Page 98 of The Song We Lost

Just for today.

Just until the next show.

Just until the next meeting.

Just until the next crisis.

I stare at him for a long moment, then I hand him the phone. I hate myself immediately.

Dave tucks it into his jacket like it’s nothing.

“There,” he says briskly. “Better.”

I stand too quickly and the room shifts again.

Dave watches me sway and says, “Shower. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

When he leaves, I stare at the empty room like something is missing.

The studio reeks of everyone’s desperation to make something great out of something broken.

There are writers sitting around a table, notebooks open, guitars leaning against chairs. A producer with headphones around his neck. Someone tapping a rhythm with their pen like they can summon a hit song if they try hard enough.

They look at me when I walk in. Some with excitement, others with pity.

I hate both.

“Luke,” one of them says brightly. “Good to see you, man.”

I nod, jaw tight.

Dave is already talking, already spinning. “He’s been through it,” he says with a grin like it’s a selling point. “But that’s what makes this record. That edge.”

Edge.Like this is a costume.

I sit down, hands shaking slightly, and try to focus. Try to find something inside me that still knows how to do this. One of the writers slides a page toward me.

A chorus. A hook. Something about regret and whiskey and freedom.

It’s not me, and they aren't Bailey.

It’s not what we used to write when she’d sit on the floor with her back against the couch, guitar in her lap, looking up at me like she could see right through the bullshit. Now I can’t feel anything without it turning into grief.

“Let’s run it,” the producer says.

I make my way into the booth and put the headphones on. The track starts, I open my mouth and my voice cracks on the first line.

The producer stops it immediately. “Let’s take that again.”

I nod, my throat burning.

We go again.

I miss the timing.

Again.

Again.