Gravity

I was never very fond of airports—it wasn’t because of all the terrorist threats, or the fact that every time I was in an airport I was leaving my dog behind with someone else—it was because they saddened me: I always saw an upset girlfriend, or a crying kid; the thought of how that trip would change the people left behind, even if it was just for business, was always gnawing at the back of my mind. I remember when I moved to Los Angeles, my mom was crying her eyes out, and I’ll never forget that feeling I had when I got on that plane and left her—it was like part of my childhood was just being ripped from my chest. I can’t imagine what she felt.

It wasn’t until I spotted this couple that made me think of this: they were kissing—well, pretty much having sex while standing and fully clothed—and I realized that it didn’t make me sad like I thought. Instead, it annoyed me. I mean, was their life really so great together that they had to share it with the people of LAX? Or was I just pissed off that I wasn’t being seen off like one of them was?

Trying not to look directly at them, I scanned the building for the short brunette called Jen that was supposed to meet me in the same general area as the lovebirds. She had a big personality and a powerful presence; I mean, she really took command of a room. Anyway, finding her wouldn’t be too hard. For a normal Thursday afternoon, the airport wasn’t terribly crowded. As I walked passed the fornicating couple, I caught a glimpse of the girl—a short brunette. Realizing that she was who I was waiting for, I cleared my throat loudly, stretching my lips over my teeth for a halfhearted smile. I waited awkwardly at their side.

They broke apart. The girl looked flushed, but I couldn’t tell if it was because she was embarrassed or because she’d been so caught up in the moment. Probably the latter. “Oh,” she said with a breathy tone, her hands running over her hair, mouth, and clothes quickly to put everything back into place. “I—this is my boyfriend, Taylor. Taylor, this is Brendon Urie, who I’m going to London with.”

A tall and muscular blond man stuck out his hand, “Hey, man,” he said.

We shook firmly, “How ya doin’?” I asked rhetorically.

In the short moment of silence, I observed the couple: I didn’t feel their chemistry, but again, I didn’t know them. I just guessed that they had a great sex life. The girl took a quick intake of breath, “Well, we better get going,” she said, placing a lingering palm on Taylor’s chest. She stood on the tips of her toes before leaning her face toward his again.

“It was nice meeting you,” I muttered. Taylor nodded absentmindedly, giving his girlfriend a quick kiss.

I began walking, waiting for the girl to fall in step beside me. But she didn’t. Without turning around, I called, “We gotta go!” I received a groan as a reply and heard the parting of lips.

It wasn’t long before we were waiting for the plane to take off, engulfed again in silence. “I forgot how pretty you are,” I told her, trying to break the ice. She was exceptionally beautiful for someone who devoted more of her time to someone else’s career over her own—she just looked like she had the look to be a hit musician.

“Excuse me?” she asked defensively. Not only did she give off a powerful vibe, but also a very condescending one. “Other than getting our papers for this trip, I don’t believe we’ve met. I don’t even know you.”

I had actually met Jen a handful of times, but she was right—I didn’t know her. All I knew was that she worked with a bunch of big shots in the music industry and produced practically half of the current chart-toppers in nearly every genre—she’d even worked with one of my ex-band mates, Ryan, on one of our songs a while back. For her own career, I knew that she’d released a slow and sultry album, like the kind you’d hear in a department store; her production style was much different than her singing style, which is why she was so popular—in the eyes of musicians, she could do it all, which is why she’d received the job in London.

She and I were going to write and produce an album together for this new band, The Hectic Glow. I could understand why they wanted her, but I didn’t know what was so great about me—I had people who produced for me and only provided an ear and an occasional suggestion. The members of the group told us that they felt that, together, we could create a fresh and new genre of music; neither of us, however, knew what the other wanted.

“I think we should do a summery album,” I told her once we had taken off and all tension from before had been forgotten, “I mean, if we can get it done, we can definitely have it ready for release in July, August at the latest.”

