Riff has his guitar in the Bronco so he gets it out so we can put the words to music. He also presents, “Spent every day tryin’ to build my walls, but you keep knocking ’til the whole thing falls.”
“‘Build my wall’ instead of ‘build my walls,’ maybe,” I suggest. “Since ‘the whole thing’ sounds singular. Like spaghetto.”
He half smiles and shakes his head. “Okay. Fair point.”
I offer, “Tried to fight it, tried to hide it, but truth be told, you give me feelings I can’t withhold.” That’s pretty generic, I figure. Not too revealing.
He gives me a skeptical look.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Those are fine. It’s just …” He sucks his teeth. “I don’t know. Usually what you come up with is more …more.”
“‘More more’?”
“Yeah. More heartfelt. More specific.”
“Except usually what I come up with is real. This is pretend. Remember?”
Riff is quiet for a moment, staring sort of absently before he replies, “Of course. Yes. Which … is why we said we’d take from real life. From real experiences. With … other people.”
It’s not like it hasn’t occurred to me to present my brainstormed lyrics to him like they were once meant for someone else. That’s obviously the easiest thing to do. It’s just that, as much as I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth (however indirectly) I also don’t want to outright lie to him.
On the other hand, if he’s singing about Mikayla (or some other woman) bringing his emotional walls down, it’s probably best to let him think “your smile is like an inside joke” is about Kelton or Dylan or Josh.
Sighing, I scroll through the applicable Notes note and give him the goods. All of them.
“That’s more like it,” he says. “You were holding out on me.”
“Sorry. It’s just … this is still weird. Ironically, even weirder now that we’re getting along better.”
“I know. But we’re both adults. We can handle it. I’m not judging you, I hope you’re not judging me. We’re doing our job, and neither of us is the type of person to do things half-assed.”
“‘Neither of usare,’” I say.
“No, it’s—”
“I’m just messing with you.”
He glares at me.
“You’re right,” I tell him. “We’re whole-assers.”
“Right. So put your whole ass in, I’ll put my whole ass in. And let’s finish this song for the fans.”
I nod, hoping my growing heartache isn’t written all over my face.
Loose Ends, They Tangle Down
RIFF
Bradenwalksintothediner—jingling the bells on the door—and I wave him over to my table.
He glances around at the place, with its red vinyl booths and checkered floor and jukebox in the corner.
A chalkboard menu displays the daily specials:
Meatloaf & Mashed Potatoes
