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“Oh.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.
“I wanted to work with you. I just thought ya know, you would understand me.” He picks at the chain hanging from his pocket.
I cock an eyebrow, trying to decipher what he means.
“You’ve been where I’m at.” His cryptic words start to take shape, and the more I think about it, the more I understand.
“The addiction you write about, it’s not your own, is it?”
Peter shakes his head. “Nah. I got my own issues, but that ain’t it.”
“If it’s not drugs, then it must be women,” I guess, cocking an eyebrow.
Peter laughs. “You don’t pull any punches do you?”
“We’ve been working together for a couple weeks now, so don’t act surprised,” I respond, pointing my chewed-up pencil at him.
Peter holds his hands up in mock surrender, laughing.
“Coffee?” I ask, not waiting for an answer before I get up and walk across the hall to the breakroom. Peter’s sneakers squeak on the tile behind me.
I look back at him and he raises his pack of cigarettes to signal that he’s headed outside for a smoke. I hand him a Styrofoam cup and follow him out the front door to the parking lot. The concrete block takes our weight as we lean against it, me sipping my coffee and Peter lighting a cigarette.
“What did you mean when you said I’ve been where you’re at?” I ask him.
“I didn’t mean anything bad by it, just that if all that shit they write about in the papers is true, then you know what it’s like to love someone with an addiction.” I wonder if he is talking about Maggie, the woman he wrote the song about. I still don’t know who she is besides someone Peter once loved.
I kick the loose asphalt with the toe of my boot. “Not everything they write about is true, but that may be the one thing that is.” I snatch the cigarette from him and take a long drag, causing me to cough.
We sit in silence watching as the cars go by, the lights blurring together in a Monet of whites, reds, and blues. I sense that Peter is in deep thought.
“I was never trying to get into your business, Peter,” I try to reassure him, taking a sip of my coffee which is now lukewarm and bitter. “But if you want to be a better writer, you can’t be afraid to take that baggage and lay it all out on a piece of paper.”
“Here I thought you just wanted to get to know me,” he says with a cocky attitude before blowing out a smoke ring.
“Get over yourself,” I scoff.
“Fuck.” He throws the cigarette butt to the ground, snuffing it out with the toe of his shoe. I throw my cup of coffee in the garbage can as we pass through the reception on our way back to the studio.
I check my watch and see we still have the studio for a little while longer. I grab the notebook and slide it across the coffee table towards him.
“Break time’s over.”
“I got this,” he says, pushing the notebook back to me.
Peter picks up his guitar and strums the melody for the song we are working on. The chords pull on my heartstrings, and I haven’t told him this yet, but I think it’s my favorite so far. He rests his foot on the piano bench, leaning against the guitar tucked into his torso. I place the notebook on the stand and sit down at the piano, letting my fingers rest on the keys.
It’s like breathing air how easy it is to get sucked back into the music, as if it never left. Singing melody with Peter feeds this part of me that was starving. As I listen to the lyrics Peter sings and the way he holds his guitar, I understand him a little bit better. When he barged into my studio that first day we met, I thought he was just another narcissistic musician who had something to prove. Maybe that’s still true, but the mask has lifted and he’s laid himself bare.
The last chord lingers in the room and Peter opens his eyes for the first time since starting the song. He smiles at me, and I can’t help but ask him a question that’s been on my mind.
“She died?” I ask, wondering what happened to the girl in the song.
Peter doesn’t meet my eyes but I can see how uncomfortable he is. He runs his hands through his hair and blows out a breath, nodding imperceptibly.
“Overdose.”
I’M SITTING AT the piano making some progress on my own song when I feel the air in the room shift, signaling Cash’s approach. I can feel his presence even before I hear his soft footfalls. How a man wearing engineer boots can walk so gracefully into a room, I’ll never know.
