Page 42 of Missed Exit

“I wasn’t trying to presume to know things I don’t. But the chorus sort of wrote itself, and it wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Greta, I can’t participate in this conversation if I don’t know what we’re talking about.”

She takes a deep breath. “I know. Maybe we should finish eating first.”

“I can multitask. Hand me the notebook.”

“If it sucks, just say that, okay? I can take it.”

I chew without talking, let her keep rambling until her nervous energy winds down enough for me to get another word in edgewise. Wiping my hands on a paper towel, I try again, “Are you ready to let me see it now?”

“No, but I’ll never be ready. So, here.” She passes the notebook over the pizza.

My eyes scan the page, skimming to find the chorus she said grabbed hold and wouldn’t let her go. Seems like I should start with that and work my way back over the whole piece.

They never got their hands dirty, but shook dirty hands . . .

I read the chorus several times before I work through it from the top. She said the chorus wrote itself. The composition is already starting to flow that way, too, but this song . . . it doesn’t feel presumptuous. It feels momentous.

And like it could prove disastrous for an artist from old oil money. These are words that could sever bonds.

“Damn, Greta. I wasn’t expecting this. Your other two songs are heavy with emotion, but not in this way. Even if it’s not exactly his story . . . him singing this? I don’t know.”

“Is it all wrong for his voice?”

“Shit. That’s right. You’ve never heard him sing. He’s playing tonight. You should hear him. He goes on at ten.”

“Yikes. I forgot people go out that late.”

“If I can do it at thirty-two, you can do it at twenty-eight.”

“Maybe this is a good night for me to hear you both sing. I bet he wouldn’t mind sharing the stage with you for a little while.”

“Oh, you’re just full of good ideas, aren’t you?”

“This started as your idea, remember?”

“No. It was your ideas that started it.”

I read over the lyrics several more times while she gets ready. And they’re more unsettling with each read-through. Words that can shake people up are the ones that’ll stick, for better or for worse. I tell myself it’s just a song, and the choice would ultimately be his.

So help me, I thought I was done with Derringer Wells. But she just had to go and ask me to stick with him, and then she put this song in my hands.

She’s never even heard his voice. She has no idea, yet somehow, she knew.

There’s wisdom in these lyrics, but near accusations, too. Some not-so-subtle insinuations.

I used to trust my gut without question when it came to singers and songs, but this makes me think maybe I’ve aged out of the game. There was a time when I wouldn’t have worried about repercussions.

If people want you to write good things about them, they should be good people, right? Otherwise, they get what they get.

But what does it get the one who crosses the line and sings the song? Ultimately, in the end, what does he get if he sings this?

There is no doubt in my mind what he’ll say when he sees these lyrics.

We don’t have to go there tonight, though. Tonight, she’ll hear him sing someone else’s songs. And then we’ll work on hers together until we get it just right.

Whether it’s right for him or not is a question that can wait. I start over at the top and read it one more time.

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