“What happened?”
“Ah, you know… I lost my job, I got kicked out of my home, and I got dumped.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Well, can’t let down the legend himself if he’s waiting for me,” I said, starting off for the recording room. “See you, Amber.”
“Are you good?”
“Never better!” I called, and I eased open the door for the room, but my heart thudded when I’d opened it just enough to hear from inside.
Stephen Shale was playing the piano and singing. Nothing new—kid had been getting pretty good on the piano lately. But what was new was the song.
I didn’t recognize it, but whatever it was, it was fucking beautiful. And he sounded like a whole different man—this wasn’t the street-style hip-hop of before but bighearted soul, velvety R&B keys with Stephen Shale belting out lyrics that sounded like he should have been selling out halls during the Golden Age of jazz, and why the hell had this kid been trying to rap when he could dothis?
Carefully, shakily, I eased the door open a bit more—thankfully the piano stood facing away from the door, and he didn’t seem to notice me coming in, closing the door quietly behind me and leaning frankly flabbergasted against it while the music filled the space. I had no clue where he’d gotten this song, but it felt like it had been written for me right now.
Through it all, when the rain came down,
and the wind brought the walls all down to the ground,
you were my shelter, my safest place.
But even shelter falls, and the lights get erased.
But even in the devastation, you’re my only liberation…
Oh, shit, that was my song. Oh, fuck me, I’d left fever-dream song lyrics in the studio when I’d spent the night in here. Stephen Shale was in the room early yesterday, and hemust have found the scraps of paper I left like a fucking lyrical scavenger hunt, and—
I must have made a noise when I recognized the lyrics, because he jumped, the music stopping as he turned back to me, eyes wide.
“Oh! Miss Branch! I am so sorry, miss, ma’am, I was just—gosh, I didn’t hear you coming in, or—”
“Shut up. Or don’t shut up. Keep playing. I mean, keep playing. What you were playing before.”
“Oh.” He brightened. He had a cap on today that saidTHUG.It was in mint condition. He was also wearing a quarter-zip. I didn’t know what to do with this guy. “It’s good, right? I found it—”
“Stephen Shale, so help me god, if you don’t stop talking and get back to playing, I will lose my goddamn mind—”
“Yes—sorry, momma—ma’am—sorry, ma’am—”
He turned back to the piano, picking up where he left off, and fuck it, I sat down and I cried. It was a tearjerking performance any other time. When it was a song specifically written about how I’d fucked up something beautiful with Helena, sung for me right now of all times, I felt like I’d had my insides carved out with a knife.
When he finished, he turned back to me like a kid with a crayon drawing for his momma, and his big smile vanished when he saw me. “Oh, jeez,” he said. “Oh, that is not good. Am I in trouble?”
“Stephen, take that fucking hat off. You are the least thug person I have ever known.I’mmore of a thug than you are.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” He took the hat off.
“Since when could you sing like that, dude?” I said thickly, wiping my eyes.
“Oh, you know.” He scratched his head. “That’s just how I’d sing at home. With my momma, you know. We’d put on,you know, Aretha Franklin and sing along while we cleaned the house or made dinner.”
I put my hands over my face. “I wish you’d told me this earlier, man.”
“Awh. I’m in real trouble, aren’t I?”
“Hell yeah you are, dude. I’m gonna kick your fucking ass,” I laughed through tears. “You’re never going to be acooler than coolhip-hop legend. Give it up.”
