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“You yelled at her for using the microwave to heat up her lunch.”
“I didn’t yell at her,” Bret says defensively.
“That’s not what Betty says.” I cock my head and purse my lips at him.
“She heated up fish, Mia. Fish! There are break room standards,” Bret states and shakes his head.
I shrug.
“She thinks I don’t like her?” Bret asks, worried.
“You made her cry,” I pout.
“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” Bret catches on and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I’m talking about difficult managers or artists with an attitude, not receptionists who heat up their fishy lunch in the breakroom microwave,” he says in an exasperated tone.
“Oh, so you get it then.” I place my hand on my hip and pierce him with a look.
“Just because one artist wanted to change up the chorus does not mean they are being difficult.” Bret throws his hand up, clearly annoyed with me.
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he asks as he glares at me.
“You look like you’re about to blow a gasket.” I laugh more.
“Mia, get serious,” he almost pleads, and I know I’ve effectively gotten under his skin.
“Look, I’m not used to working with other people. I like doing things my own way,” I tell him. I wrote songs with Jack, but it wasn’t sunshine and roses. We fought, a lot, and it was never easy. Sometimes we couldn’t compromise and didn’t talk to each other for days. It’s hard to work with other people, especially ones you have no prior relationship with. “Maybe if I work on some things solo, get back into a groove, then you can introduce me back into society,” I joke.
“Jesus Christ, you’re just like…” He doesn’t finish his sentence and I thank him for that, although Jack seems to invade my thoughts more than I would like. “Well, you’re difficult. I don’t remember you being this difficult.” He turns away from me and heads toward the door.
“Bret?” I call after him and he stops in the doorway.
I approach him, running my hand through my hair nervously. “I really do appreciate this.” Even after everything, the fact that he trusts me and respects me means a lot. Right now, I’m not everyone’s favorite person. He didn’t have to agree to put my publishing company under his label, but he did. That’s not something he would have done for just anyone.
“Hey,” he smiles at me, placing a hand on my shoulder, “You’re gonna be fine.” Then he turns and leaves through the door, letting it close with a click behind him.
I’m left in the studio by myself.
There is a large worn couch in the corner that looks like it’s been used for more than sitting on, judging by the stain on one of the cushions. Old black and white pictures hang on the wall, mostly of people I don’t recognize, but a few I do. A large whitewashed chandelier hangs from the ceiling with delicate crystals. There is a soundboard with monitors and a superman booth in the corner, but this space is mostly for writing.
There is a shitty piano on the other side of the room, but it’s tuned nicely. An acoustic guitar sits against the wall in the corner, and I stride over to pick it up. I haven’t played in a long time, and I was never very good at it. I mostly used the piano to write. When I pull the strap over my head and place it next to my body, it feels awkward. The strings are loose and out of tune as I strum a few chords.
There are so many memories I have wrapped up in the strings of a guitar. I remember sitting on an old mattress in the squat with Jack while he taught me proper finger placement, and then got annoyed with me if I set his guitar down too roughly.
There were so many times I’d pick up Cash’s bass thinking I could play the same chords, but the sound was different. The smile on his face is so solid in my mind it’s as if he is in the room with me. I can feel his arms around me, the guitar in my lap, but instead of teaching me to play, I’d feel his lips against my neck and his hands slipping from mine only to feel them gripping my waist.
All of these memories are like an onslaught surrounding me, and it’s a mix of light and dark. Cash and Jack are so different but are so intertwined… I don’t know how to separate the two.
I shake the memory from my mind and sit down at the piano. I don’t want to let Bret down, and I need to start working on some songs. If I can finish what I’ve been working on, he can send it out to some artists. I know this studio costs him money, and without any revenue coming in from selling my songs, I’m just costing him money right now.
I have a few notes I jotted down from the other day, the beginnings of a melody to start me off with the lyrics. I play them on the piano, adding notes as I keep going through the melody in my head. I go back through and change the transition of the chorus and write down a few lyrics in the margin, testing them out.
My back aches from sitting at the piano for too long and I decide to head across the hall to the small break room and grab a cup of coffee. The studio was busy today with people passing by in the halls, but now it’s quiet. I can hear the faint sound of a guitar as a door opens and closes, but that’s it. It feels good to be a part of something again. Setting up my company was a bit of a bumpy road, but Bret was patient.
Even though I was worried at first, I haven’t heard from Jack, and Bret keeps everything separate. It’s best this way. I head back into the studio ready to get back to work. I only have the studio for a couple more hours.
