Chapter 13
July, Now
When I wake the next morning, my brain groggy as the Spokane hotel room comes into focus, I shoot my arm across the bed to feel for Liam only to be met with cold sheets.
The steady drip of the shower comes next, followed by filtered light streaming through a crack in the curtains when I force my eyes open.
It smells like a Liam concentrate in here. His favorite shampoo, aftershave, deodorant.
Immediately, my mind tracks back to the words I typed in my notes app before falling asleep. I reread them, then bolt for my guitar.
The melody stuck in my head right now would sound better on a piano, but I couldn’t justify packing a keyboard, so I pluck the notes out on strings, humming the words.
This part has always been easy. The beginning. The seed of an idea. That sound. Those words. Put them together, then make it all flow.
When I first meshed my lifelong love of playing music with a poetry affinity fostered by my English teacher, I kept at it despite never knowing if the songs were any good because the beginning part of the process always scratches an itch in my head.
But it wasn’t until I got an education in music that I realized what you think you have at first is almost always wrong.
In Knoxville, playing songs for Liam, I was writing in a vacuum.
No critique or review, and only a handful of outside influences.
Now, after the past four years, I’m not afraid of throwing out ninety percent of something and keeping the good ten.
You play it for someone who knows what they’re talking about when they offer feedback.
You discuss the bridge. You tone match the sound to the lyrics.
And then, possibly, you throw out eighty percent of that and keep the good twenty.
And then, possibly, you do it all again.
I’m only at the beginning of this song—really, the first chapter out of forty-five—but I already love it.
I’m obsessed with it. I won’t rest until I finish it.
This song will consume my thoughts all day until I can come back here and write it out, sing it, feel that aha moment, and then share it with someone—
My brain, running like an overheated engine, cools when Liam’s hands meet my shoulders. I tilt my head backward. From this angle, his dark hair feathers across his forehead.
“I’m gonna head out,” he says.
“I’m coming with you.”
“You should stay and finish this.”
I stand, setting my guitar in its case. “I’ll do it later.”
Liam smirks. “But what if my soul stops breathing for your body and you die of asphyxiation?”
I play-punch him on his good shoulder.
“You missed,” he deadpans. “Or did you forget that season I was right-handed?”
“Didn’t forget anything. I’m just not one to rub dirt on a wound.”
“The expression you’re looking for,” he drawls, crossing his arms over his chest, “is salt in the wound.”
“Tell me,” I say, tiptoeing barefoot toward the bathroom. “How many times do you say my old sports injury in a given week?”
“Probably the same number of times you say my degree in songwriting.”
“Never?”
“Thereabouts.”
Liam follows me to the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe as I brush out my hair.
A plain, heart-shaped face stares back at me, slightly pale for this time of year.
I look most like Folly and Maren. We have the same thin legs and broad shoulders.
And all five of us have our mother’s dark curls.
But I’m the only Lancaster with a Mallen streak.
I’ve always loved that about my hair. Like a tattoo I never asked for but was happy to showcase.
“Joking aside,” Liam says, “I liked it. The song.”
My veins seem to blister open at his admission. I dissociated enough not to think about him being in the room while I was songwriting about him, but now, I feel like a nocturnal animal caught in sunlight.
I turn back to him, grabbing my toothbrush. “Are the lyrics … weird?”
He shakes his head, stepping closer. “No. Just … intense. But isn’t that the point?”
I nod. Lyrics that sound like poetry.
He takes another step, wetting his lips. “Is that really how you feel about me? That I picked out your dreams for you?” Liam’s eyes sweep over me, settling on the splash of red spreading across my neck.
“Um. I guess so. I mean, lyrically, yes. Sometimes it used to feel that way.”
“Used to,” he repeats.
God, I don’t stand a chance of finishing this song if I can’t even articulate it. But Liam’s eyes are curious; he wants me to try.
I clear my throat. “Sometimes, I imagine what would’ve happened if we’d never met. I wonder how different my life would look.”
He takes the final step to close the gap between us. Liam’s hand comes to the side of my neck, where it rests. My pulse thunders. It’s almost like he has to touch me while we discuss a world in which we’ve never met.
“You set me on a path I couldn’t have imagined for myself,” I go on. “Maybe that’s why it feels like you breathe for me. Pick dreams for me. Because my life was altered by your hands.”
