Page 100 of Resonance
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Arms folded over the porch rail, Owen studied the shifting blue-green waves in the distance as they battered the dusky bronze shoreline.
I caught the screen door behind me and guided it gently into the frame before coming up behind him and wrapping my arms around him. My body molded to the curve of his, and I rested my chin on his shoulder.
“It’s beautiful. I was gonna try to play it cool, but I can’t. It’s amazing.” He lifted his chin toward the horizon. “Can see the curve of the Earth and everything.”
“Want to go down?”
“In a minute, yeah.” Gulls called and swooped against the late afternoon pink of the sky, and for a handful of seconds, Owen tracked their graceful dives in silence. “Do you think the place where your mom and dad made that record is still there?” He rubbed his smooth cheek against the roughness of mine as he spoke.
“Nah, it’s long gone. I checked.”
“You did?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nodded into his shoulder. “It’s a souvenir place now. Nook Island Emporium.”
“We should go anyway.”
“We will.” I caught his hand in mine. “Come on.”
My planning skills had failed beyond bathing suits. I hadn’t even brought sunblock, and we carried a few beers, some beach towels we discovered in a closet, and our phones to the beach in a grocery sack.
“Ugh,” Owen groaned as his phone buzzed and he checked it. “I told them I was gonna be gone for a couple of days. Don’t they know I’m trying to enjoy the first moments of sand beneath my feet? Although… I have to say I think some has already migrated to a few places I don’t necessarily want it.”
“That’s what the ocean’s for.” I canted my head toward the phone. “And the industry never waits. Just see what they want.”
As Owen took the call, I grabbed a couple of beers from the sack and cracked the tabs, passing him one. He gave me a grateful smile, and as he spoke to his rep I watched his face, how helplessly expressive it was, and grinned to myself. Shortly after I’d gotten back from the tour with Ryder, Owen had begun working exclusively with Soundhouse as a writer, solving our mostly negligible boss-employee quandary. Though not before we’d exploited its upsides to obscene and excessive degrees, playing out damn near every fantasy imaginable, and plenty I’d never thought of. There was a reason I didn’t keep anything important on my desk anymore.
“What’d he say?” I stretched out on my towel, resting back on my elbows as Owen tucked the phone away and followed suit, wrinkling his nose.
“Mara Collins needs a song with a storyteller vibe that’ll appeal to her Christian audience, but that’s not really my thing. I told him I’d see what I could come up with.” He took a swig of his beer, gaze going distant. “Actually, I have something I was playing with the night of the robbery that could work maybe, but I never finished it.” His focus sharpened on me. “Feel like brainstorming with me a little over the weekend?”
I dusted some sand from my can and took a healthy swallow, nodding. “Funny, I was just lying here thinking, ‘damn, Owen hasn’t asked me to do his job for him lately.’”
He nudged my shoulder with his. “You’re a dick.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I’ll help you. You realize you do most of the work anyway, right? The other stuff’s different,” I added when he started to protest. We’d been writing together with increasing frequency, collecting the songs into an as yet unnamed and uncategorized catalog. I wasn’t sure anything would come of it, but I was enjoying the process, and if it turned out we could sell them, well, that’d be another nice bump to my replenished bank account. I didn’t need it, though. Between Owen’s paychecks, residuals from the greatest hits album with Ryder, the tour payout, and the impending sale of the Gatlinburg shop, we were doing fine. And that was a joy in and of itself.
“Speaking of other stuff.” Owen glanced over at me. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I want to try it: a small show at the shop. Just me and you playing our stuff. Baby steps, right?” He smiled softly, and I matched it with one of my own.
“It’ll be just fine. I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”
“And you’ll do all the talking?”
“Until you’re ready to, yeah.” I’d proposed doing a short set of the songs we’d written together in the shop a couple of months back because Owen still talked about wanting to get over his stage fright. He’d started seeing a therapist Quinn had introduced him to in an attempt work through some underlying issues he thought were holding him back. I could see the progress in the trust that had built between us. He knew I wasn’t going anywhere.
Getting him back on the stage at my side was just one more forward step, and looking at his hopeful expression nearly made my breath hitch the way it squeezed my heart. “Know what I was thinking about the other day?”
“Hmm?” His eyelids lowered to half-mast, a satisfied drowsiness in the movement. He’d been pushing himself tirelessly writing, and I was glad to have pulled him away for a vacation, even if we ended up writing a little bit. He needed it. We both did.
“That time you were talking about music and high school and the Rockabilly girls and how you couldn’t ever find your niche. Think you’ve figured it out now.”
“My stuff’s all over the map, though.”
“Exactly. You did that bluegrassy one for Jon Cole, the pop piece for Jessa Star, that one with an industrial crossover feel for Halcyon Phase. You’re not meant to be confined to a single genre or place. You’re—”
Owen’s lips quirked. “Ubiquitous?”