I stare at Caleb. “It will be fine.” Although, usually, I would be ready to be back in my own house but being here with Baylor is ten times better than my own home. My house or The Easton might as well be the same thing. I shiver.
I don’t want to walk in that house right now, because I will just compare it with how much I feel at home here. There’s going to be a day that this is all over, I will be back in the house for good, without Bee. I don’t want to think about that right now.
“Let me see what the security team says,” Caleb already has his phone out before he finished talking.
Nix interrupts. “We plan on spending the afternoon coordinating security and schedules. Your house is getting a going over by Caleb’s old team — no objections.”
“In fact,” Caleb looks up from his phone, “with you back in LA, we might make it look like you are staying in your house and see if that drums up any activity. We would be ready for it.”
“You are welcome to use my office,” Baylor says, gesturing down the hall to the room by his bedroom. Office is an understatement. It is a large room with low ceilings, and shelves covering every wall except for a large window. There are books and vinyl cataloged there. There is also a small wet bar, with a hammered copper sink. Large chairs for reading, a desk for his work, and a fireplace rounds out the space. Other than his studio, it’s the room I am the most envious of. I swear, someone jumped into my head and conjured that room from my own secret desires.
“And where will you be?” Nix asks.
Baylor looks at me. “Studio, I hope. Someone is going to want to see some progress on this album.”
Nix smiles. “And is there. . .progress?”
“You aren’t Vernon,” I remind her.
“No, but you are due back on the set next week. I know that is going well. This album is still a mystery, though.”
Baylor and I share a look. It’s still a mystery to us too, but I just smile into my final bites of pasta.
“Where do you want to start?” I ask, making myself comfortable in his studio. We don’t have to be down here to write songs, of course, but the sound is too good here. I also am pretty sure Nix won’t bother me and given the look she gave me at lunch, I’m all for making myself scarce. Not like she won’t interrogate me on the flight to LA.
Baylor rubs his face in a move I know is one of nerves. I saw him do it before every show. He flips open a simple composition notebook full of notes and black ink in lines.
He’s not used to doing this any way other than alone. Well, too damn bad. I’m not leaving and we have songs to write and feelings to sort out.
“I have a few ideas,” he says. “More mood stuff and concept than lyrics.”
I strum the guitar. “Well, the way I see it, they are looking for our sound. So, I went back to the songs we wrote together that did the best. Those classics or number ones in the backlist.”
Baylor raises an eyebrow at me. He writes the lyrics, but a few times I have suggested a change or two to a line here and there, earning a co-write credit. In the early days, I contributed a lot more. This last year, and the end of this tour, I’ve hardly added a word.
“People still want those?”
I snort. “Do you even look at your royalties? Those still sell, still get downloads. I play them every concert, too. If people pay for a ticket and don’t hearMidnight BlueorThe Long Way Down.” I shake my head. “They feel cheated.”
“Those both have a folk-rock undertone.” Baylor’s hands go to the opening chords ofThe Long Way Downon his guitar and I can’t help but to hum.
I swear I have heard those chords a million times, played them just as many, but when he plays them, it lands differently. I want to look him in the eyes and sing, but I also don’t want to break the spell he’s casting in the studio by bending his hands to those chords.
When I was a child, I realized I could pick up any instrument and figure out how to play it. I was utterly fascinated, and I still am, as evidenced by my massive collection.
Since I have been here, my various instruments have been shipped from California and now litter his studio. He’s good with lyrics and a guitar, but I’ve always had an affinity for anything that can play a tune.
Baylor loves an acoustic Fender guitar. The choice of college bands and singers everywhere. It suits his voice, his hands. Just one instrument for him, but he’s masterful.
Fuck me, I had almost forgotten how good he is. I pick up another guitar, but I don’t play it.
Quietly, he blends his voice to mine after a few bars, making me shiver when we get to my favorite line at the end. It sounds better together than when it’s just me.
Baby, you and me,
We took the long way down
I drop off, letting his lower resonance fill the space and wash over my body. People often ask in interviews who my favorite singer of all time is. The answer I never give but is actually true is that my favorite singer will always be Baylor Mann.
