Five years ago. Different apartment, different notebook, same feeling of intimacy turned sour.
His name was Gage Sharp, and he had the kind of smile that made you forget to be careful. We met at an open mic night downtown, two struggling songwriters who bonded over terrible coffee and shared dreams of making it big. When he suggested we try writing together, it made sense.
For three months, we met twice a week at his place or mine, crafting songs that felt like conversations between souls. I’d bring melodies and half-formed verses, he’d add bridges and polish the rough edges. Our voices blended beautifully, and I started to believe that maybe I’d found my creative soulmate.
The song that broke everything was called “Phoenix Rise.” I’d written it after a particularly bad night, when Lily was still small and I was struggling to balance single motherhood with my dreams of musical success. The lyrics were deeply personal, drawing from my experience of rebuilding myself after abandonment.
Gage loved it immediately. Said it was the best thing we’d written together, that it had commercial potential. He wanted to workshop it more, maybe pitch it to some industry contacts he claimed to have.
But somewhere between creative partnership and stolen songs, lines got blurred. Late night writing sessions turned into wine and confessions. Confessions turned into his hands in my hair, his mouth promising things his actions would never deliver.
I should have been suspicious when he started meeting with those contacts without me. Should have questioned why he needed to take the demo home “for reference” when we always worked together. I should have trusted the uneasy feeling in my gut when he became evasive about the timeline and next steps.
Instead, I trusted him with my music and my body. Right up until I heard “Phoenix Rise” on the radio six months later, performed by a rising country star and credited solely to Gage Sharp.
The worst part wasn’t the theft itself, though that felt like being gutted with a rusty knife. The worst part was how he justified it when I confronted him. Said the song was “inspired by our collaboration” but ultimately his vision. That my contribution was more emotional than creative, and emotion couldn’t be copyrighted.
What he didn’t say—but what his smirk implied—was that sleeping with me had been part of the creative process. Just another way to mine material from my life.
I blink back to the present, my notebook still open to the unfinished song about Darian. The parallel is obvious and terrifying. Another talented musician interested in getting close to me. Another situation where I’ve opened myself up completely, offering pieces of my body and soul without guarantee of protection.
The smart thing would be to learn from history. To recognize the pattern and extract myself before I get used again.
My phone buzzes with another text, and I reach for it despite my better judgment.
Playing at The Blue Note tomorrow night. Nothing fancy, just me and a guitar. Would love to see you there.
I type and delete responses for ten minutes.I’ll be there.Delete.I can’t.Delete.We need to talk.Delete.
Finally, I set the phone aside without responding at all.
The sound of Lily’s key in the lock makes me quickly gather up the scattered papers, shove the notebook under my bed, and rush to meet her at the front door. The bus driver leaves after I wave.
“Hey, baby. How was camp?” I ask as we make our way into the kitchen. She dumps her backpack onto the bench and sits down.
“Camp was boring. The music part was fun, but my day was even better when I went to Benny’s for my lesson. He’s so cool and the name of his place is rad. Have you been there?”
My stomach seizes.Rattlesnake Guitars. Darian.
“Yep. Rattlesnake Guitars. I know Benny. He’s a great teacher.” I’m thankful she can’t see my expression because she wouldn’t understand it and I don’t want her to think I don’t like Benny. He’s the least of my worries. It’s his upstairs tenant that has my stomach in knots.
I slice up an apple, add some granola to a cup of yogurt and bring it over to her.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“Of what?”
“Of me taking lessons from Benny?”
“I think it’s a great idea.” I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her even if itmeans I have to see the man upstairs. I know I’m being silly. No matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to ignore him.
“Are you sad about something, Mama?”
The question catches me off guard. Lily’s always been intuitive, but lately she seems to see straight through every protective facade I construct.
“Not sad, exactly. Just thinking about work stuff.”
“Is the venue okay?”
