What if I end up hurting her? Because guys like me always do eventually. I shove the thought down. That’s not going tohappen. We’re good. I’m not going to fuck this up. But the doubt is there now, planted.
“Jack?” Thomas’s voice cuts through. “You with me?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I take a long drink of water. “Just tired. Long flight.”
“Understandable. Get some rest tonight,” he says, already signaling for the check. “Big weekend ahead. Eyes are on you, especially with the contract situation so close. Stay focused.”
“Always am,” I say.
We finish up and say our goodbyes outside the restaurant. Thomas heads back to his hotel and I walk back to mine, the cool night air doing nothing to clear my head. My phone is heavy in my pocket. I should text Lark. Check in, see how she’s doing, let her know how things are going here.
But I don’t. I just keep walking, Thomas’s words echoing in my head with every step.
CHAPTER 25
LARK
It doesn’t sound right at all.
My laptop sits balanced on my knees, headphones on, listening to the demos I recorded in Seattle this past week. Maya set the whole thing up—three days in a studio with a producer Tidal Records works with sometimes, recording new versions of my songs in the pop sound they’re going for.
They sent me the final recordings this morning. The tracks are supposed to show the label what I can do with their production style, and prove I can adapt my music to fit what they’re looking for.
Except they don’t sound likeme. At all.
I hit pause on the third track and just sit there staring at the audio waveform on my screen. This is “Wildfire,” the song I wrote right after the divorce when I was so angry I could barely see straight. I recorded the original demo myself earlier this year in a small Seattle studio with just my guitar.
This new version sounds like it was designed by an algorithm. They’ve smoothed out every edge, added these electronic beats that don’t mesh with the lyrics, and Auto-Tunedmy voice until I sound like any other pop singer on Spotify’s Top 50.
And then there’s the lyrics. Maya sent over the changes early this week and we went back and forth, and I agreed to most of them even though I hated every single one. They took out anything too specific, anything too raw, anything that actually meant something to me. Polished to the point of being sterile.
I pull off my headphones and toss them onto the coffee table, then immediately wince because they’re expensive and I can’t afford to replace them if they break.
Jack’s been in Brazil all week for the São Paulo Grand Prix. The race is tomorrow, then he flies home. We’ve been texting, but my apartment feels too quiet without him. I keep catching myself looking at the couch expecting to see him there. I wish he was here. He has this knack for cutting through my spiraling, for making things seem less overwhelming. Which I could use right about now.
I hit play again on the demo and immediately regret it. That’s not my voice. That’s not my song. What am I doing? What if I sign with them and hate every single thing I put out? What if I compromise everything that makes my music mine and it doesn’t even work? What if?—
A knock at the door startles me out of my spiral.
“It’s me!” Maren calls from the other side.
I jump up from the couch and yank the door open. She’s standing there with a white bakery box in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
“I brought cookies and wine, as requested.”
“Thank the universe you’re here.” I pull her inside. “I need your opinion on these demos before I completely lose it.”
“That bad?” she asks, heading toward the kitchen. I follow her and grab two wine glasses from the cabinet while she sets the bakery box on the counter.
“I think so. But I need you to tell me if I’m crazy,” I say, setting the glasses down.
“Gladly. I’ve been curious all day about what you recorded.” She opens the wine and starts pouring while I peek into the bakery box. Chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, snickerdoodles, and what looks like some kind of fancy lemon thing with white chocolate.
“Perfect,” I say. “If there was ever a time for a sugar and wine pairing, it’s right now. Ugh, I love you.”
“I know you do,” she grins, handing me a glass. We head back to the couch and settle in with the cookies within easy reach. “Now let me hear what’s got you spiraling.”
I had texted her this morning right after listening to the tracks for the first time, just a rambling stream of consciousness about the demos and the label. She’d responded immediately with “Coming over after work with cookies and wine. Let’s figure this out,” which is exactly the kind of friend response I needed.
