Never thought a man in all black would do it for me, but then again, I’d never seen Stetson in all black.
My brain’s automatic response was to close my eyes, bracing for impact as I walked past him and into the recording studio. Wait for it. Wait for it.
There it is.
The leathery, musky scent was absolutely intoxicating. It was one of those smells I could remember forever, the kind that hit your nose and made the hairs on the back of your neck spark to life. The kind that lingered even after the person was gone.
“Whew,” I mumbled under my breath. “How’s the writing going?” I asked, in hopes of refocusing my brain. I sat down on the couch, plopping my stuff right next to me.
“It’s going. I haven’t had as much time to focus on the album as I’d like, but sometimes there are more important things than making music,” he said, finding a seat in the chair just behind the soundboard.
I released the breath I’d been unknowingly holding on to.
Thank god, I thought. If there was any chance of me getting any actual work done, there needed to be at least five feet between the two of us at all times. My brain was already fighting to replay the memory from the last time I sat on this couch, and it was taking everything in me not to let it win.
“Do you think that’s the only reason you’re struggling?” I asked.
“Woah there. I didn’t say I was struggling. I just said I haven’t had much time.”
I threw my hands in the air, signaling a white flag. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying that maybe it isn’t about the time, but more about the songs you’re trying to write.”
“How do you mean?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.
“You want these songs to be different, right?”
Nothing came out of his mouth, but a slight nod confirmed my question.
His body language depicted a relaxed but on-guard position with both legs squared out and his elbows propped on his thighs as he leaned forward in a large leather spinning chair. His right foot appeared to be nervously dancing on the floor, a steady but constant rhythm.
“If I was a bettin’ woman, I’d guess that these aren’t as easy to write as your previous songs. Songs about drinking, partying, and cowgirls…” I said, shooting him acome and get melook, because as much as I wanted to try to play professional—at least for now—I couldn’t help myself. “Those are songs that are easy to write.”
He crossed his arms. “Is that so? Is that your way of telling me my other songs sucked?”
“No.” I laughed. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just when you’re writing about things that lack emotional depth, that don’t give an inside look at all your vulnerable parts, it makes things a little easier, less personal. Now you’ve decided you want to write songs that mean more, songs that show your fans who you are. That means you have to be willing to write those songs, to share those parts of yourself, the parts that maybe you’ve kept hidden or guarded for most of your career.”
I fidgeted with the ring on my right finger as I stared at Stetson, awaiting a response, but he stayed silent. Finally, I broke our gaze, shifting my eyes to my hands.
“You know, you’re probably one of the most insightful people I’ve ever met. From the first night I met you under the starsat Booker’s party, you’ve had a way of viewing the world differently. A way that somehow always seems to make sense.”
I shifted my body, sitting up taller with the boost from his compliment. I half expected some smart-ass response, but then again, he had a way of surprising me, showing me slivers of himself that I was so desperate to get to know.
“Thank you,” I responded. I swallowed, giving myself a chance to stop the words that were about to come out of my mouth, but instead, finding myself eager to say them. “Take it from someone who has kept some big things to herself. Things that are heavy to carry on my own, but it’s scarier to think that sharing those things could change some people’s perspective on who they think I am.” I breathed, dropping my gaze again because I was too afraid to look him in the eyes. “Then to even consider revealing those things…” I paused, the thought itself sending my body into fight or flight mode. “It’s fucking terrifying.”
I felt a deep need to show him that being vulnerable may be scary, but it could also be freeing. That he could open up to his audience, the same way he’d begun opening up to me, and it just might make him feel more heard than he’d ever felt. And from what I knew about Stetson, he was begging for someone to listen, for someone to hear what he was trying to say.
My eyes were still glued to the floor, but I heard the wheels of the chair gliding closer. Then, I spotted his black cowboy boots only a few inches away.
His gentle hand reached under my chin, guiding my head up until our eyes locked. “Not that my opinion matters to you, but nothing you say could change my perspective of who I think you are.”
I forced a soft smile onto my face, doing my best to believe him, but the doubt seeped into my head slowly like water that had found its way into a crack.
“You know, I’d planned on writing a song about my dad. He was the best man I knew.” A slow chuckle rolled from the back of his throat. “Actually, the day I met George, I would’ve sworn they had been brothers in another life because they’re just so damn similar. He worked at the same construction company his entire life and had an incredible work ethic. He didn’t put up with any bullshit, especially from me, but he always made sure I knew how much he loved me. He and my mom saved up for months to buy me my first guitar, and then he spent hours teaching me how to play. He’s in every single one of my childhood memories.
“When I was sixteen, he died of a heart attack. It was the worst thing I’d ever had to go through—or so I thought. There were times when I didn’t think I’d make it to the next day, but by the grace of god and the strength of my mom, I did.” He let out a deep breath. “I’d written bits and pieces of a song for him over the years, and it was almost finished. I was finally feeling ready to share that story with the world. Then, my friend Jackson and his wife Rebecca died, and all the pieces I’d slowly put back together shattered.”
“Stetson—” I reached my hand out to offer some comfort, but I was too late; he’d already spun the chair to face the soundboard. “I’m so sorry,” I offered.
I wanted to say something else, to let him know I was there for him, but I also wanted to give him some space to just be with his own thoughts because it was clear that these specific ones had lived in his head for far too long.
