“I know you’re sober and you’re working through your feelings here,” he said, touching her notebook, “instead of here.” And, with that, he mimed tilting a bottle back into his mouth.
It was a decent thing for him to say—and so she thanked him. But Jesus…so uncanny.
And then they got to work. Around ten o’clock, when they decided they were happy with song number three, Quentin asked, “So what are we working on next?”
“This next song’s working title is ‘The Box’.”
“Okay. I’m intrigued. Hit me.”
Standing, she started singing the lyrics she’d written so far, a song that had come out of nowhere last night. In fact, most of the words had hit her so quickly that she’d had to scribble fast for fear of losing them. All she had left was to come up with a chorus, a bridge, and a third verse if they thought the song needed it.
She began singing the second verse:
* * *
The walls, the fences, they hold me in,
And I tear them down, exposing myself
To all the dangers of the world.
* * *
“Wait a sec,” Quentin said, interrupting her.
“You don’t like it?”
“No, I do. It’s good—but…hmm. I’m not sure how to say this. I…expect more from you.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“The past couple of weeks, I’ve watched your lyrics blossom. I’ve seen you digging deep and not holding back. You’ve gotten really good at expressing yourself, at being completely honest.”
“So what’s the problem?” she asked, trying not to get angry. She was being truthful here. And, although holding back the rage had become a little easier now than it had been when she’d first arrived, that monster was still lurking, ready to pounce.
“You need to be more specific. When you talk about ‘all the dangers of the world,’ that could be anything. It’s abstract, so it’s hard to see and feel or really understand—and you want your listeners right there with you. Dangers could be hurricanes and earthquakes, or it could be war or famine—or it could be people stabbing you in the back, figuratively or literally. You’re so close here, Raine, but don’t lose your audience to a generic line. You’re better than that. Don’t be generic.”
“Changing it will ruin the rhyme and the rhythm. And it’s not generic. It’s about feeling trapped in a box.” That and realizing that box was actually a safe place away from danger and judgment.
Quentin sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “Okay, maybe I’m not making sense. You’re so close but not quite there.” He let out a long breath. “You’re teetering on the edge…avoiding what you really want to say. You’re…writing around it instead of through it. It’s still safe.” As Raine gritted her teeth, he said, “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Oh, he was, and she was going to let him fucking have it. “I don’t know what the problem is. I poured my fucking heart out on the page and you’re nitpicking one little line that no one will even give a shit about.”
Quentin was still as calm as a warm breeze, continuing to sit in his chair, unwilling to provoke her with emotion. “Is that what you really think?” All she could manage was to glare at him but she quickly felt the air leave her lungs—because, deep down, she knew he was right. How the fuck could he always see right through her? “Is that how you really feel?”
That last question triggered something. Out of nowhere, the dam inside burst. It wasn’t just the monster.
It was everything.
Collapsing into the chair, Raine leaned forward, dropping her face into her hands. Where the fuck had that come from?
But she knew…because it was everything the song encompassed. And Quentin was absolutely, positively one-hundred percent right.
After she’d cried for a little bit with him bearing silent witness, he said, “Do you need some time? We can come back to this later this afternoon.”
“No. I just need a few minutes.” After she took another deep breath, she said, “You’re not wrong. I am avoiding getting too close to the truth. This song…it’s about my manager.”
“Malachi Storm?”
