The studio isdark except for a dim glow from the sound booth. I’ve been sitting here for two hours—maybe three—playing the same five chords on repeat. My fingers move through the progression like they’re picking at a scab. It’s a sad melody, the hollow cavern of my heart translated into fret positions because I’ll have to feel them for real if I stop.
The overhead lights snap on, and I straighten in the chair, blinking against the aggressive brightness.
“That’s the saddest fucking arrangement I’ve ever heard in my life.” Cody stands in the doorway, arms crossed and a look on his face that promises he’s about to make my foul mood worse. “You put any lyrics to it?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“You should call it ‘Wallowing in My Stupidity.’”
“Fuck off, Cody.”
He steps into the room as if he owns it, even though the record label is paying for our studio time this week. “How about ‘I’m a Pathetic Sad Sack’?”
I glare and possibly growl. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be and someone else to annoy?”
“No, no, I’m onto something.” He grabs a guitar off the stand in the corner and drops into the chair across from me, imitating my melody with exaggerated slowness. Then he starts singing.
I’m a pathetic sad sack.
Love is the thing I’m too chicken shit to hack.
I’m a pathetic sad sack.
He adds an unnecessary vocal run at the end, then places an open palm to the strings and grins. “What do you think?”
“You’re the reason career songwriters will always have jobs.” I lean back against the chair. “Also, why are you complaining? I’m here, and you have my full attention. The tracks we’ve laid down in the past forty-eight hours are gold. Probably platinum.”
“I know,” Cody agrees as he rises from the chair, placing the guitar back on the stand with surprising care for a man who treats his belongings like they come from a gumball machine. “That’s the worst part. I can’t bask in the glow of my own vocal genius when you’re bringing down the damn vibe like someone ran over your puppy. You gonna write that song next since confessionals seem to be your area of expertise?”
“I never had a dog get run over.” I do some unnecessary tuning of my guitar instead of meeting his gaze. “And I’ve written a lot of songs that weren’t based on my real life.”
“But the one you wrote about Sloane means the most.”
This conversation is going nowhere fast, much like me after arriving back in Nashville two days ago. Although I’d never admit it, I feel worse than if my dog had been hit. I’m the one flattened by the ending I saw coming and walked in front of anyway, because apparently I’m that much of a glutton for punishment.
Crushed by the wheels of love.There’s a line that could play to sold-out crowds. I should be taking notes, but I can’t bring myself to sift through the shrapnel of my shattered heart to mine the bits that will become someone’s next big hit. It’s going to be a long time before I write a happy song, and every forlorn note I pull from these strings feels like I’m plucking at my own heartbreak.
“I don’t know what you expected me to do,” I say, knowing I’m not going to get rid of him without having this conversation.
He’s been dropping casual comments and shooting me loaded glances since we got back. I’ve been ignoring all of it, especially the weighted silences that let me know he’s thinking loud thoughts. My own head is enough of a cluster right now. I’m not letting Cody into the mix.
“She told me to leave,” I remind him. “Should I have waited around so she could take off again? You think maybe I could have learned my lesson after the first two times.”
“You love her.”
My heart kicks, and I ignore it. “That’s irrelevant.”
“It’s the only thing that’s relevant,” he insists.
“What part of ‘she doesn’t want me’ don’t you get?” I push out of the chair and place my guitar on its stand in the corner. Sitting still while we dissect my experience getting kicked to the curb feels like inviting someone to waterboard me. “I was supposed to take care of her, Cody.Supposed to.I did the opposite. I showed up without a clue what to do, but it turns out she didn’t need my help. And when she did, I screwed it up. So what good am I?”
I want to take the question back. It exposes too much. It’s the question that followed me out of her hospital room, down three floors, through the lobby, and into the Nevada sunlight. I stood there feeling as useless as those dudes playing violin on the deck of the Titanic.
I can practically see the wheels turning as Cody studies me from across the room. It’s not a pretty sight.
“Okay,” he says finally. “This is your problem.”
I press two fingers to my temples like that will help ease the pounding in my brain. “My biggest problem at the moment is that you keep talking.”
