Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
The first take fell apart halfway through the bridge. He let his hands drop from the guitar and looked at the others.
Sean rubbed his jaw. “Too clean. Say it like you mean it.”
“I am.” He rolled his shoulder, found the tension, and shook it out. “Again.”
Axel counted them in with the tip of a stick on the rim of his drum. Jami hit the opening progression and let the words come the way he had played them for Carlene, not as a performance, as a truth he could live with. The verse landed. The room settled.
Maddyn pushed the talkback. “There you are.”
He grinned and set the guitar on his knee. “There I am.”
They ran it twice more and saved the song. Tony had been recording. “Working title?” Tony asked.
Jami thought of a notebook page and a decision made in a small room. “Keys.”
“Simple.” Tony hit enter. “Real.”
Jami peered out the door of the studio and across the barn. Carlene was still at the bar, hair tucked behind one ear, shoulders square like she could hold the whole day steady with posture alone. He walked over, and she slid a pair of reading glasses on top of her head.
“How’s it feeling?” she asked.
“Like it belongs here.” He nodded toward the staircase that led to the loft. “You want to look at the space upstairs now?”
“Yes.” She closed her laptop and stood. “If we do it now, I won’t overthink it.”
They climbed the narrow steps. The loft stretched raw and bright, beams crisscrossing overhead, old windows throwing long rectangles on the floor. A spare rug leaned against the wall. A couple of rolling racks held cables and extra mic stands.
She walked the perimeter with her palm on the rough railing. “Desk there,” she said, pointing to the window with the best light. “Shelving along that wall. A locking file cabinet near the stairs.”
He measured with his hands out of habit. “We can move the racks downstairs. I have a wide table in storage that will work as a conference table if you need it. We’ll need outlets closer to the window.”
She looked at him. “You say ‘we’ like it is already done.”
“It is already done.” He set a hand on the empty air where her desk would live. “You said toothbrush. I heard roots.”
That got the smallest laugh out of her. She toed an invisible rectangle. “A rug would help. Not white.”
“Not white,” he echoed. “We’ll bring up the gray one from the spare room for now.”
“Practical.” She nodded once, decision locked. “Let’s move the racks and claim the corner. If I see it empty, I’ll keep it.”
They spent the next twenty minutes hauling stands and coils down the stairs, the kind of mindless work that broke tension without breaking focus. Sean met them at the bottom on the last run.
“You two building an office or a fortress?” he asked, grabbing a stand from Jami’s arms.
“Both,” Jami said. “You’ll thank me when you stop tripping over these.”
Sean set the stand by the door. “Fair point.” He looked up at the loft. “She is really doing it?”
“She is.” Pride crept in before he could stop it.
“Good.” Sean clapped his shoulder. “You write better when your head is where your feet live.”
They cleared the corner and rolled the gray rug from the spare room over the planks. It softened the echo. Carlene stood with her hands on her hips and turned in a slow circle, checking the sight lines like a director.
“This will work,” she said.
“It already does.” He reached into his pocket. “One more thing.”
She faced him, wary and hopeful at the same time. He held the small gold key in his palm. Not dramatic. Not a speech. Just metal and use.
He didn’t move his hand closer. He let her reach for it, then closed her fingers around the cool weight.
“Top lock,” he said. “Back door, too.”
Her throat worked. She slid the key into the side pocket of her jeans and tapped it once, as if to be sure it was real. “Okay.”
He grinned. "Before we officially set things up, let's get Quinn here to refinish the floors, build the shelves, desk, file cabinets, anything you need.
And I thought we could add a bathroom across the room above the downstairs bathroom.
It should be easy to run the plumbing. That way you don't have to run downstairs each time. "
The smile that graced her beautiful face was stunning. "Thank you, Jami. You'll make me never want to leave."
His brows rose. "I see my evil plan is working already."
They went back down. Music called them. Work met them. The afternoon blurred into takes and quick fixes and the comfortable shorthand that lived between people who trusted one another. Every time he glanced toward the bar, he found her building something steady out of lines and images.
