Page 55 of Over the Edge

“Or doing lines of coke in the bathroom.”

“I’m such a good teacher,” I say. “I’m thinking of starting with something like this.” I start arpeggiating the chords in A major key with the intent to modulate into chilling minor.

“What about E major instead, it’s always given me that action movie feeling.”

“The point right after the climax where everything unexpectedly works out,” I add.

“But for this song—”

“Things fall apart.”

Then there’s this moment. No words pass, just his blazing lamplit eyes leaping to mine and then holding there. It’s like hearing a story from my childhood that I’ve been certain that no one else has ever heard, yet here he is knowing something about me that transcends a single detail.

That’s where it starts and then the words start blooming like perennials drinking up melted snow to reemerge after winter. It’s something dormant in both of us finally bursting to life.

Eventually, our sentences all fragment. I play the chord progression for the bridge and he says, “Yes, but what if…” and suggests a diminished chord instead of a minor. He’ll scribble down a line then sing it and I’ll scratch out a word and replace it.

“Then the guitar could go fuzzy like…”

“What if…”

“…And the drums would…”

“Not quite.”

“But…”

We don’t need fully fleshed out thoughts. Like so many of our other moments, picking up where the other left off was alwayssupposed to build to this. Like we’ve always been meant to do this.

His hands and mine brush against each other as we take turns at the keys until the snippets of sound overlap. The song is a patchwork of moments that slowly takes form. It’s like how all the little squares of a quilt stitch together to become something warm and full of love. This isn’t what it was like writing my other albums.

This is better. More than just reclaiming my voice.

I’ve never had something like this before while writing because I didn’t allow it. I’ve always held on to being alone in my music, but maybe that was the wrong way about it.

“That’s it,” I whisper, keeping my voice low as if not to break the spell we’ve cast.

“It is,” he says.

Our notebooks are a mess of scribbled notes and crossed out lyrics. We’ve changed the key three times since we started, but we’ve decided on sticking with E. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to snap the thread of inspiration tangled around us by calling it a night. Garrett’s thigh presses casually against mine on the piano bench, and I don’t want to let go of that either.

He’s here. I’m not alone.

“We should play through it?” I ask, still feeling a bit winded.

“Just to make sure,” he says. There’s a hunger in his eyes, something wild like he’s chasing down the song.

I swallow hard and stand to let him accompany me on the piano. From the first note a shiver runs down my spine.

In some alternate timeline there’s another version of this with me in a shimmering dress, draping myself across the body of the piano. He’d wear a suit with coattails trailing behind him. But I don’t want that version, because the one I have here with us surrounded by discarded paper is all this needs to be.

I embrace the feeling. The song is an incantation, pressing pause on everything else. Every worry, every problem that I had before the first note ceases to exist. I’m not alone in this impossible space, and I’m glad I let him in.

With the last chord still quivering in the air, I rush to Garrett. My arms latch around his neck and my knees slide across the surface of the bench to meet the side of his right thigh. We did it. I missed this and he managed to help me find it again.

“Eve,” he breathes in that way of his that makes my name sound like a prayer. The sound of it evaporates the heady feeling clouding my thoughts.

I jerk back to sit on my heels, letting go of him as I do. “Sorry. Sorry. I just got so excited.”

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