Chapter 1 #2
His voice is deep, slightly urgent. “Thanks for getting back to me. Are you busy right now?”
“I…” I am supposed to be working a double, and I’m only two hours into my shift. “No,” I say aloud. “I’m free.”
“Can you come by the Stillwater office?” Paul Friedman asks. “We’re on Adelicia Street, right in midtown.”
“Okay. Sure,” I mutter. I already knew that. My head bobs stupidly. He can’t see me. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Great. Looking forward to meeting you in person, Paige.”
He disconnects the call before I can return the sentiment.
I pocket my phone, reorient myself to my surroundings.
There’s an overflowing dumpster back here emitting a pungent odor, graffiti on the stone exterior of the restaurant, a single loose and deflated bike tire.
None of it glamorous, but I think that might have been the most important phone call of my life, and the fact that I took it out here causes a burble of laughter to slide up my windpipe and out in a euphoric gust.
Briefly, my thoughts slip to Liam. His proud grin, those body-molding hugs. I fight off an intense urge to call him before considering this meeting could be nothing more than a professional courtesy. An act of respect for the mutual connection I’d mentioned in my email.
I had, over the past few months, started to convince myself that silence was worse than rejection.
That being ignored was worse than being heard and subsequently told my songs weren’t strong enough.
I’ve been in a holding pattern, too emotionally knotted to write anything new, wondering if the demos were the right songs, panicking at the possibility that I just spent four years preparing for a career I will never achieve.
And not for lack of trying.
I really have tried. I swallowed back my shyness, suppressed the instinct to keep my songs hidden. And now, I need someone to see my effort. Not so I can gain personal notoriety but so I can start to earn a living.
So, even if I show up at the Stillwater office and Paul tells me it was a courtesy, that he can’t sign me as a songwriter today, I won’t call this a loss.
Because I’m not invisible to Paul Friedman, not anymore.
I need you to tell the boss I’m sick, I text Folly.
I’ve been waiting our whole lives for you to ask me to lie for you, she sends back. Paige, this is a true honor.
With a balloon of helium inflating my gut, I sprint down the alley toward the staff parking lot and climb into the old sedan Folly and I share.
The drive to Adelicia is a blur. I blast the radio all the way there, windows down, hair scooped into the wind.
Every time a new song comes on, I mentally organize its metadata—a habit I’ve picked up since going to school for music.
Who produced the song? Who got writing credits?
Was the singer involved in the creative process?
It almost always adds to the listening experience for me, knowing a song’s origin story. The background of its makers. Privately, I think of it as honoring artists unseen.
I park on the street outside the music label’s building.
It’s nothing more than a refurbished old house with blue-painted brick and dated window shutters, as unassuming as all legacy publishers on Music Row.
I live not far, in a dilapidated townhouse, with Folly.
We walk past the Stillwater office every Wednesday night on our way to Fred and Frankie’s, where some of my friends play the open mic night on the patio.
I take a few deep breaths before leaving the car, my head still teeming. A few more as I walk to the front porch. A few more as I open the door and step inside.
A girl who looks like the photographic definition of a tween is sitting behind a massive desk in the entryway. Small shoulders, dewy skin, and sparkly pink nails moving across a keyboard with the speed of a seasoned professional.
When she sees me, the girl gasps. “Dad! Paige is here!”
“Just a moment!” the voice from the phone calls from the depths of the office-house.
“Hi,” I say.
She smiles, revealing green rubber bands on her braces. “Hi! I’m Emily. I’m thirteen and I just got my first-ever period this morning.”
I have not a clue how to respond to this. As a youngest child who never really babysat, my experience with children is negligible.
“Congratulations?” I guess.
“Thanks!” She beams. “My mom’s organizing my menstruation celebration for tomorrow. Do you want to come?”
My lips curve. “Will there be cake?”
“Red velvet, obviously.” Emily’s voice reminds me of my sister Zara’s: deeper than you’d think from looking at her.
“Are menstruation celebrations … common at your age?”
She snorts. “Duh.” When I don’t immediately reply to this she adds, “I liked your songs. I listened to both of your demos this morning, and then I told my dad to listen.”
