Page 12 of Rumor Has It

“And you’re disinclined to share those memories with the rest of the world.”

My palm flattens face up. “On one hand, our public relations managers gave fans exactly what they wanted. Everyone pretty much saw Kylie and I grow up together.”

We starred in a revival of the same television show. The ratings were outstanding, and the audience loved us. Except the demographic was for teens. We aged out a few seasons in and younger cast members replaced us. Kylie and I had made enough of a splash that the same label signed us to recording contracts. I loved my wife. However, the early stages of our romance were fabricated to sell more albums.

“On the other hand, your marriage is private,” Cris supplies.

I scrub my face. “Yeah, but the song isn’t about Kylie and using their grief over her death to further my career isn’t something I think I can live with. The truth is, since she passed away, my songbook is filled with melancholy notes. I’d record all of them if it were about selling my soul.”

“So we’re not compiling a tribute album.” Ballentine leans back in his chair.

“Don’t sound so relieved, Jake.” Cris cocks his chin in his partner’s direction.

“I’m not saying we can’t do it. But your songs about Liz wouldn’t have had the same effect if they were co-written. Even your version of the single you sold about falling for Daveigh is a fuck ton better than the one that got recorded and wound up on the airwaves. Shit like that oozes from your pores.”

“That’s poetic… And gross,” Gatlin reminds us he’s present.

Jake kicks his knee. “What I mean is, a songwriter rarely needs help tapping into that emotion. It flows.”

I regard the men in the room. They’re down to earth and I feel like they get the point I’m trying to make. “There’s a tribute to Kylie out there, but not like this. I’m not selling her story. I’m not pandering. And if I follow the current album up with what’s in my notebooks, listeners will grab onto the first tune and expect more of the same.” It’s a death sentence. They’ll say I’m depressed, clinging to her memory.

In some regards, they’re not too far off in that assessment. I’ve mourned the person I thought Kylie was, the marriage I wanted, and have come to grips with the marriage we had. I’ve made choices I’m none too proud of. Ones that tested my will and challenged my beliefs of right and wrong. I won’t ever forget Kylie, but my commitment to whatever comes next is that it doesn’t turn into a circus sideshow.

Cris grabs a pen. “So we’re writing about moving on. Sometimes life’s a party—”

Jake interrupts. “And other times you make it your bitch.”

“What’s our jumping off point?” I’m at a loss.

It’s Christmastime. I hadn’t expected this meeting to be more than a brief introduction. I’m shocked, but so on board that they’re ready to get down to the nitty gritty.

“We’re taking the path of least resistance.” Cris offers me some blank sheets, his pen, and then a guitar.

“He says as if he did not resist!” Jake booms, shuffling around the room. A red light turns on and when he hits buttons to record the rest of the session.

“If I recall correctly, old friend, you were the one who resisted.” Cris taunts back. He turns from Jake to me. “Take it from us, kid. Resisting is futile.”

“Y’all lost me.” I huff, strumming, then I clap my palm over the strings to stop the twang.

“The easiest place to bring the energy from is by falling in love with falling in love again.”

I think about the morning spent with Cassidy. Fire ignites in my fingertips. “I might be able to do that.”

Gatlin and Rhiannon stick around a little longer. By the time they leave, Cris, Jake and I are in the thick of it, strumming and humming and writing snippets of refrains down. Their absence is hardly noticeable.

These guys are amazing at their craft. Having known one another for ages, they unabashedly taunt each other without a care that I’m not privy to the inside jokes.

The collaboration is sound, easy. It’s one of the best times I’ve had in a long time. I’m all at once exhilarated and humbled to be in their presence. We’re knocking ideas out left and right. This is the kind of afternoon when the giddy kid inside of me thinks he is never writing another album without Cris or Jake’s input. Which I know is stupid. An artist has to invite creativity in, not keep it at bay.

Cris excuses himself. His grandkids have stopped by. He’s eager to see them. Jake steps out of the room to take a call. While getting a jump on the next album is my priority, guilt creeps over me. I’m keeping these people away from their personal lives. It occurs to me to pay attention to mine.

I get on the horn with Vespa, my assistant. “I need you to set up reservations for two for dinner. I’m sending you the restaurant information right now.”

“Two, not three? I thought Jake Ballantine was wherever you are, and that’s what made it so freaking important to extend the trip after the interview with Gatlin Newhouse wrapped.” Vespa is clearly perturbed that I waited this long to contact her.

“Just two. I’ll finish with Sanchez and Ballantine in a few hours.”

“Then why aren’t you calling for a pilot?”

---