I know I should probably feel guilty about this, but I don’t.

“Alright, I’m out JT.”

Or maybe now I do.

“You sure man?” I lift my head up from the guitar and look at Trace. “It’s only eleven; we could go grab some drinks if you want.”

“And have you sit there not paying attention and tapping out beats on your fingers? Been there, done that, and it was way too fuckin’ boring to buy the t-shirt.”

Trace claps his hands against his thighs like he’s putting a non-negotiable period on the end of that sentence. I won’t press him. Not least because he’s probably right. It’s the musician’s curse, when a song hits it’s hard to step away from it. I felt no shame until he said that and I realised I’d driven him out.

“We still on for Thursday or will I still be boring?”

“You’re always kinda boring but I graciously hang out with you anyway,” he says as he stands up and grabs his room key from the coffee table. “I’ll drop by around twelve.”

“Deal.”

“You better have it out of your system by then or I’m not gonna be so nice about it.”

“This was you being nice?”

I grin at him. He flips me the finger before turning and heading out the door. Before I’ve even drawn my next breath my gaze is back on the guitar and my fingers are strumming again. The melody is coming together but it won’t fully click in until the words do. Odd lines run through my head but nothing’s sticking yet. I don’t write down lyrics for that reason. Putting them on paper makes them stick harder; my theory is it’s a better test if they stick mentally first.

The tune is shaping up soft and wistful. That’s funny because the other day I said to Tim that I was ready to rock out on the next one. Sometimes my muse decides to pull a left turn on me. I love that though, keeps life interesting. The way my hands instinctively start to pick the thing out before I’m aware of what it is, the way I can turn some imagining in my head into an actual piece of my art - I live for it.

“Think you can disguise…”

This is a huge room. I’m alone. It’s real unlikely my neighbours can hear me. Yet I’m still more mumbling than singing. It’s weird; I do that even in my soundproof studio at home.

“But I see through the lies, behind those Elvis eyes…”

Oh I like that rhythm, that image too. I think it’s coming.

I sit and sing those lines over and over again, and all the while I start to build a picture in my mind about the story I want to tell. I’m building a girl, giving her a back story. In my head she has a name, a face, a job - even the scent she wears, I’ve got it logged. From all of these things I’ll start to pull out what I need to make the song. Half of the stuff I dream up will never make it in; it’s way more than I could fit into four minutes (or even seven or eight). It’s necessary though to understand what I need to say.

Once that’s done, all that’s left is to give me a character and decide what he’s trying to say to her. How long that takes depends on how fast my brain is working. Sometimes I can get a song in an hour because it’s coming that fast. Other times I can spend an entire morning doing what I’m doing now, building the basics.

Unless of course there’s a knock on the door. Guess Trace changed his mind. Is it bad that I resent the interruption? Maybe I should care more about people and time interacting with actual human beings, but when the lightning starts to hit I need to be in the zone.

When I get to the door though it’s not Trace. It’s Millie. I thought she was going back to LA today, guess I misheard. I’m headed back myself tomorrow.

“Hey,” I say.

“Sorry, I know it’s late, but can I be really cheeky and hang out here for a bit?”

She’s wide-eyed and slightly dishevelled. Red lipstick has faded from her mouth, staining her lips. Little pieces of blonde hair are falling out of her style and she looks really pretty in this lace thing, a leather jacket slung over her arm. Is she maybe tipsy? She’s not full on drunk, not wobbling or slurring her words, but she’s definitely showing some wear around her edges.

So much for that drink quota of hers. Between the ball and tonight she obliterated it.

“Umm, sure…”

I step back and gesture her in with my arm. That wasn’t the answer I wanted to give but I give it without hesitation. This isn’t a great time, but if she’s asking there’s a reason. Felicity’s the type to do this on a whim but Millie isn’t. I don’t want to be the dick who says no.

“Thanks.”

She walks on in, gets a few steps past me and stops. That’s unfortunate because she’s blocking the door and I can’t get back in the room. Instead I’m forced to wait as she bends over to unbuckle the straps on her sandals. A lesser man would stare at her ass in those tight pants, but I don’t. If only because unlike lesser men I still have a song distracting me.