“Thank you. Are you…” I cock my head. “The assistant?”
She smiles even bigger and nods. “Only because it’s summer break and Andy is on vacation in Gulf Shores. I’m earning five dollars an hour.”
I smirk. “Do you know what the minimum wage in Tennessee is?”
She chews on her lip. It’s possible she doesn’t even know what minimum wage is as a concept, but like a true Gen Alpha, she googles it in three seconds flat.
The sound of footsteps drags my attention to the hallway, where a man dressed in khakis and a black golf shirt emerges. He has a tapered nose and bright blue eyes, attractive in a way that has everything to do with presentation. I’m guessing he’s nearing forty.
Paul Friedman shoves his hands in his pockets while his gaze roams over me with a steady bearing. I feel like a piece of artwork for sale in a ritzy gallery. Temporarily enamoring, forgettable the moment you move on to the next piece.
I’m wearing a plain white cotton T-shirt with my jeans (the waitstaff uniform at Oyster Diver) and my mess of dark curls is tugged into a braid down my back. Perhaps I should’ve stopped home to change into something less casual before this … interview? Is this an interview?
“I’m Paige.” My voice cracks as I offer him my hand.
“Paul Friedman,” he says as he shakes. “Are you feeling okay?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, just … concert last night.”
“Ah.” Paul turns to his daughter. “Emily, if anyone calls for me, take a message, okay?”
She smacks her gum, eyes still on her computer screen. “’Kay. When you’re finished, I’d like to discuss a raise.”
Paul turns his severe look on me with a questioning, accusatory glint in his eye. I smile apologetically. “Very well. Paige, you can follow me.”
We pass through the hallway to the third door on the right.
Paul pushes it open with his heel. He gestures to a couple of worn armchairs beside a sealed-over fireplace.
The room is cozy. Paul’s desk is cluttered with papers, and there’s a giant sound system in one corner.
On the wall, a framed photo of his five-person, two-canine family is blown up to the size of a small television.
I take a seat in the armchair facing the door. Paul leaves it cracked, then walks over and sits across from me.
“I have some questions for you, Paige.”
I nod slowly. This is a potential business partnership. He wants to make sure I’m a serious musician. He wants to make sure I’m levelheaded, good with commitment, reliable. Also, that my demos aren’t all I’ll ever be good for, that I’m not a one-trick pony.
“Of course. Please, ask away.”
Paul stares at me with narrowed eyes. “How’d you get Marty Maitland to write you a letter of recommendation?”
Our mutual connection. Of course.
Marty Maitland is a songwriting legend. A behind-the-scenes star. You don’t know his name unless you’re in the industry, but if you are in the industry, you get what a big deal he is, what he’s done for the careers of so many performing artists.
Marty Maitland has precisely the job I want to have.
“He guest taught one of my songwriting courses at Belmont,” I say.
Paul crosses one ankle over his knee. “He’s guest taught a handful of courses over the past few decades, but Marty doesn’t write recommendations for Belmont students. He once told me it was a stipulation in accepting the position because he knew the requests would get out of hand.”
My eyebrows pull together, my face going pink. “I swear it’s not a fake. He offered.”
The look Paul shoots me is totally blank. “He offered.”
“I honestly wasn’t sure he’d remember me,” I elaborate.
“Considering I was only a sophomore when he taught my class. But he mentioned being impressed with my range, and that I was quick on my feet when it came to implementing suggestions. Marty said he would write a rec for me when I graduated. I emailed him the first demo when it was ready and he sent the recommendation a few weeks later, wishing me luck.”
Paul looks sideways. “That does sound like something he’d both notice and say.”
It’s quiet for a moment, and I fiddle with the hem of my shirt. Have I done something wrong? Something right? Why can I never tell? Navigating the business side of songwriting has felt damn near impossible since I graduated.
Paul’s stare refocuses. “Next question. Why are you just now pitching? You said in your email you’re twenty-five?”
“I didn’t start college directly after high school,” I explain. “I took two years off.”
His eyebrows jump. “Why?”
