. They did a hack job on my songs."
"That's why you left?"
"One of the reasons. I want to make the stuff that I care about, you know? Yeah, the music industry doesn't exist unless people are buying music, but shouldn't you care about the music you actually make? Make something that you aren't ashamed to ask people to pay for?"
"You don't have to work in the industry if you don't like it," I said.
"That's the thing. I do, at least some parts of it. I love the collaboration, creativity, the people who are really artists, whose music comes from somewhere real... I like that."
"Then make your own music on your own terms," I suggested. "You're a talented musician, and you're passionate. That has to be more than a lot of people already working in the industry even have."
"You really think I could do it?" he asked. I nodded vigorously. He smiled. "I was talking to my dad a while ago, and he was telling me something similar."
"You should take his advice," I said.