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One corner of her mouth twitches upward in a semblance of a smile. “Got it. Be right back.”
The kids who were in line before have disappeared, so it doesn’t take her long to get our coffees.
She returns, setting a brown disposable cup in front of me.
“Thank you.” I pick it up and blow on the top before taking a small sip.
“You’re welcome.” She sits and opens her briefcase, pulling out a manila folder, a faint tremble in her fingers.
“Like I mentioned, I listened to your song. I thought it was very good.”
My mind buzzes with competing thoughts: I guess we’re jumping right into it, combined withholy shitshe likes my song.
Since it wouldn’t be appropriate to jump up and down screaming, I nod. “Thank you. Thank you for listening at all.”
I don’t know what else to say. I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation. A month ago, hell, two hours ago, I was thinking I’d have to throw in my chips and return home. Now . . . maybe not?
She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, her hands cupped around her coffee. “Can I ask what inspired it? What do the lyrics mean to you?”
The scent of her wafts over me, something with bright floral notes. She smells like spring. I breathe her in, and my mind scatters in different directions. One part of me contemplates if she tastes as good as she smells. Another part of me considers how to reply to her question while also berating the part that’s hung up on her scent.
This isn’t a date. It’s business.
I drive my thoughts to the song. It’s not exactly easy to talk about. I told Walter about what happened with Kevin, but that was after knowing him for nearly six months, and it was a late night when I’d had too much coffee and couldn’t fall sleep. We’d been alone and lonely and did a bit of soul sharing.
Mindy waits, her expression reflecting patience and understanding. She’s worked with many artists. I’m sure she’s heard it all. Life is messy. Art is our way of making sense of the chaos. And I know she understands grief.
I have to be honest with her even if it’s an old wound that is still deep enough to draw blood with the merest swipe. I have to get accustomed to questions like this. If I experience even a modicum of success, it’s going to come up again.
“When I was young, I had this friend Kevin.” I look down into my coffee cup. “He died when we were both sixteen. He . . . killed himself.” Even though the song is about his death, it’s difficult to admit how he died, how much he was struggling, and how little I was aware of it. I was his best friend and didn’t help him.
A loaded silence descends. I resist the urge to scrub my sweating palms on my jeans.
What is she thinking?
When I finally meet her gaze, instead of pity, there’s a glint of respect.
She takes a breath. “I’m really sorry. I know how—” she breaks off, her gaze shooting to the side. She swallows and meets my eyes. “My sister Aria died when she was fifteen. To lose someone close to you, and so young. . . it changes you on a molecular level that’s hard to explain to people who haven’t experienced it.”
Surprise and relief root me to my seat. “Yes.”
She gets it. I knew she would. I knew she must have experienced something tragic based on the interview I’d read, but I didn’t know the depth of the loss. Her sister. Fifteen.
“When I first listened to it, I thought it was about a lost love, a romantic love interest or something, but then, I caught on that you were opening it to other interpretations. Which is great, because really the listener can apply whatever meaning they want. A lot of people will be able to relate to it.”
I nod and rub at a smudge on the table. “It’s about making mistakes, losing someone too soon. It’s about the guilt and the confusion that cling like a second skin and weigh us down, preventing us from moving forward.”
She doesn’t speak for a few long seconds.
I look up. Our eyes lock, and recognition shoots along the connection between us, two soldiers comparing battle scars.
Her eyes are beautiful, dark, bright with intelligence. With a decisive nod, she speaks. “I have a proposal for you to review.” She severs the connection, pulling a stack of paperwork out of the folder in her hand.
She sets it in front of me, bound together by a gold binder clip latched at the top.
I scan down the first page. There is a lot of legalese: theinitial contract period,Outfoxed Records agrees to produce master recordings consisting of songs written and performed by, and then a blank spot for the artist’s name. “Are you . . . is this an offer to sign me? To a label called Outfoxed Records?” A smile tugs at my lips. “I like it. The play on your name.” Not to mention the deeper meaning, how she’s outfoxing those who have underestimated her.
“Yes.” Her chin lifts. “I’m going to be upfront with you. No one in the industry will hire me, and I’m sure you’re aware of the reason why. I understand if you don’t want to work with me because of my reputation, but I need to know now if that’s a hard line for you. I will give you time to review the contract, but since you met with me, I’m assuming it’s not going to be an immediate no. I’m not sure if my notoriety will help or hinder this endeavor, but I can promise you that no one will work as hard as I will to launch a successful album and, hopefully, a long-term career.”