“Couldn’t afford it,” I admit bluntly.
“But eventually, you got a scholarship?”
“Full.”
“You from Nashville?”
“Bristol.”
He says “Ah” very quietly. “So that’s that accent.”
“It’s gotten better since I moved here.” My tone is defensive, and to back it up, I do my best not to roll my vowels.
“I didn’t mean that as a bad thing,” Paul says.
If that’s true, he might be the first person from a professional environment to ever bring up my accent and not mean it as a bad thing.
Paul is quiet for another moment, still watching me. Now I’m beginning to feel like a piece of art he wants valued for purchase. Finally, he asks, “How many songs are there in total?”
The number leaves me before I can overthink the honesty of it: “Twelve.”
“Twelve,” he repeats.
“Ish,” I say.
“On your cellphone?”
“Um.” I pull my phone out. “Yeah, technically, but they’re just rough recordings.”
“I want to hear them.”
My throat clams up. “No, I mean, they’re really rough recordings. I could only afford enough studio time to make demos for those two songs I already sent you—”
“Paige.” He leans forward, drops his elbows to his knees. “Do you think I haven’t heard a million rough recordings before?” There’s a challenge in his eyes.
I meet his gaze for three full seconds, then expel a breath through my teeth and unlock my phone. Act now, think later. I sift through the audio files, find the least offensive, and hit play.
The sound of strumming chords on an acoustic guitar fills the room.
Paul stands, walking to the window. Soon my voice joins the instrument, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the reality of how embarrassing this is.
The demos were scary enough, but this? I sound pitchy and unsure of myself.
At one point I stumble over part of the melody and go five seconds backward to find my footing again.
“Stop,” Paul says. I hit pause, my chest on fire. “Another one.”
“What?”
I glance up; he’s still staring out the window. “Play me another.”
I play him another one. This one is mainly piano with a little bit of violin I layered over myself.
The two recordings on top of each other are so messy I could die of mortification.
I don’t even sing much in this one, the lyrics not yet finished, but every now and then my voice will join the melody for a couple of lines before I drift into silence again.
“Another,” Paul says.
“This is pointless.” I sigh, growing frustrated. “They’re going to get progressively worse.”
Paul turns to pin me with a significant look. “Paige, I haven’t heard a thing yet I don’t want the copyright for.” My eyes widen in realization. “Another one,” he says again.
I play him another, and another, and another.
One of the songs I cowrote with my friend Harry, who signed with Sony an entire year before we graduated.
He mostly focuses on composing for children’s movies, and this song is faster and more upbeat than the rest. We laugh a bunch of times throughout the recording and eventually disintegrate into a beatboxing competition.
After the ninth song is played, I sit quietly and wait. Paul comes back from the window, sits across from me again. “You said twelve-ish,” he reminds me. “There were two demos, plus the nine recordings you just played. Isn’t there at least one more?”
My heart thrums as memories of Liam are called forth. Salty skin, ice-cream lips, quiet moans in dark rooms, and soft admissions under wide skies. The memories lick at the sides of my heart like angry rekindled flames. Begging to burn me.
I banish him from my mind. Again.
It’s a daily exercise.
I shake my head firmly, unwilling to let a single other soul hear that song. Even Paul Friedman. “Sorry. I meant to say eleven songs.”
The look he gives me says he knows I’m lying.
“Very well.” Paul reclines and scratches at his neck, popping his ankle back onto his knee. “I’m going to say some things to you, and before I do that, I need you to understand I’m deeply in love with my wife and this is in no way a come-on. Okay?”
My eyes narrow. “Okay.” It’s the kid out front and the blown-up family portrait that do the talking for him.
“You have the voice of a damaged angel,” he says, almost blandly. “Your lyrics could use some work, but you know your way around your instrumentals and melodies. And you have more than enough”—his hands loosely gesture at me—“physical appeal to make it as a singer-songwriter in this industry.”
He lets the statement hang in the air between us, allowing me time to process. “So, Paige.” Paul tilts his head to the side. “What I’d like to know is why you’re settling for a mere songwriter’s publishing contract when you should be going after a full-blown record deal.”