Page 51 of The Bright Side of Christmas
All I can do is open the door and let her in.
So I do, pushing the door open and then pulling her inside. She stops my hand when she does, stepping to the center of the room and staring at the walls, eyes wide.
“What is this?” she asks, looking around.
I take in the room like I’ve never been here before and try to see it as she would. There’s a piano against a wall, the desk in front of the window with a dozen crumpled pieces of paper, and an unused typewriter on one side. On the desk itself are notebooks and blank sheet music. One wall features two guitars and a bass, hung up but easily accessible. I look around the room, feeling that tension melt away as the Band-Aid is ripped off, and I wave a hand to the room.
“I guess…I guess this is who I am.” I look at her and give her a nervous smile, but her eyes widen as she takes in the room, with records, trophies, and instruments lining the walls. She moves to the piano, fingers gently grazing over the top of it as if she’s afraid, actually, to touch it.
“I was in a rock band years ago, and now I write and produce. More behind-the-scenes stuff. It’s really no big deal, but?—”
“No big deal?” she asks, turning to me with wide eyes before waving her arm at the far wall. “Those beg to differ.” She’s staring at the wall, where all my awards are hung and displayed perfectly. I don’t know why I hung them, really, since I hate looking at them. They feel like reminders of what could have been, watching me as I try to write.
A single platinum plaque and four gold ones, each with records, adorn the wall. My biggest accomplishments and my biggest shortcomings are there for her to see. A shelf holds awards, and she steps forward, reaching out to touch one of the golden statues before pulling her hand back like she might break it. She moves with wide eyes.
“You…you won all of these?”
I shrug. “It’s not much. I haven’t ever gotten Song of the Year.” I’m almost embarrassed to admit it aloud. Given Greg and Trent’s tone and the sad looks I get from colleagues whenever it comes up in conversation, it’s a carefully curated response.
I’ve written for some artists who have had number one hits that stayed at the top of the charts for weeks and remained in the top 100 for months, although mine have never become singles to top the charts. I’ve produced fantastic songs, some of which became underground fan favorites, but none of them have received any true recognition.
My career has grown stale, and everything in this room seems to be a constant reminder of that. But when I look at Wren, it isn’t the generic, pretend-impressed look on her face that I have come to expect when I tell people about my accomplishments. It isn’t that look of pity I expect, that one I’ve seen from so many in the industry before.
It’sawe.
“Adam, you’re out of your mind. This is…wow. This is so wild. I can’t believe I didn’t know!”
“I don’t really talk about it much,” I say, suddenly feeling shy.
She turns to me with a wide smile. “You don’t say. Gosh.” She looks around, taking things in before turning back to me. “So you were in a band?”
I nod, pointing to where most of the awards are. A couple of gold records, along with several Band of the Year, Rock Album of the Year, and Rock Single of the Year trophies.
“A rock band. Midnight Ash.” She looks at me like she’s combing her mind, trying to place the name, a nervous blush burning over her cheeks when she can’t place it. It’s so sweet and so Wren, I can’t help but laugh, then pull her into my side to press a soft kiss to her hair.
“Not exactly your style, Wren, and you were probably ten years old when we started getting popular.”
She scrunches up her nose, then ducks under my arm. “Yeah, because you’re so old.”
I reach to pull her back into me and possibly spank her for being such a brat, but then she’s moving across the room to inspect the different awards.
“My god, you’ve worked with Willa Stone?” She turns to me with excited eyes, and I try to find the gleam I’ve come to expect when people learn who I am. The one where someone becomes eager to take advantage of my connections and to meet big stars by dropping my name. The last time I tried to date someone outside the industry was nearly three years ago, and it lasted all of two months. I quickly realized she was playing games, just wanting to meet her music idols and convince me to spend money on her.
But it’s…not there.
She’s just impressed, and I stare at her in awe, my chest warming with the realization.
“Yeah. She does a lot of her work herself, but I’ve come in to help out with co-writing a few times. I’ve produced a few of her songs.”
“Adam, I can’t believe you aren’t screaming from the rooftops about this. This is so cool. You’re so talented.” When she pauses in front of the plaque that, when the door is open, is hidden, I know it’s all going to come out. Not that I was planning to hide it any longer.
My lone platinum record.
“All Lit Up”went platinum last holiday season after spending three years at gold, and even though Greg was elated about it, it was the moment that sent me into my current existential dread.
It’s hard not to look at it and feel bitter. That record is my biggest accomplishment, but it’s also my own personal failure.
Every time I’m reminded of it, I find myself wondering just how good a musician I could be, given that nothing I’ve ever done compares to a stupid Christmas song I wrote in twenty minutes. Not the ones that felt ripped from my soul, that I put my blood, sweat, and tears into—the ones I really believed in.
