Page 48 of Songbird
“How’s the writing going?”
“It’s…” I pick up the notebook at my side, glance at the scrawls on the page, and hand it to him. “I was going to say it’s goingwell, and it was, but I’m stuck on this song. Something about it just doesn’t feel right.”
“What’s the problem with it?”
“That’s the thing. I don’t know. The chorus is smooth and the bridge is strong. I keep trying to imagine how it would sound with more layers to the music, but I’m not sure what it needs. Maybe it’s me. Maybe my voice isn’t powerful enough to carry it.”
“Can I hear it?”
“Of course, but it’s nowhere near ready. Remember that so you’re not disappointed.”
He settles back on the porch swing, making it rock a little. “You could never disappoint me.”
His gentle smile and easy confidence make my heart race, and his eyes on me make me nervous. I’ve played in front of thousands of people at a time. I’ve played in small rooms for pitiless execs. I put on an entirely different show for Finn forty-eight hours ago, so sharing an unfinished song with him now should be a walk in the park. But that’s not the reason I’m nervous. This song, like the others, is about him, and I think he’s going to know it.
Finn’s mouth twitches in a smoldering kind of curve that dries my throat, so I take a sip of water, then shift the guitar to make myself more comfortable. Lowering my eyes for no other reason than because watching Finn watch me makes it hard to concentrate, I set my fingers on the fretboard and strum the first chord. By the time I play the fourth bar, I’ve relaxed into the music. My fingers move instinctively, my gaze turns inward as I reach for a deeper key, and I lose myself in the music. I stay lost until the last note drifts away on the breeze.
My eyes float into focus and meet Finn’s straightaway. His brow is furrowed, his fingers tucked into fists.
I shrug self-consciously. “I love the song,” I tell him. “But something about it feels incomplete, and I can’t figure out what.”
“What would you normally do in a situation like this?” he asks. “Maybe work with another songwriter or find a producer who can help you?”
“Sometimes,” I reply. “But even if I wrote this back in LA, I’m not sure there’s anyone out there who could help.” I finger the notepad again, hoping Finn reads between the lines. “This material is too personal to share with anyone yet… except you.”
He’s still for a moment, blinking at me like he’s struggling with something. “Hang on a minute,” he says before he stands and disappears inside the cabin.
I turn my head to watch him go and through the window see him scale the loft ladder, then return with his vintage Martin slung across his body. He lowers himself onto the swing and spins my notebook to face him, eyes scanning the page like I’ve seen so many other musicians do. Reading my song like he can hear the notes on the page.
“Play it again,” he says as his fingers move expertly over his strings, extracting the first bar of chords from his own guitar. “But give me a few chances to get it right. I’m nowhere near as good as you.”
I clear my throat and try to get a handle on my eagerness. “No problem. Let’s take it from the top.”
He doesn’t need a few chances to get it right, and my respect for his talent grows. He follows the music perfectly the first time, and when he plays off-page, it’s intuitively and with intention. I almost lose my place, distracted by the soft competency of his hands, so I drop the lyrics as we play together, each following our instincts to add a little something here or take away something there, flirting with the sounds to see what works and what doesn’t. When he hums, his voice is a smooth and husky baritone that drops deep enough in some places that I feel itsreverberation in my chest, then in my stomach. And then a little lower.
I lean into it, pouring the chemicals in my veins into the music coming from my fingers and the poetry falling from my lips. When I stumble, Finn picks up the next note. His eyes close, the way they did when he played for me in his room, and it means I can watch him without having to pretend I’m not. The shift of his brow as he sings so low. The careful movements of his fingers on the strings. I play along so he doesn’t stop, but I’m not playing to write anymore. I’m playing to listen.
And that’s when the answer clicks into place. This song is a duet. It’ll never be finished if I sing it alone.
We reach the final bar, and our instruments grow quiet. Finn opens his eyes and reaches for my notebook, picking up the pencil and scratching a few changes to the chords. I study them, fascinated by how naturally this comes to him, until he scribbles out a suggestion that sparks a new idea in me.
“How about this?” I take the pencil from his grip and rearrange a few things on the page, then turn it back to face him.
Finn answers by playing those chords on his guitar. “Looks good. Should we try it?”
We play the song again, and it already sounds better, but another round of polishing uplifts it even more. We reorganize some of the lyrics, Finn swapping a word here and there, and when he opens the song with a line that makes my throat catch with emotion, I furiously write it down before it’s lost forever. My skin pebbles with chills of fever and fascination. This song is everything I’ve ever wanted to feel about a man and what I dreamed he would feel about me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to feel aboutlife, and Finn’s the one here putting it all into words.
When we’re between renditions, I make notations on the page for us to follow. “Can you sing only these parts on your own?” I point to the first verse and chorus, and then the first bridge. “I’llsing these other sections solo, and then we can both try these parts here. But you should play around with it. Try whatever feels good.”
“Yeah.” Finn frowns at the page and makes one last amendment to the lyrics, then assigns himself the outro. “Do you mind?” he asks. “I’ve got an idea.”
I play down the joy I feel at how completely he’s giving himself to this process. There’s no hesitation or self-consciousness, and I’d give him anything now if he asked for it.
“I don’t mind at all,” I reply. “Let’s take it from the top.”
It comes together like no song I’ve ever written. Each word and chord and note and harmony weaves into place like it was waiting for Finn this whole time. Our guitars and our voices spin into perfection, one climbing and chasing the other until we reach the summit. And when we slow into stillness, settling in the real world on a gentle waterfall of lighter notes, the residues of whatever alchemy we just created together are thick in the air between us. It cocoons us and tethers us and forges the kind of connection I’ve got no will to break and will never experience again. I’m outside time, in animated suspension, silently hoping the world outside the two of us no longer exists.
My chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. Finn’s cognac gaze is still and steady but searing enough to consume me, and maybe my yearning is as obvious, because he sets his guitar aside and reaches across the space between us, curling his hand around the back of my neck.
