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“Nah, man,” Grey replied, shaking his head. “I think you feel like it's a further leap from the old stuff than it really is. It's a little more upbeat, yeah, but it's still … I dunno … it …”
“It's got the samevibe,” Dave finished, and Grey nodded his agreement.
“It's like, um …” Simon snapped his fingers a few times, his face contorted with thought. Then, he pointed at the screen and continued, “Matchbox Twenty! Their newer stuff isn't like their old shit, not by a long shot, but it's still them. There's no mistaking it's them, and it's solid. Justdifferent.”
“All right, all right. You guys can stop stroking my ego,” I muttered as my lips quirked into some semblance of a smile.
“A simple thank-you will do,” Dave said, blowing me a kiss.
I laughed. “Thanks.”
He nodded once before saying, “Anyway, I gotta run.”
“Same here,” Grey said. “Zach and I are bringing the girls to my dad's place for dinner.”
The rest of us collectively groaned as Simon muttered, “Shit, I miss your dad's cooking.”
“Hey, he's always inviting you guys over,” Greyson replied, shrugging a shoulder.
It was true; Greyson's dad, infamous drummer Sebastian Moore, had issued an open invitation for all of us to stop by his place whenever we wanted. I used to take him up on the offer every now and then. He didn't live all that far away from my parents' place. But it had been years since I had taken the drive. Hell, I hadn’t even thought about it until now.
“Maybe I'll swing by soon,” I murmured, thinking aloud. “As long as he makes his ribs.”
Greyson laughed, smiling fondly. “I'll let him know. Anyway, I'll hit you guys up later.”
“Have a good night, Grey,” Dave replied, and then our drummer was gone from the chat. “I'm heading to Mass, gentlemen. Talk to you guys soon.”
“Bye, man,” I said, lifting my hand in a half-hearted wave.
And then it was Simon and me. It always came down to us in the end, and I supposed that was fitting, when it was exactly how we had begun.
“It's probably one of the best things you've written, you know,” he said after a few moments of silence, his eyes sincere.
Looking away from the camera, I shook my head. “Get the hell out of here, man. It's elementary school poetry at best—”
“Is it simple? Sure. But that emotion? That shit was real, and that's what makes it so damn good,” he stated, firm and convincing. “Hell, they’re all like that. You’ve written, what? Three songs in the last few weeks?”
“Four,” I grumbled, wiping a hand over my mouth.
Simon blew out a breath. “I dunno, dude. I think this chick opened Pandora's box, and you’d better keep reachin' in if we're gonna record a new album.”
Barking out a laugh, I tipped my head back to stare at my parents' kitchen ceiling. The paint was flaking and peeling away. Every now and then, a few pieces broke away to garnish a cup of coffee or plate of meatloaf, and it pissed me off. I had told them years ago that I'd get around to painting it, and then I had gone and ruined everything. I knew I should just pay someone to do it—Lord knew I had the cash—but to do so would be to admit defeat.
Am I not defeated though?
“You say that like it's so easy to just … write four, five, six more songs,” I finally replied, bringing my eyes back to his. “It's a freakin' miracle I wrote this many.”
“Yeah, it is,” he agreed, nodding. “But, dude, if you've got those in you, I'll bet anything there's more.”
There was something in what Simon had said that struck a chord—pun not intended—and I nodded with fresh determination coursing through my bones. It seemed reasonable to think I could scrap away at whatever inspiration was left and put some more words together—at least enough to fill an album and get something new out there after over four years of nothing.
But after another week went by without writing so much as a single letter on my pad of paper, I threw the pen down and thrust both hands into my hair with an anguished groan.
“This is bullshit,” I said into my bedroom just as Dad walked past the open doorway on his way to the basement.
“The writing's going well, huh?” he commented, lifting the corner of his mouth in a sympathetic half-smile.
“Oh, yeah. It's amazing,” I mumbled, hitting my head against the wall.
