The Anatomy of Emotion

Chapter Seven

August—Los Angeles

Maeva rolls her eyes, "Corin, the entire point of this was to get you away from performing. We are not going into a karaoke bar."

"No, no, we're getting me away from my tour and my fans and the stress of my everyday life."

"Singing is your everyday life," she sighs, "you are a vocalist. All you do is sing."

"I have no argument for that. But this isn't the same as a tour or a show, Maeva. It's just fun. Anyway, I'm driving," he parks the car and comes around it to help her out.

She groans and trails after him into the dark box of a room. It is busy—crowded along the barstools at the far side, around the tables facing a tiny stage. There is a woman dancing atop it, wailing a pop song. They call hello to the bartender, and Maeva eyes the other people in the room, waiting for them to turn and recognize Corin.

They turn, at least half of them, all around the room. But their stares are not the joyous or rabid recognition she is so familiar with. Instead, there are elevator eyes and pursed mouths and sultry smiles. The equally familiar 'there is a tall, dark pillar of gorgeousness' looks. Maeva's next breath is cold with relief as she finds a stool beside Corin.

"So what should we drink?"

He knocks his knuckles over Adam Levine's face on top of the bar. Like the walls, it is decoupaged with posters of pop artists—Maroon 5, Taylor Swift, Lana Del Ray, and Michael Jackson are the faces she recognizes immediately.

"Water," Maeva says.

"I was thinking something darker with a little more bite personally." he says, "oh, they have Angry Orchard here."

Maeva runs both hands through her bangs, "Corin, you are making it very difficult for me to avoid mother-henning you tonight."

"Maeva, I can have a couple of drinks," he sighs.

"No," Maeva folds her arms, "you're unpredictable like this, the last thing you need is a depressant running around in your head. I don't want to have to take you to the hospital, I—"

"Maeva."

Corin cups her face and makes her look at him. She freezes at the scrape of his mic calluses on her cheeks, quivering deep inside her body.

"Listen to me when I say: I am going to be alright now," his eyes and his hands soften, "you have to understand, these feelings haunt my back every minute of my life, I rarely reach any point of neutrality. But I know how to deal with the points I tend to sit at. Sometimes they get bad and I need a little bit of help. The big wave is gone, you talked with me and I worked it out. No, I'm not better, but I feel better enough to drink and have fun."

She swallows, "you realize you used about four different metaphors there?"

The ribbon on his wrist brushes her cheek as he pulls away, laughing that light, burnished laugh. She blinks at him, and then she laughs a little bit too.

"Two Angry Orchards, please," he switches to English for the bartender, pulling his wallet out, "I've got these."

She picks up the sweating bottle offered her and inspects the brooding tree on the label, "thank you. Only the first round though."

"Deal."

He clinks his bottle against hers and takes a long pull from it. His throat and shoulders are far too pretty in his soft white V neck.