Chapter 11 Wyatt
WYATT
IT’S ANOTHER GORGEOUS AFTERNOON. I sit on the dock, my phone resting on my shoulder as I listen to my manager drone on and on about a producer who’s supposedly desperate to get into the studio with me.
“Matt,” I interrupt, “I get you’re trying to sell me on him, but I checked out his stuff, and his style is completely different from mine. He works with boy bands.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you need to pivot.”
“I’m not joining a boy band.” The thought makes me chuckle as I envision myself dancing in sync with four other guys in matching denim overalls with no shirt or some shit.
“I wouldn’t even dream of suggesting it,” Matt says with a laugh of his own. “All I’m saying is… Maybe consider going the pop route.”
Why is everyone trying to turn me into a goddamn pop star?
“I’m not a pop artist.”
“But you could be,” he says.
“But I don’t want to be.”
“Wyatt.”
His tone tells me I’m about to be lectured about “the reality of the music biz.”
“The reality of the music biz,” he continues, “is that those who don’t adapt die.
So you can toil away for years, chasing your artistic vision and trying to stay pure to it, or you can make a sacrifice to get your foot in the door.
Write a song you know will be popular, something that appeals to the masses, and then for your second album?
Do whatever tickles your creative fancy. ”
“Or I get pigeonholed into whatever sellout nonsense I put in the first album,” I counter. “Then that becomes my style, and I blow up and get stuck churning out pop songs for the rest of my life.”
“Oh no,” he says sarcastically. “You blow up and become a big star.”
Frustration tightens my throat. He doesn’t get it. Nobody does. They think I’m just being a fucking diva. That I’m too stubborn to “adapt” or too pretentious to write pop music.
But that isn’t it. It’s not that I don’t want to write it—it’s that I can’t write it.
The last time I tried writing a bubblegum pop song, I stared at a blank page for days.
Sure, I know a few songwriters in Nashville who could probably write me some killer pop tracks, but…
I guess this is where my diva side crops up.
Because I don’t want to sing prepackaged songs that someone else hands me. I want to compose my own music.
“Look, Wyatt, I love the whole angsty, folksy-rock, singer-songwriter vibe you’ve got going on.
But it’s clearly not working for us. If you consider singing something more mainstream, there’d be no shortage of producers willing to team up with you.
Tobey Dodson, to name one. He’d work with you in a heartbeat—”
“Why in a heartbeat?” I cut in suspiciously.
“Well, he was talking to your mother—”
“No.”
“Wyatt—”
“I said no.”
“Why not, damn it? Christ, kid. I’ve never seen anybody fight the nepo baby label as hard as you.”
Aggravation sizzles through me. “Because I’m not a nepo baby. I want to create my own opportunities and make it on my own. Otherwise it just feels like it’s been handed to me.”
“Let it get handed to you. Jesus fucking Christ.”
“I’ll talk to you later, okay? I’ll think on it.”
I hit End before he can argue. I stare at the phone for a second, then grit my teeth and call my mom.
“Hey, honey!” Mom says, sounding happy to hear from me. “How’s Tahoe?”
“It’s good. How’s Boston?”
“Wonderful. Your sister and Luke just got here. They’re spending the weekend.”
“BIL’s there? Nice.” I love my brother-in-law, even if I still can’t get over the fact that I actually have one of those.
My twin sister getting married at twenty-one wasn’t exactly on my bingo card for that year, yet somehow, their marriage has lasted way longer than I thought it would.
I assumed the quickie marriage in Vegas would result in a quickie divorce wherever you get quickie divorces.
But three years later, they still act like newlyweds, and now I can’t imagine our lives without my grumpy, allergic-to-talking, stupidly talented BIL.
“So to what do I owe this call?” Mom’s tone is wry. I’m not a big caller, as my family can attest. I try to check in with my folks once a week, but I’m not great at sticking to that schedule, and it’s usually much longer stretches between calls.
“I just got off the phone with Matt.” I pause. “He said you and Tobey Dodson were talking about me.”
Mom’s laughter fills my ear. “Oh, don’t start with that,” she chides. “Tobey and I weren’t talking about you in the way you think we were talking about you.”
“Really?” I challenge.
“Really. I ran into him at the studio in New York last week. He asked how my kids were. I said you two were great. And then he mentioned he’d been listening to ‘Silver’ on repeat and asked if you were working on anything new.”
I falter. “Silver” is one of my most streamed songs—and it’s not pop, not in the slightest. It’s intimate and reflective, with a focus on the vocals.
