Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
ASH
“Bro, is this you?” My cousin, Jim, shoves his phone in my face. The video that someone recorded of me talking about how Dylan and I wrote our music is playing loudly on the screen, right in the middle of the sales section of the office.
I blow out a breath. I’ve been with the sales team, led by Jim, for the past two weeks.
It’s been a long two weeks. Half in part because I’ve learned I hate sales, and half because Jim never shuts the fuck up.
He should have taken up our grandfather’s offer to give him his inheritance if he went to a three-month-long silent retreat.
He lacks the self-awareness to understand the connection between him and why Grandpa wanted that particular contingency.
“Yeah,” I say, holding in a heavy sigh. “It’s me.”
“Dang, dude. That’s wild.” He claps me on the shoulder. “That song is sick. You know, I tell people all the time on sales calls and shit that we’re related. That always gets me in the door. I can’t believe your band’s on hiatus. You could have made it even bigger.”
I nod along because Jim will continue talking regardless, and there’s nothing I can say to make this less awkward. People blowing smoke up my ass always made me feel more uncomfortable than big-headed, and it’s even worse now that the band is broken up.
When I was younger, I always thought being famous would feel incredible, but it’s not. It’s just an annoyance that got strapped to the part of my career that I loved—the actual music.
“I’m going to lunch,” I say to Jim, who’s been standing over me and talking to a sales rep on the other side of my cubicle for who knows how long.
“Alright. Don’t forget the Friday huddle at one thirty,” Jim says.
I grab my phone and head to the break room. Bubba has taken up his favorite spot at the edge of the open doorway, right below the signs that tell everyone not to feed him people food. His tail thumps against the floor when he sees me, so I give him a few good scratches.
I feel his eyes on me as I heat up my food, but I avoid looking at him. His sad eyes are hypnotic, and I’ll end up giving him some of these dumplings if he snares me.
Instead, I sit down alone with my lunch. The relative quiet is a relief after the constant chatter in the sales area. I can’t wait to move on to another division. I’m going to lose my fucking mind soon listening to endless phone calls and ass kissing.
I’ve avoided social media since coming to Jepsen, so I switch between an eBook and my email.
The latter is more out of morbid curiosity than anything.
I see one from our lawyer, who’s still a little pissed off about the karaoke incident.
But this latest email said it could possibly (with a big emphasis on possibly) help with the general public’s opinion in our favor. Legally, it probably won’t do much.
I archive a bunch of bullshit emails but stop when I see one from a familiar name—Luis. He’s a songwriter I know. He’s known for writing similar music to ours, rock with a touch of pop and some electronic influences. I didn’t know he had my email.
Hey, Ash. I saw that video of you at karaoke and didn’t know you and Dylan were the ones who wrote your music. Caro always made it sound like it was mostly her, with you two on the side.
I snort to myself. Of course she’d say that. Now I’m wondering how often she made it seem like she was the creative genius behind everything instead of just the voice.
I also saw that you all are on hiatus. If you’re interested in chatting about songwriting, I’d love to meet up. I’m in Nashville all the time. I know a few people who are looking for a sound you can deliver.
-Luis
I put my phone down and take a few bites, frowning. I’ve always written songs, but being a songwriter as a full career never crossed my mind. My dream was always to be a performer, but now that that’s over…maybe…
Life would be similar to what it was before, but only with the parts that were actually fulfilling. Being in the studio, writing, thinking of ideas.
I hear Jim’s obnoxious laugh coming my way and start eating faster to avoid him. Songwriting would mean there wouldn’t be any sales huddles or bullshit like that.
Luis’s email stays on my mind through the rest of my short lunch and the sales huddle. What if this is the path I need to take next? Besides the shitty, annoying sales division, I’ve liked working for the company. But will I like it forever? Can I live in Jepsen for the rest of my life?
And Jada, of course, comes to mind, too.
We’ve been married almost four months now, and I have to work for Stryker Liquors for another eight months.
I’m into her—I can’t lie about that. But eight months is a long-ass time when it comes to a relationship.
Our connection could be completely different by then.
Even though I know that’s true, I can’t completely ditch the idea of staying with her. And I can’t pretend that I don’t want to start a career as a songwriter, either, assuming Luis has the connections to help.
I make it through the rest of the day and head home, an anxious tightness in my chest at the two paths in front of me. The tension releases a little when I step inside, but Pip doesn’t come to greet me. Jada’s home—I saw her car in the lot—but even when she’s home, he’ll come up and say hello.
