The writer’s lounge is soundproofed, with warm recessed lighting, and one long window. The geometric wall art doubles as acoustic panels.
There’s a sectional couch, multiple stools and leather armchairs, a coffee table with notebooks and pens, a beverage station with a fancy brewing machine and a rack of pods, a glass-door mini-fridge stocked with artesian water and soda.
The far wall is lined with mounted guitars, all leading up to a polished baby grand piano.
There’s also a small mixing console, a MacBook Pro, and midi keyboards, plus a few mics.
Harmony is already here in the middle of it, tapping her pen on the edge of one of the notebooks and chewing her bottom lip. She looks up.
“Don’t tell me you’ve got nothing,” I say. “Not when you’ve been firing songs at me like a machine gun all year.”
“It’s thesecondhalf of ‘Hate to Love’ that’s got me stumped.” She returns her attention to what I assume is a blank page.
“Yeah, we’re definitely going to have to exaggerate that part. But that’s okay; you’re great at exaggerating.” I smile flatly.
Harmony stares daggers at me, then leans forward and slowly closes her book. “You’re right. We’ll just pretend. I know that’s your favorite.”
“Look at us trading compliments. Not sure why I was worried we wouldn’t get along.” I head over to the piano and sit at the bench.
She cracks open the notebook again but doesn’t write anything. “Why are you going straight for an instrument? You don’t write lyrics first?”
I scoff. “Youdowrite lyrics first?”
“The words set the tone. I can’t try melodies when I don’t even know what the song’s vibe is supposed to be.”
“Of course you know what the vibe is supposed to be. That’s why you’re writing the song—because you feel something you have to let out. When I don’t have words yet, I let the feeling out in a melody.” To demonstrate, I play an angry little phrase.“Then, and only then, do I have a mental shelf to set the lyrics on.”
“No,” she says, “You have to verbally identify the feeling first—define it—then elaborate on it.”
“Look, if you insist on doing lyrics first, be my guest. Go ahead and get us started; you do like to start things.”
“Do I? Or are things already started and I’m just the first one to call them what they are?”
“You’re the first one toassume you knowwhat they are, that’s for sure.”
“I can only know what other people tell me. If they withhold information, that’s on them.”
“Maybe everyone doesn’t owe you their life story right off the bat. Maybe not everything is your business.”
“It’s my business if you expect to touch me.”
I freeze with my fingers in position over the keys. She’s really going to go there?
“You’re the one that closed the gap, darlin’.” I play a few minor chords, knowing how that and the drawl will probably irk her.
“Yeah, after you initiated a ‘dance.’ We both know what your intentions were.”
“That’s the thing: we don’t both know. You have no clue what my intentions were.” I think about what Rachel said.She wasn’t looking. “If anything, maybe you should ask yourself why you didn’t bother to look more closely at me. Yet I was just supposed to consider myself lucky that the amazing Harmony Sonora even bothered to glance in my direction—but if I’d known that glance was going to turn into the deadly aim of your lyrical weapons, I never would have said a word to you.”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue but then stops.
“And for the record,” I add, “Ididconsider myself lucky.”
Her expression is tight at first, then slowly fades to something more pensive, almost regretful.
Probably just my wishful thinking.
When she seems like she really isn’t going to say anything, I start to play another melody, whatever feels right, something kind of bittersweet. I keep going with it, repeating musical phrases until Harmony’s voice tries to pick it up, humming experimentally while she writes something down.