At five-thirty, they broke. Axel stretched his back and checked the clock. “If we start a new track now, we’ll be here all night.”
“We won’t,” Jami said. “Let's table it. We'll start fresh tomorrow.”
He crossed the room to Carlene. She had the reel queued and the caption set. Six o’clock glowed in the corner of the screen like a quiet promise.
“You ready?” she asked.
“I like what you wrote.” He touched the words but didn’t change them. “It sounds like us.”
“That was the goal.” She checked the time. “We have a few minutes.”
“Come outside.”
They stepped outside, and he led her across the yard to the house.
He stopped at his truck and pulled her suitcase from inside.
She chuckled and grabbed her toiletries and small items. Stepping onto the wrap-around porch, his stomach flipped.
The boards underfoot held the day’s heat.
He pulled the door open and held it for Carlene.
The moment she stepped inside, his heart swelled.
He hadn't lived with anyone in years. Not since his divorce. But he felt ready.
“We can order dinner for everyone or have a quiet dinner here,” he said. “Nothing fancy. You said table. I heard it.”
Her mouth softened. “I want to eat with you when the world is loud. It turns it down.”
“Then let’s turn it down.”
He texted Tony,
"Lock up when you leave."
He received a thumbs-up in reply.
He set his phone on the table near the door. She did the same. They didn’t need to swear an oath. The small act held.
In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and stared. He turned to Carlene, a grin on his face. "How about I call Jace and have them deliver?"
She chuckled. “Sounds perfect. Neither of us has to work or do much cleanup. It's already been a day.”
“Agreed. If you want to unpack, I'll take care of ordering.”
"Sounds good. Any drawer in particular?"
"Ah, great question. Follow me."
He moved clothing from two drawers and created a large space in his closet. "If you need more, let me know. In the coming days, I'll get more organized, so when you bring the rest of your things here, you'll have the space."
She kissed his lips. "Thank you, Jami."
At seven, a faint buzz sounded from their phones in the entry. Neither of them moved. He watched her breathe and felt his own settle to match.
“Want to look?” he asked.
“In a minute.” She took another bite and set down her fork. “Tell me the first song you ever wrote that you did not show anyone.”
He laughed once. “Mean question.”
“Honest question.”
“I was fifteen,” he said. “It was about a girl who could outshoot me in the arcade. I loved her and hated losing to her, so I wrote a song about both. It was terrible.”
“I want to hear it someday.”
“You won’t.” He pointed at her. “Your turn. What’s the first campaign you ever wrote?”
She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “The first campaign I wrote that mattered was for a food pantry. I made a poster that did not use a single sad face. Just a list. Tuesdays: beans. Wednesdays: tuna. Thursdays: apples. Donations doubled in two weeks.”
“Of course they did.” He felt something ease in his chest. “You make people useful to themselves.”
“That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me.”
“It was only true.”
They cleared the plates together. He washed. She dried. Habit formed faster than he expected when both people leaned in. After the last glass hit the rack, she nodded toward the entry. “Now?”
“Now.”
They walked out and stood over the phones. Notifications stacked. He didn’t open any of them. He glanced at the photo she had scheduled. Four hands on a guitar top. No faces. All-purpose. Her caption read exactly as it had on her screen.
He put the phone back down. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For letting the work speak first.”
She slid her palm into his. The contact sat calmly and completely. “You did that. I just held the camera and pointed at the right photo.”
He tugged her closer and lowered his mouth to hers. No hurry. No apology. Just the kind of kiss that said the day had been heavy, and they were still here.
When they pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“I am too.” She smiled, small and sure.
He laughed, the good kind that lived low. He set a hand on her back and guided her toward the hallway. “You were right. Let's go relax.”
They left the phones where they sat. In the living room entryway, a guitar leaned against the couch, because one always did. He picked it up and played the verse from earlier, softer now, stripped to what mattered.
She curled her feet beneath her and listened like the song was a promise she chose to believe one word at a time.
He kept playing until the house knew her name.