“I just got off the phone with Matt.” I pause. “He said you and Tobey Dodson were talking about me.”
Mom’s laughter fills my ear. “Oh, don’t start with that,” she chides. “Tobey and I weren’t talking about you in the way you think we were talking about you.”
“Really?” I challenge.
“Really. I ran into him at the studio in New York last week. He asked how my kids were. I said you two were great. And then he mentioned he’d been listening to ‘Silver’ on repeat and asked if you were working on anything new.”
I falter. “Silver” is one of my most streamed songs—and it’s not pop, not in the slightest. It’s intimate and reflective, with a focus on the vocals. But not the typical breathy, voice-cracking, singer-songwriter delivery where vocalists in the genre tend to gravitate. It’s warmer and has a folk edge.
When Matt said Tobey Dodson wanted to work with me, I assumed that meant pivoting genres. So why was Dodson raving about “Silver”?
“Heasked you?” My head is spinning. “Unprompted?”
“Unprompted,” Mom confirms, and I believe her, because my mother isn’t a liar. She always tells it like it is. “And then he asked me for your contact info…” She trails off enticingly.
“Bullshit.”
“Swear to God.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. I consulted the rule book first.”
I chuckle sheepishly. Yeah, I’m a dick. I’ve given my mom a set of rules regarding what she’s allowed and not allowed to do in terms of professional conduct. Not allowed: pimping me out to any of hercontacts, sending them links to my songs, hyping me up at industry functions.
But if someone approachesher…
“So he genuinely wants to work with me?” I feel a stir of excitement in my chest. “On songs in the same vein as ‘Silver’?”
“Well, he wants to listen to your new stuff before he decides if it’s something he’s interested in producing. I’m sure he’ll reach out sometime soon.”
“Shit.”
“That’s a good thing, honey,” she says, and I can practically see her smiling. “Take the fucking win.”
I’d love to.
If I had any new stuff.
But I don’t. What Idohave is a notebook full of overly flowery, poorly metaphored garbage.
Which means I need to get to work. ASAP. Looks like today is going to be a full-steam-ahead writing marathon.
“How’s Blake doing?” Mom asks, changing the subject.
The sound of her name conjures her like a genie from a lamp, as I suddenly become aware of Blake stepping onto the upper deck. I’m not even facing in that direction, but Ifeelher. For some annoying reason, my body is highly attuned to her presence.
I twist my head, and sure enough, there she is, standing at the railing. In her trademark cutoff shorts and bikini top, sunglasses on and a towel hanging off her arm. Her hair is arranged in a side braid, making my fingers tingle. Each time she wears a braid, I just want to undo it. To run my fingers through her hair, spread it out, and watch those luscious waves fall down her delicate back.
“Wyatt?”
I snap out of it. “Oh. Sorry. Yeah, Mom, she’s fine.”
“Has she spoken to you about the breakup at all?”
“No.” Other than bursting into spontaneous tears the first night, Blake barely mentions Isaac outside the context of the toaster she’s determined to get back.
“Aw. Well, that’s not good,” Mom clucks. “Grace is worried because Blake is such a private person. She rarely let her emotions out. Hides behind that sarcastic exterior. But sometimes you need to let it out, you know?”
