The day moves better once the decision is in the world. They cut a verse. We label files. The sky turns. I shoot the ending slice for the next clip—just a hand coiling a cable, Salem’s forearm in frame, ink and tendon, no rings, no clues for the gossip mills to chew on. I cut that too.
When I finally check the statement, the numbers are stupid high, but the replies I can see are mostly normal. Designers. Musicians. Fans are dropping their own boundaries in the comments. They want more of this—more behind-the-scenes without the drama.
“Keep up the good work!” Several people posted this message.
It’s odd. Since I ended up with these three, variations of that keep showing up. From Talia, about my skill. From Houston, about my ear. From Knox about structure. Salem and my normality, whatever he means by that.
I don’t hear a song in my head when I wake up. I don’t have scales in my skin. I don’t think of myself as musical. I think about grids and the way letters sit next to each other. But the studio has taught me to hear count and feel weight. I can name when a bar is wrong without knowing how to fix it. Maybe that’s a skill?
I write a second short post.Behind the scenes will be about songs and rooms. I won’t be engaging with gossip or harassment. If you’re here for craft, welcome.No exclamation points. No hashtags. I schedule it for the morning so I don’t have to watch it land in real time.
At night, I sit with the guys on the floor and we mark a chorus line again. I don’t sing; I count. I catch a mis-stress before anyone wastes ten minutes trying to convince the words to bend to a breath they don’t want. Houston nods like a coach. Salem says, “Nice catch.” Knox puts a dot on the page next to the fix.
It feels like the version of school I would have liked.
The next day, Quincy sends a short email.Hotel likes the title. Proceed.He adds nothing else.
I take it as a win, go back to the deck, and add a slide for the album spine so the title reads correctly in both directions. I set up the merch mock-ups and shove them to the end so no one can talk me into ordering cheap blanks just because a vendor calls back fast.
In the gaps, I keep editing clips. It is weirdly soothing to put the day into a rectangle and let it go. Our views vacillate up and down, so I try to ignore them. I focus on making the next tile match and ignore the haters.
It’s not that the threats stop. They don’t. It’s that I don’t feel like a target in a carnival anymore. When it came to Troy, I felt like I was dangling in the wind—an easy target for anyone, because I wasn’t tethered to something stable. Now, I am. The difference is slight and enormous.
I still check exits. I still sleep light. But I also draw in the morning and set type at night and feel the old desire to make something worth keeping come back into my fingers. I know I’m safe. Between hotel security and the guys, no one is going to hurt me here. But paranoia always dies a slow death, and growing up in foster homes made me paranoid long before meeting Troy Turner.
The odd part sticks with me. People keep telling me I have a talent. For patterns. For catching when a line is wrong. For picking titles that hit. Something about being with them has put me at the right distance to the music. Not inside it, not outside it. Useful.
I don’t know how long this lasts. I don’t know if any of us will be the same in a month. I do know I am less alone at the table than I was when I started trying to be a girlfriend and forgot to be an artist.
I write the wordsBack to the Drawing Boardon a Post-it and stick it to my laptop. I leave it crooked on purpose. It is a title, yes, but it’s also an instruction. I’m moving on. I’m doing the work. I like them, and I like who I am when I work next to them.
If this all falls apart once the new album hits, that’s okay. This has been an education, and a great rebranding for me. If we go our separate ways, so be it. I’m good on my own.
But just thinking that gapes a pit in my chest. I’d be lying to myself if I said I wouldn’t miss them. Of course I would. I twiddle my pencil and stare out the window over the Strip. Soon, bright lights will mute the stars above. Bachelorette parties will wobble into the streets, already drunk on yard-long margaritas. Street hawkers will harass tourists. It’s chaos out there.
In here, I have the illusion of safety. It can’t be real with them, can it?
My head says no. My heart says yes.
I have no idea who is right. All I can count on is the work ahead.
18
KNOX
The call comesat six a.m. from Sagebrush’s old security guard, Morty. Somebody broke in at the studio overnight, and he knew we had a lot of memorabilia there, so he wanted us to be able to salvage what we could.
I’m dressed and out the door before I can think clearly. The morning is gray. Morty stands there, flashlight in hand. His uniform is a pair of khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He’s been here since before Mom was a studio artist. “I’m sorry, Knox. It’s real bad.”
“Were you here for it?”
He shakes his head. “Musta happened sometime in the night.”
“Kids?”
“Hard to say. Come on.”
I text Houston and Salem as we walk in, and then tuck my phone away. The air is wrong. Cold where it should be stale. A window in the live room is spider-webbed and punched through, glass flaking. The console has fresh scratches along the faderslike someone dragged something hard and metal across it on purpose. Two rack spaces are empty where the mirrored backup drives used to sit. The small lockbox by the desk is on the floor. The latch is bent. I catalog everything without speaking. Then I speak because otherwise I’ll start fixing before I record.
