This Is My Love

I walked into the room and looked around. It was a recording room, and had two parts to it, which were separated by a wall containing a large, thick, glass window. The first part of the room was filled with a large mixing board with two black leather chairs in front of it, and a large, plush couch sitting against the back wall. The other part of the room was the recording booth. It was much smaller than the other half of the room, and contained a very expensive looking microphone with a pair of headphones hanging off of it, and a stool in the corner of the room.

Sitting in one of the leather computer chairs was a middle aged man, who I assumed to be John, but no one else.
Where was this big name artist he spoke of?

The man quickly stood up, a wide smile on his face, and took a step towards me, his hand extended.
"You must be Marley! I'm John Hemmings. It's nice to meet you," he stated quickly, but rather formally. I placed my guitar case and music book on the ground beside me and shook his hand.

"It's nice to be met," I replied, returning his smile as I did so. He laughed at my choice of words before ending the hand shake and letting go of my hand.
"My partner stepped out for a moment on one of his many cigarette breaks, but he should be back any moment," he paused and shook his head before continuing, "I tell him he should stop that nasty habit. One of these days, it will ruin his voice. Then, he wouldn't have much of a career now, would he?" he laughed at his little joke, and out of pure kindness, I laughed as well and shrugged my shoulders.

"No, I guess not," I replied to the question that I knew was probably meant to be rhetorical. He chuckled a bit more before gesturing to the couch as he sat back down in his chair.
"Please, make yourself at home," he requested. I happily obliged, smoothing down the back of my skirt as I sat down on one of the cushions of the couch, which happened to be so soft that it almost swallowed my tiny frame whole.

I fiddled with the hem of my skirt as I tried to ignore the awkwardness of silence that filled the air that surrounded us. I searched my brain for something to say, to make some kind of conversation, but came up blank. Luckily, he spoke.

"He should be back any second now. I think he's more excited than I am. He really liked what he heard on your demo CD. He couldn't shut up about it," he laughed, shaking his head at the thought of it. I smiled shyly.
"I'm really happy to hear that," I replied, making sure that I didn't say anything that would sound arrogant.

"Yes, well, you should be. He's a very gifted musician and knows what he's talking about when it comes to music." Just then, the glass door opened, and shot my eyes up to look at the person who entered.
The "big name artist".

Once I had gotten a good look at him, my jaw dropped, and his did the same. I couldn't believe my eyes. I honestly didn't believe them.
I shot up from the couch and turned to face him as my hand flew up to my mouth in an attempt to cover my gaping jaw. After a moment, I removed my hand from my mouth and attempted to speak.

"P-Peter?" I questioned as I examined him, still not believing that it was really him.

You see, after Peter left, he promised to keep in touch with phone calls and visits, and for a couple of years, he did. But, with each good news of success, came more and more time between each phone call, until finally, he just stopped calling all together. When I tried to call him, it said that his phone wasn't in service. Finally, I had given up hope, and for 5 years, I didn't know if he was even alive anymore, and seeing him standing in front of me was like seeing a ghost.

John was watching us both intently, a confused expression on his face.
"Ano," Pete breathed out as he stepped towards me. His eyes had now gone back to their normal size, and softer look had taken over his features.
"I missed you so much," he whispered when he finally reached me, leaning in to pull me into a hug. But, I slapped him hard in the face, stopping him dead in his tracks. He quickly pulled back and reached up to place his hand over the spot where my hand had hit, his eyes slightly wide with surprise. But in a fraction of a second, he dropped his hand from his cheek and fixed his eyes of the floor.

"You're right, I deserved that," he whispered, now looking to be ashamed with himself. By now, tears were streaming down my face and my fists were clenched in rage.

"Are you crazy? You just stopped calling! I fucking thought you were dead or something, you asshole!" I cried, before pushing past him and storming out of the room, ignoring the sound of Pete's footsteps and pleads, and leaving John dumbfounded. But, I didn't care.

I was so angry with him.