“This isn’t about radio. It’s about the song.”
“The song needs to get played… on the radio. That’s the whole point.” Cash kicks his feet onto the arm of Boone’s favorite chair.
Boone swats them off. “The point is to makegoodmusic.”
“Now you’re saying my music isn’t good?”
I close my eyes. Here we go again.
“Guys—”
“Don’t waste your breath, Summer.” Cash’s boots land on the chair once more. “He cannot be reasoned with.”
Boone shoves them off again with a grunt.
“I’ve had three number one hits. How many have you had?” Cash adjusts his cowboy hat.
“More than you, you ungrateful shit.” Boone’s jaw ticks. “Get out.”
“What?” Cash shoots up and takes a couple of steps toward Boone.
“I said, get out of my studio.”
“Fine.” Cash pivots, then grabs his jacket off the couch. “Good luck recording aduetwith one person. Unless you’re stepping out of retirement?”
Boone turns his back to both of us, and Cash stomps toward the door.
And I’ve had enough. “Stop!”
They both freeze.
“I’m done,” I say. “I’m done playing referee. I’m done watching you two act like children. And I’m done withyouruiningmyopportunity because you can’t get over whatever the heck”—I gesture between them—“this is.”
Cash opens his mouth, but I cut him off with a scowl.
“No. I’m talking. You’re right, the tempo matters for radio.” I turn to Boone. “You’re right that the song comes first.”
Boone tips his head back and mutters something that sounds like “God, give me mercy.”
“So here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to record itbothways. Then we’ll listen to the two recordings and pick the one that servesthe song. Not your egos.”
Cash nods once. Boone sits down without a word, and I take it as agreement.
“Good.” I grab my guitar. “Can we please get back to work now?”
It takes one more come-to-Jesus moment, but we eventually lay down a rough track of the song Cash and I have been writing all week.
We record it Boone’s way first, then Cash’s.
Boone pulls them both up on the board, playing them side by side, his brow furrowed as he scribbles notes.
I take the opportunity to pull out my phone, angling it at my side.
Saints 3, Spurs 2. End of 2nd period.
They’re winning. I rub my sweaty palms on my jeans. If they win this, they only need three more wins to clinch a playoff spot.
I pocket my phone and try to refocus.
