Right by your side
Where I ought to be
And you know that I
That I can see
The way that your eyes
Seem to follow me
After reading what she’s written, I hand her back the notebook and pick up my phone. I’m confused about the lyrics, because they aren’t at all what I was expecting. I’m not sure I like them.
Me: I thought we were writing an angry song about Hunter.
She shrugs, then begins texting me back.
Sydney: I tried. The subject of Hunter doesn’t really inspire me anymore. You don’t have to use them if you don’t like them. I can try something different.
I stare at her text, not sure how to respond. I don’t like the lyrics, but not because they aren’t good. It’s because the words she’s written down make me think she’s somehow able to read my mind.
Me: I love them.
She smiles and says, “Thank you.” She flips onto her back, and I catch myself appreciating this moment and this night and her low-cut dress way more than I probably should. When my eyes make their way back to hers, she’s watching me, plainly aware of what’s going through my head. Eyes don’t lie, unfortunately.
When neither of us breaks our gaze, I’m forced to swallow the huge lump in my throat.
Don’t get yourself in trouble, Ridge.
Thank God she sits up when she does.
Sydney: I’m not sure where you want the chorus to come in. This song is a little more upbeat than the ones I’m used to. I’ve written three different ones, but I don’t like how any of them sound. I’m stuck.
Me: Let me watch you sing it one more time.
I roll off the bed and grab the guitar, then take it back to the bed but sit on the edge this time. We turn to face each other, and I play while she sings. When we make it to the chorus, she stops singing and shrugs, letting me know this is where she’s stuck. I take her notebook and read the lyrics over a few times. I glance up at her without being too obvious about it and write the first thing that comes to mind.
And I must confess
My interest
The way that you move
When you’re in that dress
It’s making me feel
Like I want to be
The only man
That you ever see
I pause from writing and look up at her again, feeling every bit of the words in this chorus. I think we both know the words we write have to do with each other, but that doesn’t seem to stop us at all. If we keep having moments like these with words that are way too honest, we’ll both end up in trouble. I quickly look back down at the paper as more lyrics begin to enter my head.
Whoa, oh, oh, oh
I’m in trouble, trouble
Whoa, oh, oh, oh
I’m in trouble now
I refuse to look up at her again while I write. I keep my mind focused on the words that somehow seem to flow from my fingertips every time we’re together. I don’t question what’s inspiring me or what they mean.
I don’t question it . . . because it’s obvious.
But it’s art. Art is just an expression. An expression isn’t the same as an act, as much as it sometimes feels that way. Writing lyrics isn’t the same as directly informing someone of your feelings.
Is it?
I keep my eyes on the paper and continue to write the words I honestly wish I didn’t feel.