1
LOU
Sagebrush Studio is smallerthan I expected. Beige stucco baked flat by the sun, a sunburned lot with weeds, a guitar pick decal half peeled from the glass. I’ve never been here, but I know the type. The outskirts of Old Vegas are lined with buildings like this one.
The door sticks. Troy yanks it like it insulted him, then lets it swing too hard. Inside smells like old coffee and dust. A corkboard holds paper schedules from a long time ago. A Sharpie note says DON’T MOVE THE MIC STAND in block letters.
“Is that her?” I ask, pointing to a photo on the wall.
He cocks a brow up at the faded picture. “Yeah. That’s Mom.”
She holds a bass guitar head down, headphones on, blond hair draped down her back. Talia Turner is a legend at Sagebrush.
“Back to where it started,” I say.
He rubs both hands over his face and through his light brown hair. It goes in five directions. His blue eyes are tired. “It’s not the building, Lou. It’s me.”
“Sometimes a place helps.” I shrug. “You and your brothers learned music here. If you want to write a new album, this has to be the spot.” We’ve tried everywhere else. This has to work. We’re lucky no one had booked the place before I did. But seeing what’s here, I understand why they weren’t busy.
He sighs and drops a bag on the sunken couch, pulls out a laptop, and a notebook that’s more scuffed than used. He slings his guitar on and rolls the chair up to the desk.
A ficus has given up by the window. The carpet is older than both of us. The glass between the rooms is cloudy if you look from an angle. I sit on the couch and try not to breathe too deeply. I open Notes on my phone and stare at a blank screen.
It gives me a sense of camaraderie with Troy. I’m stuck creatively too.
I grew up two miles from here and a lifetime away. I was left in a diaper bag with a locket and a phone number that didn’t work. I left for San Francisco the second I had enough cash and a car that would make it. Seven years of gray skies and cold weather later, I’m back in Vegas, trying to help my boyfriend get his mojo back.
And mine.
Troy strums, stops, scribbles, scratches out. He taps a beat with two fingers and frowns. I’d ask what’s wrong, but I don’t want to interrupt his process.
He hits record, sings a line, swears, deletes, and starts again. He cracks his knuckles, shakes out his hand, checks the tuning, blames the room, blames the strings.
“It’s flat,” he says.
“It’s a start.”
He looks at me like I’m the problem. “I can hear it, and it won’t come out.”
“Then give it time.”
“It’s been time, Lou.” His voice spikes and bounces off the dead walls. “It’s been nothing but time. It’s not coming.”
If I don’t keep my cool, he won’t either. I try for placid. “You wanted a reset. This is a reset. Not magic. You have to do the work.”
He spins the chair, pushes too hard, and bumps his knee. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you forget.” I remember the guy who wrote hooks in a kitchen and didn’t wait for praise. I don’t see him. I see someone waiting for a headline to land in his lap. Someone who wants things handed to him.
I miss the other guy.
His eyes fall to slits. “I need quiet.”
“I didn’t talk until you did.”
He sighs. Plays four chords too loud, like volume can knock a lyric loose. Sings, misses, swears. Throws the pick. It hits the glass and drops.
I can’t get anything done with him throwing a hissy fit. I am so over this bullshit. “You’re spiraling. Breathe?—”