“Everything okay?”

“Oh.” I can only see part of her face from her angle but I think she rolled her eyes. “Getting away from sibling drama. I’d forgotten what it’s like.”

“Sorry, only child. Can’t relate.”

Millie stands up and unceremoniously kicks off her shoes. For a moment I think she’s going to leave them there, which would bug the crap out of me, but she picks them up and tucks them neatly off to one side. Thank God. People always look at me weird when I pick up after them but I can’t help it. I hate having shit lying around like that.

“You’d think she’d be happy, I mean, she’s been pestering me to make up with Liss for ages. But no, apparently it’s a bad thing unless she knows before I do. Just couldn’t be bothered listening to any more of it.”

Oh Lord. Am I going to have to give up song writing to listen to girl drama instead? Please no.

Wait…

“Liss? As in Felicity?”

“Yeah.”

“You two made up?”

“Yeah.”

Wow. I would’ve put money on that never happening. Hell, if I repeated some of the stuff Felicity’s said to Millie I could have guaranteed it never happening. But hey, good for them being all adult and shit.

“So Lizzie for whatever reason is pissed you went out without her and now you’re hiding in here?”

“Excellent summary,” she says as she plants herself on the back of the sofa and slides down over it, falling onto the cushions. Walking around to the front and sitting down in the traditional way is not a thing tonight, I guess.

“Well that’s weird… why?”

The answer I get is rambling and incoherent. The more she talks, the more it sounds like Lizzie had every right to be pissed. It sounds like they had plans but instead Millie went missing for several hours without so much as a ‘don’t wait up’ and worried the crap out of her. There’s no point at which I can interject with this perspective because she hasn’t taken a breath. She’s still going.

“There are also some ongoing arguments about what she’s planning to do with her life and why I’m going anywhere without her and her forcing me to cut my hair, but you don’t give a shit.”

“Uhh…” I didn’t follow much of that but I don’t think that last part was good. No clue how to answer it though.

“It’s alright; no sane person would give a shit.” It’s weird how perky her tone is right now – incongruous with her words. Time to double down on that ‘tipsy’ bet. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if it’s bugging you.”

“It can be both.”

Her shoulders give an exaggerated shrug. Her nose and mouth twist together and she crosses her eyes. As annoyed as I was at the interruption, I can’t help laughing at her. I knew she was a few years younger than me but tonight she looks it. This is abnormally loose for her and she’s entertaining like this. She had better be if it’s going to put the kibosh on my work.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“No. Think I just need to accept that sometimes the gods don’t wanna let you get your way.”

I choose to sit down in the armchair like a normal human being instead of falling over the back. I prop my feet up and settle in, trying not to look like I’m scrutinising her. I totally am (pretty much always) but it’s better not to stare at people like they’re test subjects.

“Universe picking on ya?”

“Lizzie’s planning my schedule, Liss is now planning my love life, I was hoping I could at least plan my business but apparently that’s not happening either. I can either let it drive me crazy or I can say fuck it. So fuck it. I’ll accept my lot and hang out with you instead.”

I’m trying to take that as a compliment. It’s hard to be flattered in that context.

“Not that I’m not honoured to be your back up plan and all, but what’s up with the business if it’s got you waving the white flag?”

“Oh just the fun and games of being an entrepreneur, sure you have plenty of experience. Hey, were you playing that?”

Her index finger is pointing at my guitar.

“Oh, yeah.” Why else does she think I’d have it out? And if she thinks I didn’t notice that was a classic Emilia dodge she’s dead wrong.

“Can you play it again?”

“It’s a song I’m working on; I barely even got a few lines yet.”

“Is that a hint you don’t do sneak peeks?”

“Not usually.”

“If I bat my eyelashes and look pitiful would you do it to cheer me up?”

One look at her and I give in. Not because she looks pitiful but because she looks absurd. She’s blinking so fast at me it’s like somebody’s shining a strobe light in her eyes. I reach out and grab the instrument, settling it back on my lap.

“I’ll do it just to stop whatever the hell you’re doing with your face.”