“I don’t know,” she said, “Maybe something, not too synthesized, but still audibly synthesized. You know? Like, um, what’s that one newish band called…?”

There that word was: synthesize. I’d used very little of it in my own music, but songs that were created on a computer and not on instruments put a bad name to music. “No, no, no,” I protested, “Absolutely not. Nobody likes that shit.”

“Oh really?” she snapped, “Well, for ‘shit nobody likes’ it sure gets a lot of Grammies, doesn’t it?”

I pursed my lips, “Well, we’ll see what the band wants.”

“I guess we will.”

“And I don’t want to make a goddamn boy band,” I added.

The Hectic Glow consisted of three people: Liam, the percussionist and pianist, Mason, the guitarist and backup vocalist, and Cassidy, the bassist and lead vocalist. Mason, Liam and I shared a flat together, while Jen and Cassidy shared one just down the street. They had explained that they hired us because they thought that our combined ideas, no matter how different, would turn out nicely and without flaw. And, after a trial run, they turned out to be right—everyone was extremely pleased with the sound and could see that it would be a big success.

Although it took a short while, Jen and I learned how to work together without much difficulty. We both had thoughts to supply to the table, though I had to admit that she added better ones than I did. I think I underestimated her taste in music—she may create these cookie-cutter pop songs and not like The Beatles, but she really knew what she was talking about.

“Celebratory drinks and dinner at our place,” Cassidy cheered as we all prepared to leave the studio.

Outside, the sleet fell densely onto the ground, orange from the dim hue of the streetlights. “You aren’t going to cook, are you?” Liam, who was Cassidy’s brother, joked.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and fell behind a few steps, watching everyone. Cassidy nudged her brother with her shoulder, “Actually, Jen and I prepared the meal this morning. Did you know she went to culinary school?”

Jen, who was walking next to me, looked down; I noticed the color of her cheeks change. “Did you?” I asked her, supplying to the group conversation. “There’s nothing sexier than a woman who knows her way ‘round the kitchen.”

She half-glared at me, “Only for three semesters,” she said. “I got signed by Epic Records and dropped out.”

“Well,” Mason said, slipping his bare hand into Liam’s gloved one, “Let’s hope you cook as good as you sing.”

She smiled.

After a short but freezing walk, we arrived at the girls’ apartment, which was warm enough to strip all of my jackets off and walk around comfortably in a T-shirt. Jen, who was popular amongst The Hectic Glow, was constantly wrapped in some conversation. So, when Mason had excused himself to use the bathroom, I jumped at the opportunity to talk to her. “Your flat is remarkably clean,” I said, “You’d think that moving in with two gay men would make for a cleaner place.” I took a swig of my beer, noticing tat she was holding a glass of ice water. “Hey, why aren’t you drinking?”

“We barely know these people, that’s unprofessional,” she said, brushing her behind her shoulder. She eyed me judgingly. “And, besides, I get drunk pretty easily, and when I do, I become really open about everything—that’s even more unprofessional.”

“Oh, come on,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Loosen up—we’re in London, baby!”

She crossed her arms, “I don’t appreciate your lax attitude. We’re here on business.”

I pulled the bottle to my mouth, attempting for my words to soak into the remaining liquid, “Says the woman who practically had sex with her boyfriend in an airport,” I said, quickly drinking the last bit of the cold beer.

She glared at me, her gaze cold and hard, “What was that, Mr. Urie?”

“Nothing, Ms. Addison,” I spat; her name came from my mouth like it had a bad taste.

“Oh my God, Jen,” Liam moaned from the kitchen, “This smells delicious, There is no way that my sister helped you.”

I was glad for the distraction. Anger burned in my chest, and a moment more would have led to an ugly exchange of words. Jen, who looked as angry as I felt, seemed pleased with Liam’s interjection as well. That’s the thing with beautiful women: they’re all either a closet-freak or a closet-bitch.