Page 152 of Wingwoman
This was the stage in a breakup where I should be in my most creative state. I should have had at least five songs written within a week, post breakup. If it had been ten years ago, my entire album would have been done by now.
I'd had just over a week since Hope and I ended things to churn out some new songs, but so far all I had done was stare at my blank sheet music in the darkness of my studio.
At this rate, my label was going to drop me and there would be no hope in saving my mom's rescue or paying off my dad's inevitable next gambling debt, or hell, even saving my own damn career.
With a glance at the clock, I sighed. Ten-thirty at night. Not late for me, but it was pretty worthless to keep sitting here doing nothing.
Giving up for the night, I slid my guitar back in its case and ducked my head between my knees, feeling suddenly lightheaded.
Cash looked up at me, wide brown eyes full of concern and way too adoring for the piece of shit that I had been these last few weeks.
“Don't look at me like that, buddy,” I said. “I don't deserve your love.”
“You sure as hell don't, but we all love your stupid ass anyway.”
I yelped and jumped to my feet, startled to see Matt standing in the doorway of my studio.
“How the fuck did you get in here?” I asked.
He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. "I ran into Rob as he was heading out for the night. It’s not like you to work your ranch hands until ten p.m. Why are you avoiding your mom’s horses?”
I shrugged, not looking at him. “Rob gets compensated for the overtime,” I muttered.
“I don’t doubt that, but it’s not what I asked. Bottom line is, while you've been hiding away, the rest of us have been working to the bone to save your sorry ass.”
I could have sat there and argued with him. God knows we’d done that enough in our time together. But what was the point? Instead, I stood up and gave Cash a quick scratch at his scruff. Then I exited my studio, stomping into the kitchen to make some coffee.
“Can’t help it that the muse isn't striking,” I said, grabbing the coffee pot and filling it with water. Nevermind the fact it was after ten… I needed a coffee fix. And despite everything, Hope’s parting words stuck with me. I’d been avoiding reaching for the bourbon.
“Maybe because for the first time in your life, pushing away the people you love isn't working,” Matt said, following me into the kitchen.
It was annoyingly reminiscent of what Hope had told me just over a week ago.
I shut the water off and dumped the filled pot into the coffee maker while shaking my head. “No. This is my brand. This is what I do: heartbreak. Emo sad music. That's what fans expect from me.” I regurgitated what Micah had said to me on the phone last week. What I’d overheard him saying at the gala.
My newest single was already being blasted on every radio station across the nation. Why the hell did I agree to play that for them? It basically just solidified my “sound” for another ten years while I toured with this new stupid album.
I put the coffee pot back on the hotplate, then grabbed the bag of fancy coffee grounds. It was from the coffee shop where Hope and I had met for a meeting over a month ago.
I stared at the logo ignoring the prickle in my throat. “The fans want me to bleed on the page,” I said, continuing. “They want to listen to my music while they cry tears in their beers and relate to me on the most human, soul-crushing level. And what's more, that's what my label wants too. Hell, you heard them! I played them the song for my mom. The one filled with sweet memories and happy times that would be perfect for a mother and son to dance to at a wedding. They don't want it. They liked the song about Hope. The one about lies and deceit.That'swhat they want.That'swhat they'll shell out the big bucks for. Andthat'swhat will keep our businesses alive, both yours and mine."
Matt tossed his hands into the air, grabbing the bag of coffee grounds out of my hands and tossing them against the backsplash. “Well then maybe it's time for a new fucking label! You ever think about that? Did you ever stop and consider that maybeyou'veoutgrown your original twenty-something emo bullshit sound?”
Jesus Christ. What was with everyone throwing shit and making a mess in my kitchen?
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. In all honesty, I hadn't thought that. I didn't realize that was an option… leaving this label. Finding a new producer. Even with Matt’s permission, it didn’t feel possible. It was hard enough to find a label the first time. It wasn’t as easy as just signing new contracts.
“You expect me to just leave my label? Start anew somewhere else with people who've never heard of me?”
“You’re Josh Gabriel. Trust me, buddy. Everyone has heard of you.”
I grabbed the dustpan and started sweeping up the spilled grounds from the counter. “It doesn't matter anyway. It's not like I'm over here writing tons of happy fucking songs that celebrate Hope’s and my wonderful relationship.”
“You're right, you're not. Because you’ve nevertriedto. Plenty of musicians make their living off of celebratory, happy music. Look at Pharrell. Garth Brooks. Dolly Parton. Even your beloved Willie Nelson.”
“We’re not actually comparing me to legends are we?” I scoffed.
“Not yet. But we could be… eventually.”
