Chili & Cornbread
BLT with House-Made Mayo
Hand-Cut Fries
Lemon Meringue Pie
“I didn’t realize my car was a time machine,” Braden says as he reaches me and takes the seat across from where I sit. “Although I was going 88 on the freeway. Probably 90, in fact.”
I munch on an especially long French fry. “That’s why I like it here.”
He pulls his laptop out of its bag and opens it, mirroring mine.
I’ve got my new album tracks playing on a loop through a single AirPod.
“How is no one bothering you?” he asks.
Pointedly, I look in multiple directions at the mostly empty booths and tables. There are five customers in here besides us.
“That’s Bob and Maude over there.” I nod at an elderly couple. “They’re friends of my grandparents who’ve known me since I was a kid. They come in multiple times a week for coffee and sandwiches. We already chatted for a bit before you got here. By the window … that’s Frank Lowell.” I point to a middle-aged man reading a newspaper while he eats his chili. “He owns the pawn shop down the street. We say hi to each other in passing whenever I’m out this way. And the two ladies flipping through the jukebox songs already met me a few months ago, so the novelty has worn off.”
“What about the staff?” Braden says. “I suppose they know you already too?”
“Mostly. Every time they hire someone new and I happen to show up, there’s a little excitement, but I don’t mind. Beyond that, everyone lets me hang out and eat in peace. As long as I come when it’s super slow.”
Braden raises an eyebrow. “Well, this is an interesting town.”
It’s been a while since I’ve visited Hermosura, but I felt like I needed it. It always helps me step away from city life, especially when things are feeling … complicated. And they are. Driving past the citrus trees always calms me, reminds me of simpler times.
That doesn’t mean I don’t still have to work, but if Braden insists we meet to go over album stuff, it won’t hurt him to get out of the city for a minute too.
Liza, my favorite waitress, comes to take Braden’s order and sneak me some extra bacon. She calls Braden—and everyone—“hon” and offers him the same “coffee on the house” the diner always gives first-timers.
When Braden gets his BLT and bites into it, he lets out a deep, gratified sigh. “Oh God …” he says through a bite.
“Right?”
“What did they put in this?”
“I don’t know. I keep trying to get them to tell me but they’re all willing to take their secrets to the grave. But I think it has something to do with the house-made mayo. That and they use bacon with a lower fat content, so it’s crispy instead of rubbery.”
Eventually we get down to business, which is mainly just going over the album. Kind of like a proofread. Final tweaks, looking for errors.
We look at the final album artwork, which one of the Glambam graphic designers has done in a style similar to Mikayla’s (sun-faded film emulation photography, minimalist editorial layout for lyrics and internal photos) to keep my brand consistent, but instead of the whole blue-sky open-road theme, this one is more rustic, with me standing in a barn backlit by shafts of dusty light coming through the rafters.
The lyrics all look good, photos are clean and sharp. The title on the front makes me smile a little.
There Goes The Sunsits above my name on the front.
“Okay now,” says Braden. “For music, we need to pick your singles.”
Charlie and the producers always have final say on this, but we’re supposed to present a selection and make our arguments.
“‘Veer,’” I suggest.
Braden takes a sip of coffee. “That’s a good one, although I think maybe ‘Sweet Thang’ or ‘Hit the Gas’ might be more radio friendly. But if you really want to push for a ballad, I’d advise you go with ‘Told You So.’”
“You think I could get away with a ballad?”
