“Twelve,” he repeats.
“Ish,” I say.
“On your cellphone?”
“Um.” I pull my phone out. “Yeah, technically, but they’re just rough recordings.”
“I want to hear them.”
My throat clams up. “No, I mean, they’rereallyrough recordings.I could only afford enough studio time to make demos for those two songs I already sent you—”
“Paige.” He leans forward, drops his elbows to his knees. “Do you think I haven’t heard a million rough recordings before?” There’s a challenge in his eyes.
I meet his gaze for three full seconds, then expel a breath through my teeth and unlock my phone.Act now, think later.I sift through the audio files, find the least offensive, and hit play.
The sound of strumming chords on an acoustic guitar fills the room. Paul stands, walking to the window. Soon my voice joins the instrument, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the reality of how embarrassing this is. The demos were scary enough, but this? I sound pitchy and unsure of myself. At one point I stumble over part of the melody and go five seconds backward to find my footing again.
“Stop,” Paul says. I hit pause, my chest on fire. “Another one.”
“What?”
I glance up; he’s still staring out the window. “Play me another.”
I play him another one. This one is mainly piano with a little bit of violin I layered over myself. The two recordings on top of each other are so messy I could die of mortification. I don’t even sing much in this one, the lyrics not yet finished, but every now and then my voice will join the melody for a couple of lines before I drift into silence again.
“Another,” Paul says.
“This is pointless.” I sigh, growing frustrated. “They’re going to get progressively worse.”
Paul turns to pin me with a significant look. “Paige, I haven’t heard a thing yet I don’t want the copyright for.” My eyes widen in realization. “Another one,” he says again.
I play him another, and another, and another. One of the songs I cowrote with my friend Harry, who signed with Sony an entire year before we graduated. He mostly focuses on composing forchildren’s movies, and this song is faster and more upbeat than the rest. We laugh a bunch of times throughout the recording and eventually disintegrate into a beatboxing competition.
After the ninth song is played, I sit quietly and wait. Paul comes back from the window, sits across from me again. “You said twelve-ish,” he reminds me. “There were two demos, plus the nine recordings you just played. Isn’t there at least one more?”
My heart thrums as memories of Liam are called forth. Salty skin, ice-cream lips, quiet moans in dark rooms, and soft admissions under wide skies. The memories lick at the sides of my heart like angry rekindled flames. Begging to burn me.
I banish him from my mind. Again.
It’s a daily exercise.
I shake my head firmly, unwilling to let a single other soul hearthatsong. Even Paul Friedman. “Sorry. I meant to say eleven songs.”
The look he gives me says he knows I’m lying.
“Very well.” Paul reclines and scratches at his neck, popping his ankle back onto his knee. “I’m going to say some things to you, and before I do that, I need you to understand I’m deeply in love with my wife and this is in no way a come-on. Okay?”
My eyes narrow. “Okay.” It’s the kid out front and the blown-up family portrait that do the talking for him.
“You have the voice of a damaged angel,” he says, almost blandly. “Your lyrics could use some work, but you know your way around your instrumentals and melodies. And you have more than enough”—his hands loosely gesture at me—“physical appealto make it as a singer-songwriter in this industry.”
He lets the statement hang in the air between us, allowing me time to process. “So, Paige.” Paul tilts his head to the side. “What I’d like to know is why you’re settling for a mere songwriter’s publishing contract when you should be going after a full-blown record deal.”
Chapter 2
June, Now
“I have absolutely zero interest in being a recording artist,” I say.
