Her eyes widen. “No fucking shit.”
Stillwater is a boutique music publishing company with offices in Nashville, Los Angeles, and New York City. It’s far smaller than Sony or Universal but has a much better reputation when it comes to artist development.
Between us, face up, my phone screen lights with an incoming call.
My blood has been zapped with electricity. Now it’s racing through my veins, sending tiny shocks to each extremity. My heart is clanging, but my mind slows to a crawl.
I sent inquiries to a handful of music publishers just before I graduated. If I sign with one of them, it’ll put my songs, my words and melodies, into the hands of performing artists and record labels.
Paul Friedman is the first person who’s even deigned to acknowledge me.
“Answer it!” Folly shrieks.
“I have tables—”
“I’ll cover your tables.” She grabs my shoulders and points me toward the emergency exit at the far end of the hallway. We march toward it. My phone keeps vibrating. Folly pushes the door open and shoves me into the greasy alleyway behind the restaurant.
I turn back to her, stunned with fear. Her gaze softens from bright optimism to a soft knowing.
“Act now, think later,” she says. It’s always been Folly’s motto. Her way of living. But it’s never been mine.
I nod. Folly lets the door fall closed, and I swipe to answer the call.
“Hello?”
“Paige Lancaster?”
“This is she.”
His voice is deep, slightly urgent. “Thanks for getting back to me. Are you busy right now?”
“I…”I am supposed to be working a double, and I’m only two hours into my shift.“No,” I say aloud. “I’m free.”
“Can you come by the Stillwater office?” Paul Friedman asks. “We’re on Adelicia Street, right in midtown.”
“Okay. Sure,” I mutter.I already knew that.My head bobs stupidly. He can’t see me. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Great. Looking forward to meeting you in person, Paige.”
He disconnects the call before I can return the sentiment.
I pocket my phone, reorient myself to my surroundings. There’s an overflowing dumpster back here emitting a pungent odor, graffiti on the stone exterior of the restaurant, a single loose and deflated bike tire. None of it glamorous, but I think that might have been the most important phone call of my life, and the fact that I took it out here causes a burble of laughter to slide up my windpipe and out in a euphoric gust.
Briefly, my thoughts slip to Liam. His proud grin, those body-molding hugs. I fight off an intense urge to call him before considering this meeting could be nothing more than a professional courtesy. An act of respect for the mutual connection I’d mentioned in my email.
I had, over the past few months, started to convince myself that silence was worse than rejection. That being ignored was worse than being heard and subsequently told my songs weren’t strong enough. I’ve been in a holding pattern, too emotionally knotted towrite anything new, wondering if the demos were the right songs, panicking at the possibility that I just spent four years preparing for a career I will never achieve.
And not for lack of trying.
I really have tried. I swallowed back my shyness, suppressed the instinct to keep my songs hidden. And now, I need someone toseemy effort. Not so I can gain personal notoriety but so I can start to earn a living.
So, even if I show up at the Stillwater office and Paul tells me itwasa courtesy, that hecan’tsign me as a songwriter today, I won’t call this a loss.
Because I’m not invisible to Paul Friedman, not anymore.
I need you to tell the boss I’m sick, I text Folly.
I’ve been waiting our whole lives for you to ask me to lie for you, she sends back.Paige, this is a true honor.
