Page 118 of Wingwoman
He was right. I knew he was right.
And yet, I knew me. I knew my process. This one song was a fluke. Sure, I had the beginnings of songs. Lyrics that would come to me which I wrote down here and there while I was happy with someone. But never had I finished a whole damn song so quickly.
Not until Hope.
But in five weeks time, she would go back to her ex and I’d have ten days in which I would become a recluse and pour over all those random lyrics and chord structures and piece them together over and over again and churn out ten more songs with ease.
Well, if ‘ease’ was defined by the gut wrenching pain of having your heart stomped on.
“You’re going to have to play it for me eventually,” Matt said, falling back against my couch and kicking one ankle to cross at his knee. “Betternowwhen I can help you sort out the issues rather than when the label wants to hear it.”
With more venom than I intended, I yanked my phone from my back pocket and hit play on the demo I recorded last night in my studio.
The music streamed through my bluetooth and played through the house as I held my breath.
The first song I’d ever written about my mother.
The first time I let those feelings I’d been suppressing for years leak out onto the strings of my guitar.
And it wouldn’t have happened without Hope. She pushed me. Challenged me.
Every word, every note, every line, every chord… it was all inspired by Hope.
Even if the song wasn’t overtly about her.
The song ended and I couldn’t bring myself to look up at Matt just yet. He knew me better than anyone.
“Dude,” he whispered.
After my fifth attempt at trying to tie the windsor knot at the base of my throat, I tore the silk off my collar and tossed it aside. Who needed a fucking tie at a rodeo anyway?
“What?” I snapped. It was completely irrational.
“You weren’t supposed to fall in love with her.”
My gaze whipped to his.
Except Iwas. That was always the plan.
He just didn’t know it. He didn’t know the extent of my plan.
And I was only a week in. How the fuck was I going to survive five weeks from now when it all ended? Or rather when her asshole ex came crawling back to her and I had to watch as she chose him over me?
Her heart didn’t belong to me.
It never did. It never will.
She was bound to leave me. To choose him.
And that was when the real hits would flow from me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, grinding my teeth together and spinning my back to Matt. “That song is about my mom. That’s probably why I was able to write at all this week,” I lied. I lied through my goddamn teeth.
Matt shook his head. “Yeah, I know it’s about your mom. On the surface, at least. But deeper? It’s about Hope too.”
Fuck. Sometimes I hated how well that motherfucker knew me.
I stared down at the recording of the song, the little lines across the screen like the still image of a heart monitor. “It doesn’t matter,” I murmured and shoved the phone back into my pocket. “That song was just for me. We’re not playing it for the label.”
