Chapter 21
LEAH
When Tess sent me the studio residency invitation, I opened Asher’s tour calendar first.
The reflex was so quick it felt like thirteen years of muscle memory. The email was still open on the left side of my screen, and I’d already clicked the link to his public schedule and started calculating which shows would overlap with six weeks away.
The opportunity came from an independent recording studio out of town.
Tess’s new song had been picked up by a small label, and they were willing to give her six weeks to finish five tracks—and willing to pay my songwriting fees and housing by the week.
The money wasn’t seven figures. It wouldn’t hand me my own company overnight.
But it was enough to cover the income I’d lose while I was away from the community arts center, and it would let me join the creative team for a full EP for the first time as Leah Morgan.
Asher’s regional tour started the same week: seven cities, nine shows, with the largest venue seating 3,100. He had two open days not far from the residency city, and if I pushed my first week back by three days, we might be able to meet.
I stared at the two schedules for half a minute, then closed his page and replied to Tess: I’m in. All six weeks.
The email status changed to sent. Asher’s schedule page stayed closed. The old version of me would have pressed my own time against the edges of his calendar first, found the gaps that wouldn’t interfere with rehearsals, releases, and tours, and then decided what I was still allowed to have.
That evening, Asher came to the small town to have dinner with me.
We’d been seeing each other steadily for nearly two months—sometimes at a coffee shop, sometimes walking the trail all the way to the end of the dock.
His place was still at the other end of the block, and after we said goodbye we each went home.
Once, his show ran late and he told me three hours out that he wouldn’t make dinner.
I ate with Marisol as usual and saw him the following afternoon.
Another time I added a last-minute lesson for a student and canceled a movie we’d already booked; he went alone.
With two separate calendars, cancellations and delays were simply things to reschedule—not debts one of us owed the other.
Before the food arrived, I forwarded him the residency email.
“I’ll be gone for six weeks starting next month,” I said. “Tess’s EP. I’ve already said yes.”
Asher read through the dates and set his phone back on the table. “Congratulations.”
I waited a few seconds. “Your tour is during the same stretch.”
“It is.”
“You have two open days not far from the studio.”
“I’ll keep those days clear,” he said. “We’ll see when we get there. Your sessions go as planned, and my shows go as planned.”
“Okay.”
His nine shows stayed on the calendar. So did my six weeks.
Once the residency started, I moved into a small apartment above the studio. The bedroom window faced a brick wall. The kitchen had one skillet. The vending machine downstairs let out a grinding hum every night at eleven o’clock, like it was about to give up.
The first week, we spent three days pulling apart two songs Tess had written too safely.
The producer handled the overall sound; a bassist came in to play the transitional passage in the second track; Tess and I handled the lyrics and the main melody.
At the end of each day, the four of us signed off according to what we’d actually contributed.
When my first weekly payment came through, I filed the confirmation in my work folder and moved on.
No reporters waiting at the door, no one proposing a behind-the-scenes segment about “the rediscovered genius wife.” Friday evening we still cleaned up our own coffee cups, and Saturday morning we started again at nine. I liked how ordinary it was.
On the third day, Asher sent me a photo from backstage at the theater. Not the stage, not the audience—a coffee machine that wouldn’t stop leaking no matter what anyone did. One line underneath: It’s been performing longer than I have tonight.
I photographed the blinking red light on the vending machine downstairs and sent it back: Mine has entered its experimental phase.
Most of our messages were like that: a diner in some city that was still open past midnight, a bag of terrible chips he’d found at a highway rest stop, the laundry quarters I couldn’t locate for two days running.
When we talked, he’d ask how my day had gone and tell me what hadn’t worked onstage; I could complain about the vending machine and missed calls without needing to take on his lyrics.
In the fourth week, I missed one of his calls. We were re-recording harmonies that night, and by the time we finished it was past one in the morning. He’d left a single message: the show had gone well, he had an early drive, I should sleep when I was done working.
The next day we talked for ten minutes—him waiting for the band bus at the station, me standing in the studio stairwell with a cold cup of coffee. The bus pulled up and he hung up first; the producer called me back to the control room and I went.
When his two open days arrived, my recording was half a day behind.
The harmonies on one of Tess’s songs needed to be re-tracked, and the producer had kept the evening control room slot open for us.
I called Asher before the next session started and told him I couldn’t get away that day and wouldn’t be able to leave before noon the next day.
Asher listened on the phone and said only, “Then we’ll catch each other next time.” He said it too quickly—like a correct answer he’d rehearsed in advance.
“You’re already nearby,” I said.
