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.