Love Song(20)

Description

Visual elements styled to look like a torn piece of paper or sticky note containing the handwritten song lyrics. It reads ‘The sky knows me today.’

What the hell does that even mean? The sky knows me today? Knows me how? And did it not know me yesterday? What changed for the sky?

I squeeze the pencil between my fingers, hard enough that it starts to bend. This is pathetic. Why can’t I write anything good anymore?

My phone vibrates again. A wave of relief rushes through me. Oh thank God. Someone to put me out of my uncreative misery.

It’s a message from Cole, who’s taken three days to respond to the lyrics I sent him. I haven’t been taking it personally, since he’s not only prepping for a global tour, but this week he’s collaborating with a talented young singer in Nashville. Aimee Faye is poised to be a superstar, though her style runs more toward sexy pop country in contrast to Cole’s old-school country. I can’t wait to hear what they come up with.

COLE

Could be better.



Not exactly a ringing endorsement.

The feedback doesn’t surprise me, though. Everything I’ve sent him this year belongs in a landfill. And I appreciate my buddy’s honesty. This is why we vibed so well when we were in the band. Me, Cole, and Gus, one of the most talented drummers I’ve ever met.

Gus plays in the house band for me when I’m in the studio, but Cole, well, he’s levels above us now. A bona fide star. The band broke up after we all realized we were each better suited for solo shit, but Cole’s the only one who’s actually made it. He fucking deserves it too. It’s inspiring to see a Black artist finding success in a genre that hasn’t always been welcoming to anyone without pasty skin and a scraggly mullet. I’m proud of him.

I know. It’s ass.



COLE

Not total ass. Maybe just one ass cheek.



All right, critique me.



COLE

The lyrics don’t make sense, bro. And your last 3 tracks have been about the sky. You got a sky fetish or something?



Yeah, I fuck clouds for fun.



COLE

I’m screenshotting that.



Okay. Real talk. This song is just a bunch of metaphors that don’t mean anything. No idea what you’re trying to say. No depth. Doesn’t feel like it’s coming from your heart, or any part of your body for that matter. Hell, at this point, drop the metaphors and write a song about wanting to bone. Even that would be more real than whatever you’re sending me lately.



I don’t write about sex. It’s overdone.



COLE

Because people dig it. It excites them. This duet I’m recording with Aimee right now? “We Ride at Dawn.” What do you think it’s about, bro? A duel? Driving her around in my pickup? Fuck no. It’s about how badly I want to ride her pussy and how much she enjoys depriving me of it and making me wait till morning.



Not my style.



COLE

Make it your style. Sex sells, G. Always has, always will.



The strains of a familiar melody jolt me from Cole’s lecture. Blake is playing a pop song on her phone.

Speaking of sex sells.

“Turn that off,” I tell her.

She rolls onto her stomach with zero shame, rising on her forearms so I have a perfect view of the top swells of her breasts. She has no idea what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does.

“Can I ask you something?” Her tone is worrisomely polite.

“What?”

“Do you think you’re the captain of this boat? Because you’re barking orders like you are.” Blake puts on a stern voice. “Put your top on. Don’t drink that. Turn off that music.”

“This isn’t music.”

“It’s Mollie May! She’s the biggest pop star in the world.”

“Doesn’t make her music good.”

“Oh my God. You fucking snob.”

“Oh, and yes, I am the captain of this boat. Because I’m older.”

“Yeah, well, you’re about to have a mutiny on your hands, Cap, if you don’t stop this power trip.” She flops back down and rests her cheek on her crossed arms. “If I can’t listen to my music, at least play something on Betty. I like listening to music while I’m dozing.”

It’s a fair compromise. And since every line I’ve written thus far is utter shit, I give up on lyrics and start strumming the guitar. I don’t play anything in particular, just a slow, airy melody that matches this current vibe of bobbing on the waves in the sunshine.

“That’s pretty,” Blake says, twisting her head toward me. “Is that a real song?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Just making it up on the spot.”

“Oh.”

I can’t see her expression behind her sunglasses, but something about her wistful tone amuses me.

“Why do you sound sad about that?”

“I’m not sad. I’m…jealous,” she admits. “I envy you.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because you’re so talented. You play, like, five instruments—”

“Three.”