Page 13 of Only You

Washington, D.C.

They say the best way to improve memory isn’t to try remembering every detail. Instead, they say to recognise a unique detail creating a mental picture of the best moment and then store it in a familiar place – a memory palace.

Jones’s friends thought it was a dumb term, but he had a soft spot for the whimsy of it. He appreciated the idea that a memory was a grand thing, something to be protected at all costs. After all, who was someone without their memories but a shadow of who they were supposed to be?

At this point in his life, Jones had many palaces.

Some were humble, like his childhood home in Atlanta, filled with mental pictures of his friends and family.

Others were as grand as a French chateau, pieced together through longing gazes and the scent of lilies and hyacinth.

But what they all had in common was a soundtrack, a set of songs that held those moments together.

When he couldn’t find a fitting song, he wrote one.

He didn’t care if it was used for a project or tucked into a closet somewhere.

The only thing that mattered was that he had it. That he had found a way to remember.

‘Whatcha doing over there?’ Jair asked. ‘Writing a symphony?’

The melody that was playing, the second movement of a flute concerto, disappeared as Jones’s eyes shot open, coming back to the present. He was in a burger joint with his friend, in the middle of jotting down a song idea when the waitress had passed by, her lilac perfume lingering behind her.

He swallowed, noticing his throat was dry as the memories of Sabine and Damien’s first night faded. He grabbed the water in front of him and took a long drink.

‘Haven’t tried that in years,’ Jones said, finishing the series of chords he was writing down before he got lost in his memories. ‘And no. I’m trying to figure out a song but it’s all over the place.’

‘Lemme see.’ Jair held his hand out and Jones passed over his notebook.

A former drummer, Jair had great insight, which was probably why he was such a successful producer in New York.

A few number one hit songs had made him big enough to have his own studio; Jones had become his go-to bassist over the years.

‘It’s a wreck but there’s some good stuff in there.’ Jair handed back the notebook. ‘Bring it to the studio and we’ll figure something out.’

‘I’m down,’ Jones said before biting into a burger. He closed his eyes, savouring the greasy taste. Good food was the easiest thing to remember.

‘Who knows? Maybe this will finally make you give in to my offer.’ Jones groaned but it wasn’t over the food anymore.

‘Man, you are like a dog with a bone. Let that shit go already.’

‘Hell no. You are holding me back from making serious bank,’ Jair exclaimed. ‘My biggest hit is still “Tied All Up”.’

‘All I did was the bassline.’

‘And that made it a hit and you know it. Honestly, if anyone’s the asshole, it’s you.’ Jones chuckled at his friend’s persistence as he reflected on the track he wrote two years ago.

They were practically shut in the studio for two days over that song, but it was worth it.

Months later he would hear it on the radio non-stop.

A couple weeks after that, Jair would call him to tell him the song went to number one.

It would be months later before a residual cheque would arrive in the mail, making Jones go online to check the song’s credits.

He was listed twice, as a bassist and as a producer.

‘I told you I owe you one for that,’ Jones said. ‘And I paid you back.’ ‘But you won’t join my team as a producer.’

‘Nope.’

‘Jones, for real, you were meant to do this! You got the ear for it,’ Jair insisted.

He shrugged. ‘I’m good on it.’

‘Why? What’s wrong with doing exactly what you’re doing now but better?’

I’ve done it already . But he couldn’t tell his friend about production skills from a past life, nor was it the main reason. Jones was sure he wouldn’t mind being a producer. He would be good at it, but there was more to the job than just the fun stuff.

There was moving to New York and being in the studio for hours.

Having to concentrate for days on end on multiple projects, something he already struggled with now as just a bassist. Thinking about handling someone else’s music, their message to the world, with his crowded mind?

There was no way he could make that commitment, not without ruining something along the way.

As the silence stretched between them, Jair’s face fell, sensing the direction of his friend’s thoughts. Jones grabbed some fries off his plate to buy time, ignoring the fact that they were cold.

‘Because New York sucks,’ he said with a smirk.

‘You shut the fuck up. It’s the best city in the world,’ Jair declared, truly a Brooklyn native.

The tense atmosphere eased, and Jones was thankful that he would never have to have this conversation with the girl that was starting to creep into his brain.

His phone chirped in his pocket, and he looked. He raised a brow at the string of numbers, wondering if it was a scam message. He froze when he opened it.

Hi! This is Dani from Dr Allen’s class. I got your number from him. I

have a couple of composition questions and was hoping you can help me.

Are you free anytime soon?

His first thought was, I should say no. It would be better for everyone if he made an excuse, said he was travelling over the weekend or moving. Instead, before the possibility could even settle in, he was typing back.

Hey Dani! Yeah, I have some time tomorrow afternoon. Where do you

want to meet?

He pocketed his phone and tried to concentrate on Jair and not the massive decision he’d made.