Page 57 of August Lane
“He played here?”
“Lots of people did, back when they were just getting started. Delta Blue is part of Black music history. Folks don’t realize that.”
August made an impatient sound. “He’ll talk your ear off if you let him.”
“I don’t mind,” Luke said quickly. The only Black country singers he knew were Charley Pride and Darius Rucker. But apparently there was an entire history he wasn’t aware of. “Are these people country singers?”
“A lot of them. Cleve Francis. The Pointer Sisters. Bill Withers—I know what you’re thinking, but that man is country, don’t let anybody tell you different. In fact, did you know Tina Turner has a country album? I’ve got a first edition copy in my—”
August groaned, cutting him off. “Not therecord collection.”
Silas cut his eyes at her. “Go on, then.” He looked at Luke. “Come by sometime and I’ll tell you more about it.”
Luke left the conversation dazzled. Country legends had performed in the same building where he would write his first song. It was inspiring. But then he walked into Silas’s studio and it became intimidating. The walls had been soundproofed with foam panels. There was a small analog mixer, microphones, and a computer on an L-shaped desk against the wall. Tall speakers were set up on either side. It was a room built for the real work of real singers, not his timid attempts to mimic Garth Brooks.
Luke propped his guitar on the wall but immediately regretted emptying his hands. They flapped at his sides while he watched August deposit a stack of notebooks and pencils on the couch.
Neither of them spoke at first. Luke said, “You look different,” because he was too nervous to focus on anything besides how beautiful she was. “You curled your hair.”
She ran her hand through the strands, which conjured an image of him doing the same, only slower and with proper reverence.
“I…” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I have a date. After this.”
“Oh. Oh! Yeah, that’s good!” He was being too loud and saying too many fucking words. But the clown act was necessary for survival, since he was pretty sure being rejected by August Lane would kill him. “Do I know him?” he asked and prayed he didn’t. He prayed God would spare him the indignity of rubbing shoulders with this guy in the cafeteria.
“No,” August said. “He’s a freshman. In college.” She paused. “Philander Smith.”
Luke pictured some pretty boy Kappa with brains and ambition, then decided he’d heard enough. “We should get started.” He pulled three hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and offered them to her. August stared at the money but didn’t take it.
“Can I be honest with you?”
He lowered his hand. “Of course.”
She smiled at him, and his mood brightened a little. College boyfriend or not, he could have these moments. Her tiny slants of light.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said. “I’ve never taught anyone how to write before, and I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”
“I won’t be.”
“You might,” she said firmly. “Keep your money until I deliver on what I promised.”
Luke wanted to argue further, but she looked determined. He returned the cash to his pocket. “Fine. I’ll wait. But you’re going to take this money, regardless. Okay?”
She hesitated but nodded. There was another awkward beat of silence, so Luke gestured toward her notebooks. “Should I grab one of those?”
She looked at his guitar. “I’d like to hear you play first.”
A fresh bout of anxiety gripped him. “Play what?”
August picked up the notebook he’d returned to her. She flipped to the music he’d written for “My Jagged Pieces” and handed it to him.
“You want me to sing, too?” He’d played in public plenty of times but only sang alone. “I’m not as good as you.”
“Good thing it’s not a competition.”
Her jokes eased his stress. She was right. They were in this together. He put the notebook on a table and dragged it close to keep it in hisline of sight. Once the guitar was in his hands, his body transformed, adjusting to what felt like its natural state. This was why he’d roped her into helping him. Aside from when he spoke to her, Luke only felt like himself when his fingers were on the frets, his feelings buried beneath a C chord.
August watched him closely, but he wasn’t nervous anymore—just poised to tap into something bigger than himself. The music. There was something holy in those first few notes.