But not the typical breathy, voice-cracking, singer-songwriter delivery where vocalists in the genre tend to gravitate. It’s warmer and has a folk edge.
When Matt said Tobey Dodson wanted to work with me, I assumed that meant pivoting genres. So why was Dodson raving about “Silver”?
“He asked you?” My head is spinning. “Unprompted?”
“Unprompted,” Mom confirms, and I believe her, because my mother isn’t a liar. She always tells it like it is. “And then he asked me for your contact info…” She trails off enticingly.
“Bullshit.”
“Swear to God.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. I consulted the rule book first.”
I chuckle sheepishly. Yeah, I’m a dick. I’ve given my mom a set of rules regarding what she’s allowed and not allowed to do in terms of professional conduct. Not allowed: pimping me out to any of her contacts, sending them links to my songs, hyping me up at industry functions.
But if someone approaches her…
“So he genuinely wants to work with me?” I feel a stir of excitement in my chest. “On songs in the same vein as ‘Silver’?”
“Well, he wants to listen to your new stuff before he decides if it’s something he’s interested in producing. I’m sure he’ll reach out sometime soon.”
“Shit.”
“That’s a good thing, honey,” she says, and I can practically see her smiling. “Take the fucking win.”
I’d love to.
If I had any new stuff.
But I don’t. What I do have is a notebook full of overly flowery, poorly metaphored garbage.
Which means I need to get to work. ASAP. Looks like today is going to be a full-steam-ahead writing marathon.
“How’s Blake doing?” Mom asks, changing the subject.
The sound of her name conjures her like a genie from a lamp, as I suddenly become aware of Blake stepping onto the upper deck. I’m not even facing in that direction, but I feel her. For some annoying reason, my body is highly attuned to her presence.
I twist my head, and sure enough, there she is, standing at the railing.
In her trademark cutoff shorts and bikini top, sunglasses on and a towel hanging off her arm.
Her hair is arranged in a side braid, making my fingers tingle.
Each time she wears a braid, I just want to undo it.
To run my fingers through her hair, spread it out, and watch those luscious waves fall down her delicate back.
“Wyatt?”
I snap out of it. “Oh. Sorry. Yeah, Mom, she’s fine.”
“Has she spoken to you about the breakup at all?”
“No.” Other than bursting into spontaneous tears the first night, Blake barely mentions Isaac outside the context of the toaster she’s determined to get back.
“Aw. Well, that’s not good,” Mom clucks. “Grace is worried because Blake is such a private person. She rarely let her emotions out. Hides behind that sarcastic exterior. But sometimes you need to let it out, you know?”
“Mom,” I warn. “I’m already her babysitter. I don’t need to be her therapist too.”
“I’m not asking you to be. Just saying be gentle with her. Listen to her if she brings it up instead of brushing it off.”
“Fine. I gotta go. Blake’s here.”
Her footsteps thud on the stairs, and she appears on the dock at the same time as I hear the rumble of a boat engine. Blake struts to the edge and raises her hand to wave at the approaching vessel.
“Annaliese and her friends are spending the day,” she tells me over her shoulder. “And before you throw a grumpy Graham fit, I told you about this two days ago, and you didn’t object.”
I watch as she jogs down to the pier and catches the rope that one of the dudes on board tosses her. Awesome. So much for a quiet writing day.
The new arrivals are annoying, but they bring some damn good weed. I split a joint with Kuri, who tells me he’s an engineering major at the University of Nevada and not a male model like I expect. Kid’s half Japanese and half Black and one of the best-looking dudes I’ve ever seen in my life.
Once I’m good and stoned, I stretch out in my usual lounge chair, sunglasses shielding my eyes. I doze in the sun while Kuri and the other two guys have a cannonball competition, repeatedly hurling themselves off the dock into the water.
Blake and Annaliese disappear into the house for what feels like forever, finally returning with a pitcher full of some fruity cocktail.
They sip from hot-pink straws that my dad got Uncle Dean last year when they came up here to celebrate his birthday.
For some inexplicable reason, they always buy Dean pink things.
It’s an inside joke I don’t get or frankly need to be part of.
That entire friend group is beyond help.
As I lie there, snippets of conversation keep wafting in my direction. Kuri seems cool, but his buddies are beyond sex-obsessed. Clay and Preston, because of course their names are Clay and Preston. Those are, like, the requisite pervy frat boy names.