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“I can’t get through that note. It’s too exposed.”
“Close your eyes again and imagine you’re the only one here. Like it’s just you and that napkin.”
She lets out a breath and looks at me, her gaze penetrating mine.
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not. It’s just necessary. We live on a tour bus and are in bands. We have people constantly around us. Sometimes you just have to shut everyone and everything out. Make yourself as vulnerable as you can to your words.”
She tries again. This time, she nails it.
The final note lingers in the room for a beat too long, and when it fades, we’re both sitting there, frozen in the quiet hum of the bus as it travels down the interstate.
She slides closer, slowly, her eyes still locked on mine. There’s something in the air—charged, subtle, shifting. Her hand brushes mine when she lowers her guitar.
I don’t move.
Neither does she.
Just for a moment she glances at my lips, and I think she might kiss me.
And maybe, if my heart and head weren’t such a fucking mess, I might let her.
But then the door to the lounge swings open, and Elle walks in, holding two coffees and talking into her phone. She doesn’t miss a beat as she walks toward us, her growing belly leading the way. If she saw what I was considering a moment between us, she doesn’t say anything.
Justine moves back first, grabbing her guitar and clearing her throat. “We were just . . . working on the napkin song,” she says as Elle hangs up.
“The napkin song?” Elle hands each of us a coffee. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
I shake my head.
“Well, whatever you end up titling it, you two sounded incredible.”
I mutter a thank you and glance at Justine, who’s suddenly very busy with her cup.
The moment’s gone.
And I shouldn’t be concerned or even sad because my heart belongs elsewhere, and leading Justine on is the worst thing I could do to her.
But the lyrics are still there.
And so is the feeling I can’t quite name yet.
Elle sits down and puts her feet up, barely giving me any time to move my laptop. I glare at her, but her raised eyebrow issues me a challenge. Am I going to begrudge a pregnant woman a footrest?
Unlikely.
“Let me hear this napkin song from the beginning,” she says.
I nod to Justine, and she begins singing. When Justine hits the final note, we both stare at our boss.
“Wow,” Elle says. “You guys wrote that before the show the other night?”
Justine and I nod. “On napkins,” I add for humor as I show my sister one of them.
Elle laughs. “Dad is going to be hella impressed. I know I am. I know the answer, but I have to ask; when can I book a studio? I want to lay down ten to fifteen tracks. You’re going to be the next Stevie and Lindsey. Minus the whole love affair turned sour thing.”
“Bad analogy,” I tell my sister. Justine and I aren’t in the same band. Nor are either of our respective bands anywherenear the global sensation Fleetwood Mac was and continues to be.