CHAPTER TWELVE COEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
COEN
Fucking her is like taking a shot of the best whiskey with the deepest burn. That's all I think about the day after. We eat at the table together. Bill and Serena chatter, but I say nothing. When I look up, she’s looking up at the same moment.
The world shifts. Something is happening, and it’s happening fast. I’m painfully aware of it every time I think about having to go home at the end of the summer.
The evening after what we did in the guestroom, I’m cleaning up my space, doing some dishes, when my phone rings. It’s Jamie. I pick it up, tapping the speaker button.
“Hey, what’s up?” I set a wet dish aside to drip-dry.
“You know I would never ask this if it weren’t important,” he says, “but I need you to come back by next week.”
My hands go still. “What? Why?”
“Mason Reynolds has a copyright issue. We have to scrap half the album.”
I pause. I’ve never written for Mason, but he’s a huge rising star in folk right now.
He writes a lot on his own, but for the new album, our shared production company pushed him to get a co-writer to go for a more mainstream sound.
I would have killed for a chance to write with him.
He’s young, about twenty-three, with a lot of raw talent.
Instead, they picked a producer and writer who works mostly with pop artists.
“Mason’s album comes out in three weeks,” I say. “You want me to write and record half the album that fast?”
“He asked for you personally.”
I pause, gazing out the window at the darkening horizon.
Truthfully, a tiny part of me is thrilled for a chance to get back to work.
The rest of me is exhausted, overwhelmed at the thought of pushing out five new songs that quickly.
I’ve done it so many times, and I’m far past burnout at this point.
That doesn’t mean I can’t do it one more time. It’s more a matter of if I want to.
“What was the issue?” I wipe my hands and head to the bedroom.
“A producer from DreamGate heard an early version and contested that those songs sounded too close to one of his client’s new records. I heard it, and he has a point.”
“Well, can’t that client re-record? Why is this on Mason?”
“His album comes out tomorrow. They can’t prove he heard Mason’s, but we know for a fact Mason has heard this client’s record.” Jamie sighs.
“How?”
“He was at an early listening party last year, and a video of him with Mason was posted online.”
“Ah, I see. Legally, though—”
“You know it’s about how it’s seen online,” he cuts in. “Mason doesn’t want this heat, not so early in his career. He didn’t steal this guy’s shit. You know these things happen, but he wants to play it straight.”
“I get it.”
Phone to my ear, I survey the room with a sensation in my stomach like the sharp drop of cresting a hill at a hundred miles an hour.
It’s been a hard life on the road. Everything about this is familiar.
The second I think I can land some place for a little bit, even when it’s just a studio, a hand comes down from the overlords and uproots me. It’s the price of success, I guess.
I just didn’t realize the price would be that heavy.
“I hate to ask you,” Jamie says again.
“No, I get it. Mason’s in a tight spot, and this could blow back pretty bad on him.”
“It could.”
“I’ll start work and head back.”
The words leave my mouth before I digest them. My thumb jerks and hits the button, hanging up. I didn’t mean to do any of that, but I did. Being out here for two weeks hasn’t done a damn thing for breaking me of being a chronic workaholic. I’m in the same cycle as before.
Like a wave out of nowhere, a deep fatigue hits me.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m running from something.
If I hold still long enough, a terrible knot in my chest will come undone, and I’ll fall apart like a marionette.
Nothing else makes sense. I have everything I need, my bills are paid, and yet, I still wake at night in a cold sweat, remembering the gritty floor of the porch off the house where I grew up. And I’m sick inside all over again.
That’s a lot to unpack.
Maybe I can do it on the drive home.