Page 43 of One More Made Up Love Song
“Let me hear it,” I say, and his eyebrows lift. I don’t know what he was expecting when I appeared in his doorway, but after the day we’ve had, I’m sure it wasn’t this.
“For real?”
I nod as I climb onto the foot of his bed, and he reaches for his guitar.
“Okay, well…I was thinking something that starts like this…” He plays a chord. “Then shifts into something softer like this.” He plays through a few more measures.
I must be too tired to filter my emotions, because Freddie frowns as soon as he finishes.
“That bad?”
“Not at all,” I say. “It’s pretty. It just…”
“Sounds like my dog died?”
I grimace. “Definitely. But maybe that’s the sound you’re going for? Not all of your music needs to be happy.”
He sighs. “But it does need to feel real, and that…” His words trail off. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out eventually. Probably.”
I pull my feet up and sit cross-legged on the bed. “It wasn’t this much of a struggle last time, was it?” I ask. “The writing?”
In the five years I’ve worked for Freddie, he’s released two albums. The first was complete when he hired me, but the second I witnessed from beginning to end—when the songs started as ideas, little snatches of melody played late at night on the tour bus, lyrics scribbled onto random sheets of paper and left like a trail of confetti in Freddie’s wake. He was practically feverish, possessed by his own creativity, energy buzzing under his skin for weeks and weeks until he finally landed on a track list that he loved and that still made his label happy.
People are sometimes dismissive of Freddie because of his boyband start. But watching him take three chords and six measures and turn them into a song that hit number one on the Billboard charts was as impressive as it was captivating.
But this time around, it’s been nothing like that.
Now, he’s not writing at all. Hetalksabout writing all the time. Hides himself away, certain that this time, inspiration will strike. But from the outside looking in, it mostly seems like he’s spinning his wheels. I know he has at least a dozen tracks thatcouldgo on the album, so the situation isn’t truly dire. But he isn’t happy with them. He thinks the track list lacks cohesion, and it definitely doesn’t have theone songeveryone will remember most.
He runs a hand through his hair and licks his lips, reminding me of the kiss, of the conversation wearen’thaving. Honestly, I’ve been so tense all afternoon, it’s a nice reprieve to just be here with him, to remember the parts of our friendship that I love.
“It’s never been this hard,” Freddie says.
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard this level of defeat in his voice. “Maybe it’ll be better once you’re with Leo. Maybe you just need time with him—or Adam, even. Did you decide whether to include the song he sent over?”
Freddie huffs out a laugh. “I’d be stupid not to. It’s the only one that’s any good.”
I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. “I’m sure you’ll get there.”
“Will I?” He’s quiet for a long beat before he says, “Sometimes I think about Adam living out on his farm, spending time with Laney, his dogs. Of course he can write songs, you know? He’sliving.What if I can’t write because…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but I can fill in the end easily enough. Is that really how he feels? Like he isn’t living?
When he’s on stage in an arena full of people all cheering his name or meeting women who have his tattoos inked all over their bodies—that doesn’t feel like a life?
Maybe not. Those connections are all superficial. Freddiehas spent the last six months on the road, sleeping in a different city every night. He has me and Seth and the rest of his staff, but we all work for him. It’s not exactly the same, is it?
“I don’t know,” he says, finally setting his guitar to the side. “I’ll write something eventually. One more made-up love song.” His tone shifts from discouraged to downright derisive, and a new thought pops into my brain.
Is Freddie lonely? Is that what this is about? He wants to be in love?
Despite my frustration, a very silly part of me wants to throw my arm into the air and volunteer as tribute. I’m right here, perfectly available, and mostly in love with him already. I know everything there is to know about the man—good and bad—and I still like him. That should count for something.
Except it can’t, and every cell of my stupid body knows it.
Because if Freddie had even a smidgen of real feelings for me, would he have agreed to kiss me like it was no big deal? He was that sure of my romantic indifference. So sure that he didn’t even hesitate before using me as a prop—a publicity stunt.
But more than that, it can’t count because when Freddie hired me, I promised him it never would. I’ve honored every single term of our agreement except one. And I’ll swallow that one until the day I die.