“Pip?” I call out, patting my leg. “You okay, buddy?”
“We’re here!” Jada calls out.
I follow the sound of Jada’s voice and find her and Pip sitting next to the closed bathroom door. Pip is rolling around, belly up, pressed against the crack the way he is when Jada is trying to take a shower.
“I brought home CC and Waylon told me to introduce them with CC in a safe space with his own food and stuff,” she says, her eyes bright with excitement. “But Pip has been totally obsessed and happy, even through the door. I think they might get along.”
“That’s great.” I pet Pip. “Already?”
“Yeah, Waylon said it would take a few days, if they even clicked at all. I haven’t heard CC hiss or growl, either, and he seemed calm when I was in there with him.” She pets Pip, too, our fingers touching.
“Wow.” I stand up again and lean against the wall. “So we just let them sniff around for a while?”
“Yeah. We can leave them be.” She stands up and leans against the wall on the other side of the door. “Hi, by the way.”
“Hi.” I smile. The urge to kiss her is uncomfortably strong, so I walk past her to the kitchen. “Any plans for tonight?”
“I was going to go to my dad’s for dessert and to do Jeremiah’s hair,” she says. “We were going to watch a movie, too, if you want to come.”
“Is your dad expecting me?” We said we’d connect later at the wedding, but I haven’t gone with her to anything at her dad’s house.
“Kind of? He’d like to see you. Shake you down a little bit.” She says it in a half joking way, but there’s a kernel of truth. “I completely forgot about it since Jeremiah and I were texting about his hair. The plans just spiraled from there. I should have warned you.”
“It’s okay. I’ll go.” I don’t have anywhere else to be, and this is important.
We eat a little, just enough to leave room for dessert, and head to her dad’s house. It’s a small, ranch-style house that looks like a mini version of my parents’ place. Big trees are out front, and we park in front of the closed garage door.
My heart races as we walk up, and Jada opens the door.
“Dad, we’re here,” she says.
It smells like cake and fruit inside, which only adds to the coziness. It’s a small space, with a lot of charming touches to the architecture and furniture. Pictures of his kids and grandkids line the walls, along with an eclectic art collection.
“Hey, JJ,” Ray says, coming out of the kitchen. He’s in sweatpants and a Crescent Hill University T-shirt. “Hi, Ash.”
Ray hugs Jada, then lightly claps me on the shoulder. His expression is warmer today than it was the day of the wedding, which is a relief.
“Where’s Jeremiah?” Jada asks.
“I’m in here,” Jeremiah calls from the living room. “Trying to pick a movie.”
“The cobbler’s almost ready,” Ray says.
Jada turns the corner into a large living room, where Jeremiah is sitting on the couch in a white undershirt, a towel over his shoulders.
To his left in a recliner is what I can only assume is a human soul trapped in a dog.
She’s a Shih Tzu with a church-lady haircut on the outside, and a judgmental older woman on the inside.
“Do y’all have a preference for the movie?” Jeremiah asks after nodding hello.
“Anything, as long as it’s not boring and sad,” Jada says, going over to the dog. “Hi, Ms. Beulah.”
She pets the dog, who only give her a simple thump of the tail before looking straight at me. If she opened her mouth and spoke fluent English, I wouldn’t be surprised.
“She’s…” Jeremiah looks between me and the dog. “Not friendly, but not hostile, either. She won’t react much when you pet her.”
“I’ll leave her be, then.” I stand, unsure of where to sit. Jada nudges me over to the couch, pulling me to sit down next to her. “How old is she?”
“Ancient.” Jada snorts. “Even Waylon is shocked she’s as healthy as she is.”
Ms. Beulah turns to look at me again, dead serious.
“Blink once if you’re a human trapped in a dog’s body,” I say. Ms. Beulah blinks once, deliberately, and keeps staring at me.
I wish I hadn’t asked.
Ms. Beulah snaps back into her dog act when Ray comes into the room, taking the little steps off her lounge chair and rushing to him with her tail wagging.
“Here’s the cobbler,” Ray says, putting a tray with several bowls of hot, delicious cobbler on a side table. “Hope you like peaches, Ash. And ice cream.”
“I love everything,” I say. “Thank you.”
Her dad distributes the bowls, and Jeremiah moves down to the floor. Jada scoots behind him on the couch and pulls some stuff out of her bag.
“Ew, what is this movie?” Jada asks when Jeremiah presses play on something.
“A sci-fi thriller. It’s supposed to be good,” he says, picking up his bowl.