Since there’s so little of it I have to play the same part two or three times to even make it worth the while. It’s not familiar enough yet to play without looking, but my eyes steal upwards a couple of times to sneak a look at her reaction. It’s funny how serious her expression’s gone all of a sudden - not in a frowning way but she’s listening hard. I enjoy people who listen hard, as a musician it’s gratifying.

“That’s really pretty,” she says when I’m done, “but why are you singing about sex eyes?”

A soft chuckle escapes from the base of my throat. “Elvis eyes aren’t sex eyes.”

“You kidding me? That stare of his was like liquid sex.”

“Yeah, he could look sexy and all, but that’s not what it is.” Reflexively I keep plucking at the strings. “Elvis eyes is when somebody’s gaze is real intense, like they could look at you only to ask the time and you’d still feel like they’re burning holes through you.”

“Oh, I get you. Naturally piercing or smouldering or whatever.”

“Exactly.”

Her lips purse together and up, as if she’s musing over a thought. The lipstick is so faded that it looks like somebody had her up against a wall for a serious make out session. She narrows her eyes at me, studying my face.

“You kind of have Elvis eyes.”

“Aww shucks.” She’s gon’ make me blush. That kind of comment will make you bashful.

“You do though. It’s actually quite unnerving.”

Umm… okay. Now I’m less pleased.

“I unnerve you?”

“Not you in general, you’re groovy.” Millie reaches out and pats my arm while I shake my head at the adjective. “The stare.”

I fail to see the distinction. “Okay…”

“It’s like you said, that whole looking through you thing. Like you’ve got everyone all worked out and at any given moment we could be schooled on our BS.”

You got to figure that for ‘we’ and ‘our’ I should hear ‘I’ and ‘my.’ It would make sense. Not out of any idea that I’m some super perceptive mind reader who has everyone clocked (though I like to think I’m a good judge of people). More because she would get unnerved any time she gets a notion her walls are being breached.

We’re all screwed up in our own ways. As seemingly perfect as Millie is (and as fixated as I’ve been on unravelling the mystery) I never expected her to be any different. Even so, her way is weird. She’s so calm and slick and confident all the time, like the definition of having it together, but only because she’s holding in so much. I have this image of her in a kitchen; she’s standing at the stove putting every ounce of body weight into keeping a lid on this humungous pot. Like she’s pressing down with all her might to keep a lid on this boiling cauldron of crap.

Or maybe that’s not so strange and would describe most people on the planet.

“Well you definitely have Elvis eyes,” I say. “No kind of about it.”

Time to turn the tables - the pink that goes to her cheeks makes me feel better. Call it a little friendly revenge.

“Amazing what good eyeliner can do.”

“Of course according to you that means you have sex face…” I tease.

It’s the wrong move; such a blatant tease reminds her that this back and forth is a game we’re playing. She knows how to play as well as I do. Now I’ve clued her in I can’t embarrass her any more this way.

“Difference being I get paid obscene amounts of money for mine.”

“And I’m stuck schilling songs instead.” I add another quick burst on the guitar to underline. “Sucks to be me.”

Millie doesn’t respond to that, but the look on her face seems to say ‘me too.’ Her finger goes to her bottom lip. She’s tracing it back and forth with her nail.

“I expected some kind of withering British retort. Did leave myself wide open.”

More silence. I refrain from sighing. Instead my fingers scratch at the back of my head. This is one of those moments when I don’t know how to coax it out of her. Maybe I should be blunt instead?

“Obviously something’s bugging you.”

Her jaw juts out, like she’s clenching her mouth too tight. “Why do I feel like every conversation we have turns into some kind of therapy session?”

I shrug, my thumb drifting over the strings again. The noise is so soft it’s almost inaudible. “That’s what you get for repressing everything instead venting like a normal person. Might be easier if you just talked.”

“What, as though you’re my closest confidant? I’ve barely known you a few months.”

“How about as though I’m your friend who’s interested and could maybe try to help? Or is there some kind of minimum service period before I’m allowed to give a rat’s ass?”