“I have to move on to the next stop tomorrow afternoon. Today I can rest, or I can go see a movie.”
His voice stayed even. But in that moment what I heard wasn’t respect—it was him tidying away his disappointment, stepping outside the relationship, and performing restraint.
All those years of his tours, his interviews, his last-minute meetings deciding when we got to see each other came pressing back.
I was the one who adapted to the schedule again, and he just had to look like the outcome didn’t matter to him.
“Easy for you to say.”
Two seconds of silence on the other end. “It isn’t.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Because I answered too fast.” Asher exhaled.
“I’m disappointed. I looked up three restaurants.
I wanted to see you, and I wanted to hear you complain about that vending machine downstairs.
When you said you couldn’t leave the control room, I swallowed everything else I wanted to say—I was afraid it would sound like I was making you choose me.
And all that was left was one line that sounded rehearsed. ”
“I’m not going to stop working,” I said. “Tess needs to finish this track. And you can’t cancel your next show to come here.”
“I won’t. The band and crew are all leaving tomorrow afternoon.”
“I don’t want you changing my plans.” I leaned against the wall outside the studio, listening to someone in the control room play back the harmonies.
“And I don’t want you editing yourself down to whatever sounds most correct.
You’re allowed to be disappointed. Just don’t turn the disappointment into a reason I should stop working. ”
“Then let me try again,” he said. “I really wanted to see you. These two days off feel pretty terrible right now.”
The corner of my mouth moved. “Just the open days?”
“And the three restaurants that never got their chance.”
“I wanted to see you too. And I wasn’t being fair just now—I heard your calm and read it as not caring,” I said. “Next time, don’t just give me the answer that sounds most correct.”
“Okay. And don’t guess for me.”
Neither of us changed anything about that day.
Asher left with the tour the following afternoon as planned; I went back to the control room and finished Tess’s harmonies.
Before we hung up, we agreed on an eleven-thirty video call that night for ten minutes, and we each put the coffee shop on our calendars for the afternoon after I got back to the small town.
“Ten minutes,” I reminded him.
“Twelve. I need two minutes to critique the movie.”
“Watch it first, then negotiate.”
That night I kept working until eleven. Back in the apartment, I found a photo of a movie ticket stub and one short line: Ending didn’t work. Popcorn was fine.
I saved the photo, smiling, and sent back: Incisive analysis. Be on time.
At eleven-thirty he answered the video call from his hotel room, hair still wet, a small damp spot on the collar of his black T-shirt.
I looked for two seconds longer than I needed to before I remembered to complain about his review.
I sat on the apartment floor with my back against the bed, too tired to bother cursing the vending machine downstairs.
Asher watched me for a moment, then raised a hand and pointed at the top of his own head.
“Your pencil’s about to fall out.”
I reached up and pulled one out of my hair. “Thirteen years, and you finally put your powers of observation to good use.”
“I can also see that you need to sleep.”
“That one doesn’t count. Too easy.”
We talked until the time was up—he told me about the car chase in the movie that was physically impossible; I told him Tess had finally hit the top harmony layer cleanly.
After twelve minutes he told me to go to sleep; I reminded him not to miss his bus in the morning.
We hung up and went to bed, still without having seen each other during those two days off.
When the six weeks ended, the EP didn’t earn a homepage feature right away, and no major artist was waiting to snap up the next song. Tess had five finished songs. I had six weeks’ pay, three co-writing credits, and two new collaborators who wanted to work with me again.
On the last afternoon, I wrote Leah Morgan on every split sheet.
Tess checked her own name beside mine; the producer talked through the next round of mixing.
No one stopped to watch because of whose wife I used to be.
When I capped the pen, Asher’s schedule wasn’t on any of those six weeks’ paperwork.
Asher’s regional tour ended the same week. He showed up at the time we’d arranged in advance—the afternoon of my second day back in the small town.
When I saw him outside the coffee shop, I realized just how much I’d missed this man. Asher spotted me from half a block away and picked up his pace.
I walked toward him first.
He pulled me into a hug. That embrace carried the weight of six weeks apart. We walked the trail for a long time, had an ordinary dinner, and kissed at the foot of my building at the end of the night.
When he let go, I was still holding his jacket.
“Do you have a show next weekend?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then you can stay here.”
“Are you inviting me to stay over?”
“Yes. Friday afternoon through Sunday.” I looked at him. “If I change my mind, I’ll tell you.”
“Okay.”
A week later, on Friday, the buzzer rang at 1:03 p.m. I opened the door. Asher was standing in the hallway with nothing but an overnight bag.
I stepped aside to let him in, then closed the door myself.