Page 54 of Over the Edge

“No. Oh my gosh. No. Who would do that?”

“You’d be surprised,” he says.

“The theme for the album will be wanting. That’s why people are here, according to you. They’re chasing a feeling. And honestly, it’s the only emotion I can connect to right now so it will at least be authentic.”

It’s not that I was expecting the heavens to open or for Garrett to jump up and cheer, but I’m met with silence.

“So…” I prod. “If you’re going to tell me it’s terrible, could you do it now and put me out of my misery?”

“No. I like it. There’s a lot of potential.” He pauses for a moment, lost in thought, then says, “Do you have paper?”

“Yeah.” I move to the piano bench and snatch my notebook and pen.

“I think you have two options for the structure of the album,” he explains as he takes the pen and paper then starts to draw. “You’ll build the point where the songs sound like someone is about to get everything they want. That feeling of watching two people neck and neck for an entire race and you’re not sure who’s going to win.” He scribbles one last thing and then turns the notebook toward me. There are two hill-shaped lines, like I used to see in my high school English classes to diagram the flow of a story. One of the drawings curve up at the end while the other goes down.

“What’s the difference?”

“Then you have to decide the ending. Are you going to let them get what they want or are you going to take it away when their hope is highest, when they can see it right there in front of them?”

“Like right now?”

“No. I don’t think we should decide until the end. The difference between a convincing romance and a tragedy is the end. We have to believe that this album is about getting what we want, then I think the audience will too.”

“You really are good at this,” I say.

“Will you ever not be surprised by that?”

“Think of it more as basking in awe of your genius.”

“How long do you need to bask before we get started?”

“Basking over. I’ll be right back,” I say as I get up to leave the room.

I go to get a second notebook and pen so we can continue brainstorming concepts. My goal for the night is to send something to Vincent that shows I am worth keeping around.

Garrett and I start volleying ideas back and forth, each of us taking moments to stop and write down lines and ideas that could be built into verses. We’re still going when the sun fully sets and we don’t stop even as I get up to turn on the lights.

“I think we should start,” I say. I have three full pages of notes and a buzz humming through me with the need to create. “From the beginning. I think we need to make this in order, let it all build so it doesn’t become disjointed.”

“That checks out.”

There’s a hesitancy that lingers in the air. I know he’s listened to my songs. He’s told me that outright, but this is vulnerable. There’s nothing written. I could sit down and fumble around on the notes and then look up to find Garrett’s face screwed up in disappointment.

I just went on about the theme of this album, but taking this next step? It sends me right to the cliff's edge where I find myself over and over again.

“There’s room at the bench for two,” I say.

“If you’re sure.”

I move first because if I don’t I know I’ll stay cemented into place for the rest of the night. I claim the right side of the bench and after a moment he rises from the couch and joins me. I peel my eyes from his form and busy myself with setting my own notebook on the music stand as I feel his body consume the space next to me. His arm grazes against the loose fabric of my hoodie as he places his notebook next to mine. When I look to see what he’s written, I release a surprised laugh.

“I think I know where to start,” I say as I point to a line on his that matches one on mine. The only difference is that his version is neat and crisp while mine is in a hurried looping scrawl.

End in the beginning

“Fate,” he deadpans.

I nod. “Or the universal human experience.”

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