Abel leaned back, listening with his forehead still furrowed. As I finished the chorus, I kept going, building on where he had trailed off, letting my subconscious lead. Something that sounded like a decent bridge started to form, but then I lost it.
The lead singer sat up, his cheeks rippling as he hummed the next part of the song. I listened to him intently while trying to pick the right notes on my guitar.
“Play that bridge again with the next part,” he instructed, and I did as I was told. “There’s something there.”
“I think so, too,” I agreed. Electricity ran beneath my flesh, a sensation I recognized from whenever I was hitting my stride during songwriting.
The grin I was wearing seemed to encourage Abel. “What if we change it slightly to this?”
Bit by bit, we excavated the song from whatever alternate universe all works of art inhabit before someone brings them across. I’d never made the journey with another person before. It was exhilarating and unsettling at the same time, and as the minutes ticked on the clock, I started to see Abel in a new light.
His usual coldness was gone, replaced by an elite-athlete level focus and what seemed like a childlike curiosity at times. Whatever pretense we had between us, evaporated as quickly as early morning fog. I understood then that songwriting was how Abel communicated. He may have been closed off in normal circumstances, but when he wrote music, he put all of himself on display.
When he finished playing what I thought sounded like an excellent chorus, he abruptly stood and put down his guitar.
“This is shit.”
I looked at him aghast. “What are you talking about? It’s great!”
His eyes narrowed. “I need you to be honest.”
“I am being honest,” I insisted. “It’s a great beginning. Some parts need polishing and refinement but that’s okay. It doesn’t need to be perfect yet.”
He looked at me in confusion and then settled back down.
“Charlie would always…tear my work apart.”
Saying that cost him something. I could feel it. His green eyes were fixed on a spot on the ground and I waited for him to continue.
“He’d tear it apart and make it better, but he’d never like anything I wrote on my own.”
“You wrote Bleeding Moonlight’s first album,” I reminded him gently. “It was praised by the critics.”
“But our second album is considered our best work,” he said. “I’m not complaining about Charlie’s process. Clearly, it worked. I just… Well, I’m surprised you like the song.”
He lifted his eyes to mine, and I saw that mask slip again.
“You and Charlie were very close?” I asked.
I didn’t expect him to respond with a humorless laugh. “Is that how you’d describe someone who knows every single one of your buttons? Even the ones you try to keep carefully hidden?”
I frowned in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
He shook his head, more to himself than to me. “Few people do. Charlie made me a great musician. Sometimes, when we’d be writing together, he was more a force of nature than a human being. His magnetism, his energy… In the studio, he was a fury of inspiration. And now, without him—”
He choked on the unsaid words and straightened his spine. When his eyes met mine, they were cold once again.
“It’s late, and I need to get at least a couple hours of sleep before we’re all back here.” He stood up and placed the guitar down.
“Abel, wait—”
“I’m very tired, Adeline,” he interrupted. “Tired enough to seek validation from a rookie guitar player. Forget about tonight, and forget what I said.”
The sting of his words was as violent as the slam of the door.
13
ADELINE
