Page 36
Story: The Road to Forever
There’s a silence between us, with the bar noises filling the space.
She looks at me with a warm, sweet gaze. For the first time, I feel something in the center of my chest, and it’s not the ache of the ring.
“Do you ever think maybe music is where your truth lives now?”
Her question is out of the blue and catches me off guard. I don’t know what to say to that. If I’m singing about heartache and Nola no longer being in my life, am I predicting myfuture?
“Maybe,” I say because I’m not sure.
Justine picks up a napkin and pulls a pen out of her pocket. She starts writing words down and then passes it to me, along with the pen. For the next hour, we write words down until we’ve covered a half dozen napkins and have a full song.
Now we just need a melody.
TWELVE
The napkin lyrics from last night are smoothed out on the three stools in front of me, ink smudged from the weight of two hands scribbling something honest, and edges curled from the humidity and being stuffed into a pocket.
As a musician, one prone to writing his own songs, you’d think I’d carry remember to put my notebook in my pocket before I leave the house or the bus in this case. But nope.
I haven't stopped thinking about the words on the somewhat dirty napkin, covered in mine and Justine’s handwriting. Hers is loopy and flowery, while mine is messy and jagged.
These lyrics, the making of a new song—they’re not about Nola—not entirely. And that’s how I know they matter. How this song will be different. It’s something Justine and I created together, through our own experiences, heartache, and whatever else we have going on inside of ourselves.
Justine hums beside me while tuning her guitar, her short lavender hair in braids with daisies woven in. This morning, she and her bandmates, along with Dana and Chandler, went to some farmer’s market not far from where our hotel is. They came back right before we were about to leave and stocked the crap out of our kitchenette with fresh fruits, veggies, and setup numerous bouquets, claiming the men on the bus made the place stink.
Sadly, they’re not wrong.
I watched as Dana braided Justine’s hair while she braided Chandler’s. It was an assembly line of girliness.
There’s a quiet between us, but not the uncomfortable kind. It’s . . . focused.
Grounded.
Productive.
She taps a soft rhythm on the body of her guitar. “You want to try it with the progression you came up with, or do you want to hear mine first?”
“Yours,” I say. “I’ve been hearing my own voice too long.”
She nods and strums a chord. Gentle, unsure. It’s clear she’s not used to taking the lead, but something in her fingers tells me she’s got it. The melody’s simple, just enough space between notes to let the lyrics breathe.
By the time she hits the chorus, I already hear the harmony in my head.
I step in, vocal cords still warming up, and find the line above hers. It lands in the air perfectly, like we meant to write this together from the beginning.
She stops playing, eyes wide, a little stunned.
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “That was . . .”
“Right,” I say.
She blushes, looking down like maybe she wasn’t expecting me to agree.
We try it again, from the top. This time, there’s less hesitation in her voice and more grit. When we hit the final chorus, she closes her eyes, pushing past whatever nerves she’s still holding on to, and then her voice cracks. Not bad, just vulnerable. It shakes a little. She opens her eyes and shakes her head.
“Damn it,” she mutters, voice tight.
“It was good,” I tell her.
She looks at me with a warm, sweet gaze. For the first time, I feel something in the center of my chest, and it’s not the ache of the ring.
“Do you ever think maybe music is where your truth lives now?”
Her question is out of the blue and catches me off guard. I don’t know what to say to that. If I’m singing about heartache and Nola no longer being in my life, am I predicting myfuture?
“Maybe,” I say because I’m not sure.
Justine picks up a napkin and pulls a pen out of her pocket. She starts writing words down and then passes it to me, along with the pen. For the next hour, we write words down until we’ve covered a half dozen napkins and have a full song.
Now we just need a melody.
TWELVE
The napkin lyrics from last night are smoothed out on the three stools in front of me, ink smudged from the weight of two hands scribbling something honest, and edges curled from the humidity and being stuffed into a pocket.
As a musician, one prone to writing his own songs, you’d think I’d carry remember to put my notebook in my pocket before I leave the house or the bus in this case. But nope.
I haven't stopped thinking about the words on the somewhat dirty napkin, covered in mine and Justine’s handwriting. Hers is loopy and flowery, while mine is messy and jagged.
These lyrics, the making of a new song—they’re not about Nola—not entirely. And that’s how I know they matter. How this song will be different. It’s something Justine and I created together, through our own experiences, heartache, and whatever else we have going on inside of ourselves.
Justine hums beside me while tuning her guitar, her short lavender hair in braids with daisies woven in. This morning, she and her bandmates, along with Dana and Chandler, went to some farmer’s market not far from where our hotel is. They came back right before we were about to leave and stocked the crap out of our kitchenette with fresh fruits, veggies, and setup numerous bouquets, claiming the men on the bus made the place stink.
Sadly, they’re not wrong.
I watched as Dana braided Justine’s hair while she braided Chandler’s. It was an assembly line of girliness.
There’s a quiet between us, but not the uncomfortable kind. It’s . . . focused.
Grounded.
Productive.
She taps a soft rhythm on the body of her guitar. “You want to try it with the progression you came up with, or do you want to hear mine first?”
“Yours,” I say. “I’ve been hearing my own voice too long.”
She nods and strums a chord. Gentle, unsure. It’s clear she’s not used to taking the lead, but something in her fingers tells me she’s got it. The melody’s simple, just enough space between notes to let the lyrics breathe.
By the time she hits the chorus, I already hear the harmony in my head.
I step in, vocal cords still warming up, and find the line above hers. It lands in the air perfectly, like we meant to write this together from the beginning.
She stops playing, eyes wide, a little stunned.
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “That was . . .”
“Right,” I say.
She blushes, looking down like maybe she wasn’t expecting me to agree.
We try it again, from the top. This time, there’s less hesitation in her voice and more grit. When we hit the final chorus, she closes her eyes, pushing past whatever nerves she’s still holding on to, and then her voice cracks. Not bad, just vulnerable. It shakes a little. She opens her eyes and shakes her head.
“Damn it,” she mutters, voice tight.
“It was good,” I tell her.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 54
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 59
- Page 60
- Page 61
- Page 62
- Page 63
- Page 64
- Page 65
- Page 66
- Page 67
- Page 68
- Page 69
- Page 70
- Page 71
- Page 72
- Page 73
- Page 74
- Page 75
- Page 76
- Page 77
- Page 78
- Page 79
- Page 80
- Page 81
- Page 82
- Page 83
- Page 84
- Page 85
- Page 86
- Page 87
- Page 88
- Page 89
- Page 90
- Page 91
- Page 92
- Page 93
- Page 94
- Page 95
- Page 96
- Page 97
- Page 98
- Page 99
- Page 100
- Page 101
- Page 102
- Page 103
- Page 104
- Page 105
- Page 106
- Page 107
- Page 108
- Page 109
- Page 110
- Page 111
- Page 112
- Page 113
- Page 114
- Page 115
- Page 116
- Page 117
- Page 118
- Page 119
- Page 120