Before I heard this, did I hope, somewhere in the deepest crevices of my mind, that it would be a song about me?
I’m ashamed to admit … yes.
Do I see what an idiot I’ve been?
Also yes.
These lyrics are about the past, about regret, about a failed relationship and letting someone walk away. Worse, they’re about trying to catch up, about how it’s not too late. “A new age on an old line.”
Part of me thought maybe I was just being self-deprecating when it came to Riff’s lingering feelings for his ex, that I was only telling myself he was emotionally unavailable in order to protect myself, but this songhasto be about her. She broke upwith him—“walked away”—and he’s thinking of all the might’ve-beens they missed not being together. Running into her last month when he was supposed to be publicly dating me was obviously terrible timing (“the timing’s off”) and now he’s left scrambling to figure out how they can be together under these circumstances.
Sure, Riff and I are getting along now, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m in his way.
Tears threaten to form behind my eyes, but the sound of Riff’s footsteps in the hall snaps me back into focus. I click to exit out of the Logic window, stand up, and try to casually leave the studio, where I pass him on his way back.
He’s carrying a round, high-rimmed tray that holds two Perrier bottles, an assortment of flavored nuts, a bowl of grapes, and some kind of fancy cookies. “Sorry, it’s kind of random stuff, but I figure if you want to hang out a while after, we could order some real—”
“I think we should probably call it a night,” I tell him, brushing past.
“Wait, what?” Riff spins and follows me a few paces until his stride outlengthens mine and he gets ahead. He sets down the tray on a random decorative hallway table and holds up both hands. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I insist. “It’s just … getting late. I’m tired. We got what we needed. I trust you to pick the best version and I’m sure everyone will love it no matter what.”
“I don’t understand.”
I force a smile. “There’s nothing to understand. I’m fine. Thanks for everything. I’ll see you … when I see you.”
Can We Fast Forward to Go Down on Me?
RIFF
Whatthehell?
For an instant, I’m dead still. Paralyzed. Do I follow her and demand she tell me what’s wrong? Or do I go back to the studio to investigate?
She was fine before I left, so something changed in the few minutes I was gone.
Did an out-of-context message show up on the computer right in front of her? My phone is synced to all my other devices, so it’s possible.
Or maybe she got a message on her own phone—bad news?
Decidedly, I rush to the studio where the Logic files are stacked on the screen. The one on top isn’t ours though—just mine.
With a dialogue box that implies someone tried to close it.
ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO EXIT?
Now I have arealsinking feeling. Not the clever kind, but the kind that serves as a warning that everything is about to go downhill fast if I don’t hurry my ass up and do something.
Thanks to my five-foot-eleven frame (yes, eleven inches, not ten) I catch up to Harmony before she makes it past the sitting room. I catch her by the hand, guiding her to turn toward me.
“Hey,” I say. “Wait. You heard the song?”
She doesn’t answer.
“You listened to it and it … freaked you out?” I guess.
That’s the only explanation. Words upon words upon words of me pouring my heart out, confessing that I want nothing more than to go back in time and do things right with her.
