Well, not alone. I have family. A cousin. My grandma. An ocean view and my dream job. I’m doing all right.
I’m starting to feel antsy. “Anything else on the agenda?”
“Fine,” Justin says. “I’ll tell you who’s asking. It’s Jaida.”
“Definitely not,” I tell him.
“It’s not a terrible song, Ben. Give it a few hours, some tweaking, maybe a little rewrite?—”
“Anentirerewrite. I’ve done this before, remember?” Jaida is the reason I don’t agree to doctor songs anymore in the sham name of collaboration. “She’s impossible to work with.”
“But the money.”
“And the pain,” I counter. “So much pain.”
“Think about it. I’ll get with Brad and buy you another week to give them an answer.”
“Who’s Brad?”
“Jaida’s agent. He’s pretty flexible, because she really wants this. Just promise me you’ll consider it. Think of it like a transaction. She’s buying a Grammy, and you’re the supplier.”
Justin looks so hopeful I can’t bear to let him down. I’m shaking my head, even as I agree. But it leaves an icky feeling in my gut when the words leave my mouth. “Fine. I’ll think about it. You’ll get an answer tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” The flash of his teeth shows he thinks he’s won. “The only other thing we need to discuss is the Bree Belacourt song you’ve been working on.”
My stomach tightens. “It’s not quite ready.”
Justin gives a weird laugh. “You’ve got time. You might not have noticed in your little hermit world out there?—”
“We live in the same state, man.”
“—butshe’s gone missing. Her agent stopped pestering me for that song a week ago. I don’t think they know where she is.”
My chest burns with the very real desire to tell Justin exactly where she is: doing yoga on the back deck next door. I might have noticed her setting up and getting started before I joined our meeting.
“They don’t want the song anymore?” I ask to clarify. It’s a weird double feeling of relief and disappointment. I’m not sure if it’ll be easier to write while she’s next door. Up until now, Bree has been an elusive concept. I see her on social media or award shows and know she’s out there singing the words I write, but there’s a disconnect, too. When she showed up the other night, her physical presence broke through the glass wall separating us and reminded me how real she is.
“I’m guessing they’ll want it eventually, but you have time. Enough to fit in some doctoring, maybe.”
There’s that relief and disappointment again, but now for the other reasons. Either way, I’m going to ignore his effort to guilt me into doctoring Jaida’s song. He wants me to contribute to one of the things that drove me away from the industry in the first place. “You want to hear what I have so far or not?”
“Fine. Yes.”
I situate the guitar on my knee, the smooth wood falling into place with ease and familiarity, then begin to strum. Bree started in pop, but her music has a heavy country influence, and I’ve enjoyed writing for her latest two albums more as the country vibes have grown stronger. Her last album was pop, but thissong might tip her over entirely to country, and I have a feeling she’ll love it once she hears it. I play the beginning and sing the first verse, then move on to the chorus.
Justin listens, his ear tuned, head bobbing along. When I come to an abrupt halt, he looks up. “That’s a strong start, man. Really good.”
“Thanks.”
Justin blinks. “You have a gift, you know. Sure seems wasteful to keep all that talent locked away for one artist.”
“One?” I scoff. “I’ve written for so many people.”
“Maybe in the beginning, but lately I have to turn everyone down. She’s the only artist you choose to write for.”
“I sold one to Benson Boone a few months ago.”
“Bree Belacourt never could’ve pulled that one off, and you know it. Name one other person who hasn’t had to call me begging to get a hit from you in the last four years.”
