I write the song in one sitting because if I stand up it will dissolve. Verse first, because the verse tells me where the chorus can land. The chords are simple on purpose. I don’t want to hide a weak line behind a move. I sing into the air, then into the ribbon mic, then into the air again because I hate hearing my voice before the words fit. I keep my vowels round, the way Lou likes words to sit in the mouth, the way she explained an O to me like I’d never met one before, and work lyrics as they flow in my head.
I don’t know if the you is a person or a life. I don’t try to pin it. It can be both. It can be a little of my mother and a lot of Lou and a ghost nobody wants to name. The second verse writes itself in lines I can sing tired.
The bridge is a problem until it isn’t. I stop trying to be smart and let the chords talk. I drop to the relative minor and hold the IV longer than makes sense. I tell the bridge to be the part where the pocket turns out and the coin drops.
Even if the pictures fade,
Even if it never fits,
I’ll wear you anyway.
I sing it through once and don’t hate myself. That’s rare. I arm a track and record a rough. Piano and voice first. Guitar second todouble the chorus with a warm line that won’t age cheap. Brush loop light. No bass yet. No pads.
I name the session and save it with a number. I print a bounce and send it to the shared folder without the push notification. I don’t want it to pop up on Lou’s screen while she’s working. I’ll show her when I’m sure it’s a song and not a mood.
I sit back on the bench and let the quiet come back. I think about the tape in the bag and the name on the back of the locket and all the versions of what could be true. I think about how easy it is to make a myth from scraps. I don’t want that for her.
I make a list so I don’t solve it with feelings. Ask Mom. She gives the best advice. Check the storage ledger for intake dates on open-call tapes. See if the phone area code on the case survives under the scratch-out. If there’s a date, see whether it lines up with the year Lou would have been born. A little leg work never hurt anybody, and I’m not telling her anything until I know more.
I will not get her hopes up only to let her down.
The day runs. Knox texts a schedule change for the marquee test. Salem sends a photo from a stretch of highway and the wordsnot dead. Crazy bastard was out all night again. I loop the bridge twice to make sure I can play it cold and then power the board down.
On the way out, I stop at the shelf and touch the bag with the tape through the plastic. I think about how many tapes never turned into anything. People come in with a voice and a want, and life pulls them sideways. Some leave a mark anyway. Most don’t.
Back at the hotel, the suite is quiet. Lou has the table spread with grids and laser prints. The deck is real now. Swatches labeled. Type rules written. Logo marks circled and crossed out and circled again. She’s in tank top and leggings, hair up, locket on, pencil behind her ear. Work mode.
She looks up and smiles. “Find anything good?”
“Photos. Tape labels. A baseboard that looks like a map.” I don’t say the name. I don’t say the voice. I set the pictures on the table and step back so I don’t hover. She arranges them without needing to tell me what she sees. She places the scuff next to a type sample and the patch bay next to the mark. She’s building a system in front of me.
She catches me staring. “What?”
“Nothing. You’re doing the thing you do.”
She rolls her eyes like she can’t take a compliment straight. “You writing?”
“Yeah.” I touch the phone in my pocket. “A song calledLocket.”
Her mouth does a half smile and stops. “That was fast.”
“It wanted out.”
“Is it good?”
“I like it.”
She nods and goes back to the deck. I make coffee because it’s one of the only useful things I can do in this room while she’s doing that. I pour for both of us. I set her cup within reach and leave mine on the bar so I don’t hover.
Knox comes in with a grocery bag. He sets it on the counter and checks the locks out of habit. Salem texts from the elevator2 minutes. The day keeps moving.
I stand at the window with my cup and look down at the pool lights coming on. I think about the song. I think about the tape. I think about the way Lou hums when her hands are busy and what it does to the room. I think about how careful I want to be with the part of her that still expects the catch.
R. Navarro. Breadcrumb or a coincidence. I don’t know if the demo singer is a stranger my mother forgot or someone who sat in that room and tried to be brave one afternoon. I know Lou has an ear she didn’t earn from lessons. She has a knack for structure that doesn’t show up in people who only listen. It might be blood.
Salem comes in with wind in his hair. He drops his helmet and steals the pen from behind Lou’s ear. She steals it back without looking. Knox pulls chicken from the bag and a loaf of bread and a vegetable that wants to be roasted. The room becomes a room where people live for an hour.
All I can think about is R. Navarro.
