“You’re kidding.”
“Yeah, they thought I sounded ungrateful.”
“That was kind of the point.”
“I know.”
“Obviouslyyouknow,” Andrew says, but he doesn’t sound sheepish, the way some fans do when they tell you what your songs meant to them, as though the lyrics were about their lives rather than mine.
I never minded when fans took my words and made them theirs. It was everyone else I took issue with. Cover bands making money off singing my songs, the record label selling rights so some strangely gentle version could play in the background of a car commercial. I didn’t realize just how much I was giving away when I signed my first contract.
In another context, Andrew would offer me a drink right about now. Maybe something stronger. But here, he says, “You must be freezing,” and walks around the island to pull a creamy blanket off the back of thechair where Evelyn sits during therapy. He places the blanket around my shoulders, so soft I think it must be cashmere, then does that thing guys do to have an excuse to touch you, rubbing his hands up and down my upper arms.
“Better?” he asks.
“Better,” I answer, though I wasn’t actually cold. My husband used to say I ran hot.
Instead of returning to the other side of the kitchen island, he sits on the stool beside me. “You gonna keep working on that song?”
“What song?”
“The one you were writing.” He nods toward the couch, toward my guitar.
“I already forgot it,” I say, though it’s not true.
He hums a few bars.
“I was just dicking around,” I say dismissively.
“It sounded pretty good to me.”
“You’d be in the minority.” No one’s wanted new music from me in a long time. Not that I’ve finished a song in years.
“No way.” Andrew shakes his head. “Your fans would love to hear from you.”
That’s not what Callie says. Not what the record company says. Not what my former bandmates say.
“I’d love to hear from you,” Andrew says softly.
His words hover in the air between us for a beat before he stands again, this time grabbing my guitar and strumming it absently. “Ask me why I’m mad,” he says.
“What?” I say dumbly.
“That’s how the song started, right? Ask me why I’m mad.”
“Something like that.”
Andrew picks at the guitar strings.
“You play?”
“Not like you play.”
“Well, no one plays like I play.”
Andrew grins. “That’s true.”
I feel like an old rocker reminiscing about the glory days, all sinew and faded tattoos while he insists that he used to sell out stadiums. Suddenly, I wish we were talking about something, anything else.
