Tracy

023:

Michael was in the studio with another artist. Tracy stood outside his door, knowing better than to barge in. The window in the door showed her his artistic bulk, completely enraptured by whatever was being done in the recording room. Which, of course, made her want to go in and hear it too. But her insides were on fire, her heart and mind felt like she was going to burst. She needed him.

Her curiosity wasn't great enough to induce her to go inside. But Michael looked up, rubbing sweat off his forehead. He wasn't alone in the little room, and when he saw her he beckoned her inside. His dark eyes gleamed cherry red wine. He'd been in there a long time--the smell attested to it, and agitated too. She left the door open, recognizing the other technician with him.

He glanced up--- saw her reddened eyes and rubbed his head again hard. Then he leaned forward and spoke into the microphone, interrupting the guys inside the recording room. "Yeah, stop. Just stop." He turned to her, looked into her eyes once more, read her like a book, and gave the tech the thumbs out sign. He got up and left immediately, not even glancing at Tracy, who was wringing her hands apologetically. "Take thirty."

He yanked the swivel chair over with his sandaled foot, and leaned extraordinarily far back in his seat to shut the door.

"It's Case?" He guessed as soon as she slumped over, hiding her eyes.

"No. Not exactly." She tried really hard to keep the tears from coming, but it was that time of the month and she'd always been susceptible.

"You had a blast at the trunk or treating with Danny, you and Jules soared on wings of eagles yesterday in the studio, yes, you decided to quit school, but I understand Bridget is buying a house with you. And after next semester, she's agreed to move here and finish school stateside. You two can maybe finish school together. That's comforting, Trace, life will get into a routine. What else is bothering you?"

"There was this guy. The military guy, you saw him. I really liked him, but he got scared off. I am scary, I am closed off inside. I feel it; don't you know I feel it? Casey has done this to me."

"And Geoff, and Jerry Nelson, and Ray McCaffrey, and Ruth, and Lorraine, and yeah-- I get it." Michael turned compassionate eyes on her as she twirled with her back to him, crying hard. She heard his deep intake of breath. "Tracy, you've got too much on your plate. You need to slow down. This-- the headaches and the losing it-- it's not a good sign."

"Michael, I'm so broken. I can't take any more broken, you know?"

He breathed heavily, snorting, starting and then stopping, not knowing, yet knowing in the same breath what to say.

"You're not broken. You might be depleted, but you're not broken. Broken people don't write the kind of amazing lyrics you write."

"Broken people do write these lyrics. It produces these lyrics, this being broken. When everything's fine there is peace and no need for the terrible outlet of the words." She paused, now facing him, trying to relax. He felt like she was sparking fire inside.

"You want this guy? Call him, Trace. Maybe he can help you feel unbroken."

"But Michael...." And now her voice was tightly controlled, and so low, he could barely hear her. "He's good and kind and virtuous and steady and confident, and what if he really did find me overwhelming and too complicated? I've got a kid now."

"From what I understand, child protection services gave you only partial custody."

"Yes, every other week. I have him one week and then Casey has him. That's why I quit school and came here, and that's why I'm buying a house here." She sounded frustrated.

Michael could understand her frustration, she'd mapped her life out after Pepper's and it was the one thing she counted on to hold her together--- the absolute predictability of it. She scheduled herself to the minute and never left anything to chance. Meeting this guy opened up a can of worms that required flexibility and an inner loosening of tightly held reins.

The way Danny did.

She naturally gravitated toward balance. She didn't know it but it kept her sane.

"What about this movie?" Michael changed the subject, wondering if he should suggest counseling.

She swirled, her feet dragging. "I said yes."

"Jules said you literally sparkled the night of the release party with one of the actors."

"It was a fluke."

"Looked like a heck of a fluke, from the magazine covers."

Her heart sank. "Marc Shepherd."

Michael grunted. "More than Shepherd." He tossed her another magazine with a picture of herself with Ray. Cover of the Rolling Stone. At least they were singing, not dancing.

"Oh." She hadn't seen it. "Dad's got more covers than anybody, I think. I'm honored to be with him."

She held the magazine and then twirled it at Michael. "Can I have this?"

"No, get your own." He said this gruffly, but she was used to his gruffness, it covered his soft spots. "You need a room?"

She smiled at his double meaning--- they were always teasing her about her celibate status. In the entertainment field this was fairly rare these days. And reporters were always speculating--- waiting for her to slip up. They hadn't been particularly pleased when she'd joined the Mormon church and espoused to a cleaner lifestyle.

"I need a room." She agreed, because she knew Michael referred to a quiet place she could release some of her musical energy.

Michael swiveled, he rarely got up, and spoke into a phone receiver that was attached to a large base with lots of lines. Instantly a light came on, and he took another call, mumbling in Michael fashion, low and intense. When he turned his face didn't smile, but his eyes did.

"There's a room upstairs. It's one of the better acoustic rooms, and has some ambiance. Go there. I'll have the techs make sure the piano is there, and a couple of guitars. The other call was Jules. You have a visitor."

Tracy felt her shoulders tense and the headache start. I'm under a lot of stress, she thought, identifying it, the adrenaline feel of tingling in her extremities, and the weight in her shoulders making it distracting to breathe.

Jules wasn't stressful. Jules was Jules.

But needing space and having it invaded, sometimes even for Jules-- well, the thought of it was intimidating. Perhaps after they got together it would relax. Jules had that effect on her.

She pushed up languidly--- crying did that, and hormones.

She'd stop and get some herbal tea before hitting the safe room.

But the safe room wasn't safe at all.

*******