Unlike the rest of Brody’s house, which was clean and modern, but with woodsy, manly touches—big, solid slabs of wood and stone, interspersed with glass and clean white walls—this room was soft, warm, cozy, and undeniably feminine. But what really caught my eye was themusicgear.
There was a Fender Stratocaster in a light coral color on a stand, next to my acoustic guitar. There was a small amp, a mic on a stand, and other equipment stacked in a couple of hard travel cases—also coral, with metal studsonthem.
Then I noticed the big window seats along the bay windows, cushioned in velvety coral pillows… and the sofa and a couple of cushy ottomans clustered in one corner—also coral. My favoritecolor.
The walls were painted a soft cream. A very girlie chandelier sparkled in the center oftheroom.
On the antique desk, my laptop sat on a stand next to a bouquet of roses in a crystal vase—movie star roses; big, beautiful roses in a coral color… my absolute favoriteflower.
There was a beautiful silver tea tray with a matching tea pot and a couple of antique tea cups on saucers, with an assortment of teas. There were colorful spiral-bound notebooks stacked alongside the computer. A rainbow of gel pens were arranged in a ridiculous mug my brother had made for me at school, when he was a little boy and I was probably still in diapers, that said#1 Sisteronit.
There were other mementos around the room, too. Framed photos on the walls of my family; my mom and my dad and my grandparents, me and Jesse as kids, Grandma Dolly, and me and the band jamming when we wereyoung.
Seth was in none of them, which I was both relieved and a little sadtosee.
I perused the small library, a bookshelf on one wall filled with books about music—writing reference books and biographies of great songwriters, from David Bowie to Bob Dylan to BillieHoliday.
I spun around, just taking itallin.
“What is this?” I asked, my voice choked up with wonder. I knew what it was. It was a songwriting room, filled with lovely things, chosen with care, just for me. Things that I would love, and everything I could ever need to find solace and let mycreativityflow.
“It’s a place of your own, to do the thing you’ve always wanted to do,” Brody said. He took my hands in his. “Maybe I’m taking the lyrics of that song you wrote about Katie and Jesse too literally, you know, about sliding into home?” His lips quirked. “And making space for someone when you love them. But I wanted you to know I’d make roomforyou.”
“You did all of this? For me? Because of that song?” I was kind of in shock. I knew Brody could be sweet…butthis?
“Maggie and Jesse might’ve helped out with some of it,” he confessed. “But yes. It’s for you, princess.” He pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Youlikeit?”
“Brody…yes,” I breathed. “But… I mean… what if I fuckitup?”
Hefrowned.
“I know it sounds stupid,” I said. “But I promised you I’d be honest.” I put my hands on his arms and held on tight. I was holding on now with everything I had; I had to, to resist the urge to pull away. To run. Because I wasn’t fucking doing that anymore, no matter how scared I felt. “And honestly, Brody, I’m scared. I’m scared to put everything into thisandfail.”
“Of course you’re scared to fail.” He smoothed a lock of hair out of my face, gently. “Because you want it so much. But failure is impossible,Jessa.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, incredulous. “I wrote those lyrics forLove Struckwhen I was just a kid. I mean, literally a kid. The band, they were kind of kids too, barely twenty-two, twenty-three when they made it big. But I wassixteenwhen I wrote those words. I had no idea what I was doing. The beauty of that was there were no expectations of me, and I wasn’t worried about what anyone would think. I just wrote. And you might not think so, but I paid attention to what went on after I left the band, Brody. I’ve seen the balance on my trust account; all the royalties I make from the songs. I knowLove Struckis sitting up there on the list of top debut albumsever, right alongside albums I grew up listening to. That isfucked up.” I took a steadying breath. “What if I commit to writing with the band now, on the new album, and everyone has these expectations that we’re going to do anotherLove Struck, and itflops?”
“Shit. Is Jessa Mayes talking shopwithme?”
I rolled myeyes. “So?”
“Are you really asking me for careeradvice?”
“Maybe.” I chewed my lip. “Justabit.”
“This has to be the first time I can ever remember you asking me for my thoughts on your career or yourtalent.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve given meplenty.”
“Sure. But you’ve never asked. You’ve never really listened,either.”
“So tell me,” I said softly. “I’mlistening.”
“Alright,” he said. “The truth is, no album Dirty haseverput out sinceLove Struckhas done as well. But we’re not exactly suffering. We’ve got hits on every album. None of them touched the success of ‘Dirty Like Me,’ but they don’t have to. That song is a thing of its own. And the market is different now. The focus is more on single songs than the albums. We can’t expect to touch the kind of album sales we could even five years ago. Worst case, with or without your involvement, the band cuts another album that, overall, ranks up there with everything they’ve done sinceLove Struck. Dirty isn’t gonna shit the bed, no matter how much they’ve been struggling with writing this new album. I know that in my gut, in my fucking bones, Jessa.” He gave me a squeeze. “You know what else I know in mybones?”
“What?”
“You belong with us. You belong writing songs with Dirty.” His blue eyes scanned my face, softening. “Every great artist has doubts about their talent sometimes, Jessa. But what you did as a sixteen-year-old girl, unfiltered, uncensored, and without overthinking it, was magic. And sweetheart, I know you’re a great model. You’re fucking gorgeous. Sometimes I look at you, and it’s like I’m… I don’t know… looking at a dream.” He shook his head, like he couldn’t believe he’d said that. “Was that cheesyasfuck?”
