Chapter 20 #2
Had it been real? Or had it all been a hallucination? A very weird fever dream? Maybe I got hit by a car on the day Guin dumped me and this whole thing was all a wild dream I was having while I was dying in the hospital.
Probably. Seemed more likely than that it was real. But if it was a dream, I seemed to be pretty stuck in it, so I’d do what I could.
“You too, Kingmaker,” I said. “By the way, what’s… what’s your actual name?”
“Chester.”
“Are you shitting me right now?”
He shook his head gravely.
“Jesus Christ, dude. Yeah, stick with Kingmaker. I see the play now.”
He nodded gravely.
“What’s your day job, anyway?”
“Project analyst for a fintech firm.”
“That’s the most white-collar series of words I’ve ever heard. Tell me you don’t show up in a durag to that.”
“Nah, I wear business casual.”
“And introduce yourself to clients as… no, I’m not even gonna say it. It feels like I’m deadnaming you.”
“You ever find yourself back in the Big Apple, hit me up. World ain’t gonna be ready for round 2.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I don’t see that happening. But if it does, I know where to look. Thanks. For getting me my stuff back. And despite everything, for getting me some time with Helena.”
Maybe it was the sense of closure, but once I was back in my room again, finally, I slept.
I got the sleep my body had needed, had been needing for some time now, and I cracked my bleary eyes against the light through the window and sound of traffic outside at just past ten.
Took a shower and got to change into some of the clothes Kingmaker had recovered for me, and I was luckily able to extend my stay by a night, having seen last-minute flight booking prices and knowing what was going to make the most sense, so I didn’t have to clear my stuff out of the room quite yet.
Gave me a second of breathing room to get my affairs in order, talk to Mom, book a flight for tomorrow, send some goodbye messages and thank people for everything.
Probably pop into Krysten’s office, tell her not to let go of Helena just because I was turning and running.
But before all of that, my feet found a familiar pattern, and before I knew it, I was at the old music studio, the sketchy place behind the construction barricades that was definitely not supposed to be used as a music studio but definitely was, and I popped inside.
I found Amber sitting in the front with a Red Bull in hand and headphones on, and she slipped them off when she saw me come in.
“Hey, Julie,” she said. “Oh, wow. Everything all right?”
“Had a long day.”
“It’s not even midday.”
“Had a long couple of days. Any openings in the studio schedule today?”
“Yeah, we’re pretty slow today. Wide open from one to seven. What, you got more people coming in?”
“More?”
She jabbed her thumb towards the back. “Yeah, Stephen’s in the room right now. I think he was expecting you.”
Ah, shit. No wonder I’d walked here on autopilot, my body remembered something my brain forgot. I fumbled my phone out, checking Jewel, and sure enough, I was supposed to be in here thirty minutes ago to meet Stephen Shale. Shit, same for yesterday. I’d completely blown him off.
“What, did you forget your schedule?” she said.
“Oh, god. It’s… it’s been a long couple days.”
“What happened?”
“Ah, you know… I lost my job, I got kicked out of my home, and I got dumped.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Well, can’t let down the legend himself if he’s waiting for me,” I said, starting off for the recording room. “See you, Amber.”
“Are you good?”
“Never better!” I called, and I eased open the door for the room, but my heart thudded when I’d opened it just enough to hear from inside.
Stephen Shale was playing the piano and singing. Nothing new—kid had been getting pretty good on the piano lately. But what was new was the song.
I didn’t recognize it, but whatever it was, it was fucking beautiful.
And he sounded like a whole different man—this wasn’t the street-style hip-hop of before but bighearted soul, velvety R&B keys with Stephen Shale belting out lyrics that sounded like he should have been selling out halls during the Golden Age of jazz, and why the hell had this kid been trying to rap when he could do this?
Carefully, shakily, I eased the door open a bit more—thankfully the piano stood facing away from the door, and he didn’t seem to notice me coming in, closing the door quietly behind me and leaning frankly flabbergasted against it while the music filled the space.
I had no clue where he’d gotten this song, but it felt like it had been written for me right now.
Through it all, when the rain came down,
and the wind brought the walls all down to the ground,
you were my shelter, my safest place.
But even shelter falls, and the lights get erased.
But even in the devastation, you’re my only liberation…
Oh, shit, that was my song. Oh, fuck me, I’d left fever-dream song lyrics in the studio when I’d spent the night in here. Stephen Shale was in the room early yesterday, and he must have found the scraps of paper I left like a fucking lyrical scavenger hunt, and—
I must have made a noise when I recognized the lyrics, because he jumped, the music stopping as he turned back to me, eyes wide.