If I’m being fair she did come in here wanting to get away from it. Trouble is I’m not inclined to be fair. I know I border on obsessive about these blocks she puts up but it’s because they bug the living daylights out of me. What is she hiding all the time? What could be so bad? We’ve all got our baggage. What does she think I’ll do, turn away in disgust? I like her, she’s a friend. That’s not how I work.

Her neat nails (a soft peach shade) pluck at a loose thread on the lace.

“What do you want me to say, Justin? Yeah I could sit here and whine at you about how it’s hard to communicate with Lizzie, or my dad messing with the business or how pissed she is about me leaving again or how I’m going to get her this internship I promised or any of it. But how’s it going to help?”

“Back up…” It was thrown in the middle of the list like it was nothing, but it’s the first I heard of it. “Your dad’s on the scene?”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?” Do I look as stupid as I sound right now? That’s confusing as all hell. “Either he is or he isn’t, there’s not a lot of grey there.”

It is weird how clearly different emotions and feelings can come through the same gestures. You could narrow your eyes for all kinds of reasons. Right now she’s doing it and yet somehow you can see the resentment. Maybe at me for pushing or maybe at her dad, who knows?

“Through subsidiaries and blah blah he has a major stake in the conglomerate that keeps buying out our prospects. It could be a coincidence.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know what I think.” She slumps further down in her seat. The expression softens, but I think I preferred the scowl to the defeat now setting in. “He’s always had some beauty companies in his portfolio and acquiring is what he does, so it’s plausible. I just know that if Lizzie finds out she’ll assume the worst and hit the roof and have another go at me for not declaring war on him when I had the chance.”

“You are way more reasonable about him than he deserves.” That hurt to say; agreeing with Lizzie is painful right now. I’m still pissed at her.

“I don’t see what it would gain me. Besides, if you want to play tit for tat he’ll win every time. It doesn’t even matter, really, the effect’s the same. I’m still stuck.”

Her fingers start busying themselves pulling out hair pins and yanking down her hair do. It’s not a short task, whatever her sister did was intricate. As distractions go I don’t think it’s a very good one.

“You know…” My thumb keeps twitching back and forth, but it doesn’t make contact with the strings this time. “I find it weird how somebody as confident and smart as you are is so ready to give up all the time.”

Millie’s eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“Purposely or not, he’s closed off these avenues? So go find some he can’t, even if you have to adjust some plans. Find some investors he won’t target. Heck, invest yourself, whatever, you’ve got the smarts to work something out. But it’s like when you wouldn’t talk to Beth or you’re letting Lizzie dictate to you about your own freakin’ head… it’s like you think you have no control over anything or that if it doesn’t work first time that’s it. It’s not that the gods don’t want you to have your way; it’s that you act like you’re powerless.”

She is way too silent right now. That’s not good.

“Please don’t take offence to that.” I’m tripping over my own tongue trying to mitigate this. “I’m saying it totally out of respect for you as a friend, because I know what you’re capable of.”

There are many things about Millie that can be intimidating. On the shallow level she is stunningly beautiful. There’s also the upper crust accent that somehow makes everything she says sound ten times smarter. I’ve talked before about the confidence she walks into a room with and the way she’s so seemingly insouciant.

One thing that gets me though is the way she can be so silent. Most people will rush to fill a pause that’s too long. It’s human nature. People get uncomfortable and they’ll start babbling. If you know how to play it, it’s a great way to get them making concessions or trying to placate you. I’d hate to see Millie in a negotiation for that reason. If she hasn’t got anything to say, or she wants the time to consider, she’s fine to sit there without a word. You have no idea what she’s thinking and it doesn’t bother her in the slightest that you’re squirming.

When she finally opens her mouth to speak again, the words drag in an agonising trail. “Like I said. Schooled at any given moment. Anyway, I’ve kept you up long enough so I’ll say goodnight.”

My protests and faltering apologies fall on a deaf ear as she gets up and strides towards the exit like a gazelle. None of my stuttering attempts to ask her to wait are heeded. There isn’t even a pause to get her shoes, in one fluid motion she scoops them up from the floor without missing a step. She pulls the door open and leaves while I stand here gaping.

And you know what the worst thing is? She’s so calm and silent and gives so few fucks about my discomfort that I have no idea whether she’s mad at me or not.