Page 68 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

“I’ll make you another one,” Gabriel said just as if I hadn’t spoken. “Sean?”

Sean tossed the magazine onto the table and stood. “Sit the hell down and talk to your girlfriend.” He put his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and shoved him into the chair across from me. “I need to prepare for all the A&R execs that’ll be swarming the joint.”

“Can you get me some wine?” Gabriel called after him.

Sean gave him the middle finger. “You’restillnot Bono.”

Gabriel shook his head and whipped out a book from his back pocket like he was actually going to sit and readJesus’ Soninstead of discussing this with me.

I snatched the book out of his hand as Sean set two glasses of red wine on the table and retreated.

“Why are you being so weird about this?” I asked, planting my forearms on the table and searching his face for an answer.I’d been so excited when I saw the article inAvant-Gardethat I ran straight to Monks after work to share it with him, but he hadn’t been the least bit interested.

“Iamweird.” He tipped back in his chair, balancing on the back two legs. I was tempted to lunge across the table and knock him on his ass. “I thought you already knew that.”

I rolled my eyes. “Weirder than usual then.”

“Hey, dude, how’s it going? Thought you were working today,” Devin said, taking a seat at our table. “Hey, Cleo. Cool T-shirt.”

“Thanks.” It was a line drawing I did of Philippe Petit tightrope-walking between the roofs of the Twin Towers. “I’ll make one for you.”

Gabriel pointed at me. “You’re not making shirts for anyone but me.” His gaze swung to Devin. “I wastryingto work until Cleo?—"

I pointed at Gabriel. “You’re not the boss of me. If I want to make a T-shirt for Devin, I will.” I set the magazine in front of Devin and opened to the page with the write-up, hoping to recruit another ally. “I’m trying to get Gabriel to read this.”

“I don’t need to read it because you chased me around Monks reading ittome,” Gabriel said, rubbing his temples like this whole thing was giving him a massive headache. “Why are you being so persistent about this?”

He’d spent the day playing barista and conveniently disappeared into the kitchen to wash dishes when I was reading to him.

“Why are you acting so blasé about this?”

“Dude, you got a write-up inAvant-Garde?” Devin said, sounding suitably impressed. “That’s awesome.”

“Exactly. Thank you,” I told Devin who started reading the write-up, moving his lips while his eyes scanned the page.

Occasionally he’d read aloud, throwing out some key phrases, much to Gabriel’s dismay and my obvious delight.

“‘…captivating live performance…extraordinary vocal range…the ability to deliver deeply personal interpretations of both original songs and covers. Gabriel Francis is an enigmatic musician with undeniable charisma.’” Devin tossed the magazine onto the table. “Dude, this is all good stuff. What’s your problem?”

“What do I care what some journalist says about me?” Gabriel said. “That’s his opinion. I’m not going to change my music to pander to whatever this guy deems as ‘commercial’—”

“Nowhere in this article did he mention that you should change,” I pointed out.

“Not explicitly, but I can read between the lines,” he said, chugging his wine while Devin ambled off to get a drink, no doubt needing a breather from our domestic squabble.

“When journalists start throwing around words like ‘too experimental’ and ‘too much raw emotion’ that’s what they’re talking about. He even said he wasn’t sure my music had commercial appeal.” Gabriel snorted. “As if that’s what I’m going for.”

“He posed it as a question, not a statement,” I argued. “This is a really positive review and Jonathan Mayes doesn’t toss around accolades lightly.”

“What do I care?” Gabriel batted his hand in the air like he was swatting a pesky mosquito. “It has nothing to do with me.”

“It haseverythingto do with you.” I threw up my hands. “It’s about you.”

Devin returned to our table with a beer and backed me up. “I thought you wanted to be a musician.”

He scowled at Devin. “I do. And I am. It’s all about the music. It always has been and always will be. I don’t want to get caught up in allthat.” He stabbed his finger at the magazine likeit had done him dirty. “I’m trying to protect my headspace. I’m trying to honor the sacred vow I made to music. I’m not going to change my vision or my artistic direction to appeal to the masses. And why the fuck did he have to mention what I look like?” Gabriel exhaled loudly. “What does that have to do with my music?”

I gave him an incredulous look. “You’re not a faceless guitar player standing up there, Gabriel.”