“Paige,” he whispers, returning his hand to his side. “Everyone’s life is altered by everyone else’s hands.”
“It’s different,” I say. “With you.”
“Maybe so, but you’re not a songwriter because of me. That was in you the day we met. All I did was nurture the instincts you already had.”
“Instincts, but no direction. Thanks to you, I now have goals, dreams, plans.”
“What goals?” he asks. “What dreams, what plans?”
He’s asking because back then, I had none of the above, and it rightfully concerned him.
I settle a hip against the bathroom counter.
Liam does the same, arms crossed. “My dad spent most of his life at that warehouse job he hated. And Maren, my only other parent-like figure, was so focused on pulling herself into a different socioeconomic class that I’m not sure she ever paused to ask herself if she even likes corporate law.
Then you’ve got my other three sisters, who do whatever makes them happy.
I’m not saying their happy-go-lucky strategy doesn’t come with its own set of consequences, but I’m willing to balance the risks if I get to earn money doing what I love.
There isn’t an agenda beyond that. I’m not looking for fame, or a record deal, or even a spot in a band.
I only want the freedom and financial stability to write.
Maybe someday, I’ll have goals of working with certain artists or producers or studios, but for now, I’m just thankful for the chance to prove myself. ”
His lips twitch. “Damn. I did rub off on you.”
“Hence the intense lyrics,” I say.
Eventually he sighs, eyes softening. “You’re making it feel like you forgive me.”
I stiffen. “I don’t remember an apology.”
His hands go out to his sides, palms up. “You’re not the only one who’s stubborn.”
“I’m trying to make it feel like you can trust my intentions,” I clarify.
“I forgot to add that I also don’t trust my intentions,” he replies. “I’m scared I might really hurt you, even though I told you I wouldn’t do it on purpose.”
Meaning: we still haven’t talked about it, no apology, no forgiveness, and until we do, there’s hurt yet to come.
The fluttering in my belly migrates to queasiness.
Instead of anticipation, all I feel is dread tangled up with a self-preserving need to drag this good part out as long as I possibly can.
Not for the sake of the music, but to protect my heart.
I’m fighting against my own human instincts, and it’s exhausting.
For what? my left brain whispers. Why fight your instincts? That’s what they’re there for.
Because you can’t not make songs, my right brain argues back. You also have that instinct. You feel wrong when you stop. You feel right when you start again.
“At least bring your guitar with you,” Liam says, stepping out of the bathroom. “We’re going to have some downtime before the band and crew arrive.”
After I change and grab my things, we take a crowded elevator down to his car and drive in thoughtful silence. As we pull up to the Spokane Pavilion—a grassy outdoor venue with an architecturally magnificent open-air roof—I try to re-ground myself.
Liam turns to me after he parks. “Part of my job is scouting the path to get load-in started. I’ll have to walk around and get the lay of the land, meet with the venue’s event coordinator, but you can come in with me and sit wherever you want.”
I jump out of the car, grab my guitar. “The event coordinator won’t mind if I have this?”
Liam shakes his head, smiling loosely, before stealing the handle from me and heading in the direction of the front doors.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask, trailing after him.
“No reason.”
“Tell me.”
He slants me a wry look. “It’s just that I didn’t expect you to actually bring it.”
My steps falter. “Should I not have?”
“No, I’m glad you did. But the Paige I used to know only played music in the privacy of her apartment. She certainly wouldn’t have been caught holding a guitar in public, let alone playing one. Writing music was always your secret thing, and now…”
“Not so secret,” I conclude.
Liam nods.
I chew on my lip, mulling over how to explain it. “When did you realize you were good at baseball?” I ask.
“I don’t remember ever not being good at baseball.”
“Did adults in your life tell you that? Coaches, your dad?”
“Yes.” He says it cleanly—not a brag but a fact.
“Which means other than peewee, you never had to get over the hump of trying something out. Of being hopeful about it, but not confident. Going to school with other musicians—being in community with them—helped me learn I don’t have to be embarrassed about trying.
Or about loving something without being an expert in it. ”
“Yet,” Liam corrects. “You weren’t an expert in it yet—but now you are.”
“I still don’t have any career experience with music.”
“After this tour, you will.”