“Oh! Miss Branch! I am so sorry, miss, ma’am, I was just—gosh, I didn’t hear you coming in, or—”
“Shut up. Or don’t shut up. Keep playing. I mean, keep playing. What you were playing before.”
“Oh.” He brightened. He had a cap on today that said THUG. It was in mint condition. He was also wearing a quarter-zip. I didn’t know what to do with this guy. “It’s good, right? I found it—”
“Stephen Shale, so help me god, if you don’t stop talking and get back to playing, I will lose my goddamn mind—”
“Yes—sorry, momma—ma’am—sorry, ma’am—”
He turned back to the piano, picking up where he left off, and fuck it, I sat down and I cried.
It was a tearjerking performance any other time.
When it was a song specifically written about how I’d fucked up something beautiful with Helena, sung for me right now of all times, I felt like I’d had my insides carved out with a knife.
When he finished, he turned back to me like a kid with a crayon drawing for his momma, and his big smile vanished when he saw me. “Oh, jeez,” he said. “Oh, that is not good. Am I in trouble?”
“Stephen, take that fucking hat off. You are the least thug person I have ever known. I’m more of a thug than you are.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” He took the hat off.
“Since when could you sing like that, dude?” I said thickly, wiping my eyes.
“Oh, you know.” He scratched his head. “That’s just how I’d sing at home. With my momma, you know. We’d put on, you know, Aretha Franklin and sing along while we cleaned the house or made dinner.”
I put my hands over my face. “I wish you’d told me this earlier, man.”
“Awh. I’m in real trouble, aren’t I?”
“Hell yeah you are, dude. I’m gonna kick your fucking ass,” I laughed through tears. “You’re never going to be a cooler than cool hip-hop legend. Give it up.”
“Huh?” His shoulders dropped so much he looked like a sad cartoon character. “You… you think?”
“Listen to you, dude. You’re made for soul, for gospel. For R&B. That was fucking beautiful.”
“Oh.”
“I gotta get you on the wurli. Stripped-back drums. For now, though, do that again.”
“I-I didn’t write this song. You won’t believe it, I just found it sitting in here. I dunno whose it is. I didn’t mean to steal it.”
“Ghost of Aretha Franklin, probably. She clearly left her voice with you, anyway. Do the fucking song again, dude.”
He played the song again. I recognized some of the melodic riffs… that was right. I’d written some of them down with the songs. Dammit. I’d forgotten about that. How much material did I have in here?
Plenty, turned out. Stephen Shale did the song again, and I cried my heart out the whole way, and then he offered to show me some of the other stuff he found in here, and I died a little on the inside, but I told him sure, let’s see what the ghosts left, and I went through where it did kinda look like ghosts, because unsurprisingly, my handwriting was fucking awful when I was in that state.
But apparently my songwriting was solid.
I got him on the Wurlitzer too, with a stripped-back vintage drum track, and I leaned against the wall listening dumbfounded as he belted off this one in his real voice too, and I was so fucking pissed off at this scrawny little dork for hiding this thing for months.
A wistful, nostalgic track about dreams that died along the way, and better dreams that came up in their place.
God, Helena was all over every one of these songs.
“I gotta get Amber,” I said once he finished the song. “I think she needs to hear this. And I need her help on that stupid strings plugin I can never use right. This needs a violin.”
“Oh, I’ve never had a violin track before.”
“Trust me, dude, I know.”
At least I wasn’t losing my mind. Amber was as dumbstruck as I was, sitting in the booth with me as Stephen Shale did his thing, and she looked incredulously at me.
“Did he have lessons or something?”
“Apparently he’s always been able to do this and was holding out.”
“Shit. I guess you’re a talent agent for a reason, pulling something like this out of that kid.”
Well, I wasn’t anymore. In fact, I’d never been. But when she put it like that, I guess I kinda sounded like one.
It was all too soon that the next booking came in, and Stephen Shale hiked his bag up on his shoulders, his chest puffed out.
“Well, I gotta help my momma with her work,” he said. “But this was good. Thanks, Amber. Thanks, Miss Branch. See you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Yeah. I was never seeing him again. But I didn’t have the heart to tell him that just like this. Instead, I went with something else he’d needed to hear. “Hey, Stephen,” I said, and he stopped at the door.
“Yeah?”
“Good work today. Proud of you, kid.”
He puffed up even more, practically glowing. “Gee, thanks.”
Amber elbowed me. “Think you got a hit on your hands with that one after all.”
Maybe I could just… route him along to someone who could make use of that voice of his, and then I could leave this city having left my mark.
“Yeah,” I said, my chest tearing painfully down the middle. “Maybe.”