42. Kiss in the springtime
KISS IN THE SPRINGTIME
T he booth light flicked on with a soft hum, bathing the room in amber.
Talia adjusted the headphones once, then again – not from nerves, but muscle memory. This was a room she knew. Not this one exactly, but rooms like it. Rooms where voices were trapped on tape. Rooms where dreams learned how to behave.
Spring glanced at Rae who was setting up. She had settled from starstruck to professional, but there was no question this wasn’t their shining moment.
Mack turned to the group. “I have been waiting on this moment for years. We’re about to do the final touches of this ‘Kiss in the Springtime’ re-master.
Talia, baby, I know I get on your nerves.
I know sometimes I can drive you crazy. But you’re my everything, baby.
Fuck the masters I went to hell and back to give you back your voice, because it’s one of the most beautiful, angelic voices I’ve ever heard. And I mean that…”
He walked over and grabbed her hand. “I am the king of Townes Records, but what good is a kingdom without a queen.” He looked in her eyes.
“Talia baby, you keep me strong, you let me be what I need to be to go out and fight for all of us. You make me a better man, and I will always and forever be your knight.” He then slapped her on the backside and said, “Go sing your song, baby.”
Talia looked at him and, with a tear falling from her eye, kissed him softly twice and said, “We are going to get so freaky tonight.”
Mack smiled and said, “Oh yeah.” He was about to pull her closer when Preston raised his hand and said, “Still here guys. Still grossed out.”
They both ignored him. Mack hugged her, nodded, then took his position in the engineer’s room while Talia walked into the booth.
The opening bars of “Kiss in the Springtime” rolled out, slower than the original, warmer. The remastered version stripped away the thinness time had given it. The track breathed now.
And then she sang.
Not like a woman chasing a moment.
Like a woman reclaiming one.
I don’t think I can fight this…
Lie to myself but I just cannot pretend
The way I feel about you and all the things that we do
Kinda feels like I’m falling in love again.
Her voice landed clean, settling into the track with authority. It wasn’t brighter than before – it was deeper . Where the old version reached, this one knew . Every note carried history without dragging it behind her.
Spring felt it before she realized what she was doing.
Her hand shifted on the armrest, searching without looking. Preston’s pinky met hers like it had been waiting there. Just the smallest hook – high-school subtle. The kind of touch that meant everything because it pretended to mean nothing.
Rae caught it instantly.
The camera didn’t zoom. She didn’t need it to. She adjusted her angle, instinctively framing what couldn’t be staged – the way Preston’s jaw tightened, the way Spring’s breath slowed, the way memory hummed between them, louder than the speakers.
Mack stood a few steps back, arms folded, eyes sharp – not soft or sentimental. He wasn’t watching her like a fan. He was listening like a craftsman. Tracking the resonance, measuring the phrasing, clocking how the remaster let the song land the way it never had before.
Pride sat on him differently than nostalgia ever could. Spring noticed that too.
And suddenly it all rushed in at once.
The first time she’d heard the song.
The night it played low in the background while she tried to pretend she wasn’t scared. The way Preston used to hum it under his breath when he didn’t know the words yet. How young they were. How certain they felt. How fragile certainty really was.
The chorus swelled.
Talia closed her eyes – not for effect, but because she didn’t need to see anyone to know they were there.
It’s like a kiss in the springtime,
Or making love on the first warm day of June
It’s like a walk on the beach, water caressing my feet
While holding hands on a Sunday afternoon
When the last note faded, the room stayed quiet for half a beat too long.
Then—
“That’s it,” Rae breathed, almost reverent.
Preston let go first. Their pinkies separated like they’d been caught doing something private. He glanced at Spring – not long enough to explain anything, just long enough to confirm it had happened.
Spring nodded once.
Mack clapped, sharp and approving. “That’s the one,” he said, certain.
Talia pulled the headphones off, blinking fast now, emotion finally allowed to catch up.
Preston was on his feet instantly, cheering her on, pride open and unguarded. Spring followed, applause warm, genuine, grounding.
For a moment, they were all just there – no deals, no pressure, no past rushing in to complicate the present.
Just a song, finally sung the way it was always meant to be heard.
And Spring knew, without needing to say it, that some things didn’t disappear with time.
They just waited to be remembered.
When the day was finished, Rae and Spring headed back to their house. They didn’t say much on the ride back. Not because there wasn’t anything to say, but because there was too much .
The Airbnb greeted them with quiet: soft lighting, throw blankets folded on the couch, a faint lavender smell.
Spring kicked her shoes off immediately.
Rae dropped her bag like it had personally offended her. “Okay,” Rae said, toeing off her sneakers. “Today was a shit show.”
Spring laughed despite herself. “We were bumbling.”
“We are never late,” Rae added, tying her hair up. “Never. And today we looked like interns who lied on their résumé.”
Spring groaned. “Don’t say that.”
Rae flopped onto the couch. “Girl, even Mack – I mean, he was smooth. That man told Talia Cole he was always gonna be her knight in shining armor.”
Spring snorted and headed to the kitchen. “He’s not smooth, he’s slithery.”
“I think you’re being a hater.”
“Maybe, but I can live with that.”
They fell into the rhythm automatically – Spring pulling snacks from the grocery bag, Rae lining up face masks on the counter like products in a commercial. Popcorn. Dark chocolate. Gummy bears. Somebody’s fancy sparkling water that felt unnecessary but correct.
Pajamas replaced jeans. Hair wraps came out. The night softened.
Rae peeled open a mask packet. “Listen, I know I was caught off guard today. I admit that. But—” she paused for emphasis, “—we are dealing with people’s childhoods .”
Spring glanced at her.
“Like,” Rae continued, waving a hand, “actual memories. Grown folks’ formative years. And then – boom – modern legends, unresolved grief, money, power, television, history –all under one roof.” She leaned forward. “And nobody even knows it yet.”
Spring stopped mid-pour.
Rae’s eyes were bright now. Focused. When Rae locked in like this, Spring knew better than to interrupt.
“This isn’t just a comeback,” Rae continued. “This is the first family of Southern music. Generational talent. Songs that raised people without ever charting the way they should’ve.”
Spring’s pulse quickened.
“And Mack—” Rae made a face, “—as much as I don’t trust him? Even he is part of that story. What he’s touched, what he’s shaped, what he’s broken. What he means to music in the south, it’s all underrated.”
Spring slowly sat down across from her. “That’s the angle,” Spring said softly.
Rae nodded. “History.”
“Legacy,” Spring added.
“How it all narrows to Preston,” Rae said. “Not just the man, but the moment.”
Spring leaned back, staring at the ceiling like she was mapping it out in her head. “The silent influences. The almosts. The sacrifices. His mother. Cameron. The way Houston just… holds people.”
“And how music survives anyway,” Rae finished.
They sat with that for a spell.
Then Rae sighed dramatically. “Tomorrow, we are sharper.”
Spring smiled. “No doubt.”
“No fan-girling.”
“Minimal,” Spring corrected.
Rae grinned. “Thank you, ’cause I’m only human.”
Spring tossed a pillow at her. “Girl, put your mask on.”
They settled in, feet tucked under blankets, faces shiny, snacks within reach. Outside, the city hummed, unaware it was about to be documented by two women who knew how to listen.
Spring let herself relax for the first time all day.
Tomorrow would be precise. Tomorrow would be intentional. But tonight?
Tonight was for softness, laughter, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing they were standing at the center of something real.