Page 80 of Songbird
“Well, yes.” Pia and I share a bemused look. Until I hire a new manager, she’s agreed to stand in the role, and we’re both surprised by Zane’s no-nonsense approach. “Shall we get right to it then?”
We’re in the room with the grand piano, and there are refreshments set out on the coffee table between the forest-green velvet sofas, but they remain untouched as the group takes their seats and I pick up my acoustic guitar. It’s the same one Finn was playing when I woke up and found our bed empty the other night, and I hide a blush with the dip of my head, casting a sidelong look at the man taking up space in the shadows while the secrets we share play on his mouth.
I take a seat on a wide armchair, guitar set on my knees, and pause with my fingers resting lightly on the instrument. The only person who has heard these songs is Finn, and he’s moved behind me where I can’t see him. Instead, I’m confronted with a small but overeager audience and a sudden fear that none of them will like what I share. Or worse, they won’t get it.
“The music you’re going to hear today is a little different to what I’ve done in the past, and I want you to be prepared for that,” I say. “It’s more real and more me. My heart and my soul reside in every note, every lyric, and it leans more country than my earlier work. One or two of these tracks I’d love to release as acoustics and another…”
I clear my throat to stop my rambling. “I’m nervous,” I confess. “So I’ll just play and hope you like it.”
As soon as I start, from the very first bar, I’m transported back to Finn’s cabin at Silver Leaf and my worries melt away. I have eight songs to share, and I play them in the order I wrote them. First, I relive the fear and rage of leaving Chip, followed by the rediscovery of a desire and a sensuality I thought had long sincedied inside me. Next is the revelation of Finn and all the ways he reminds me of who I am and what I want to be. The second-to-last song is the duet we wrote together, and although we’ve never spoken about sharing it, it’s the most important part of this story, so I play it on my own, knowing it’ll never be what it’s supposed to be without him performing it with me.
As the final song ends and the room settles into stillness again, I set aside my guitar and wait for someone to say something. Anything. It seems to me that everyone is trying hard not to look at each other, an odd choice that makes my mouth feel dry, and the longer I wait, the more certain I am that this music means nothing to anyone but me. But I can’t regret it, and I’ll fight for it until it gets the platform it deserves. This is going to be the album that defines me, and popular opinion isn’t the measure of its worth.
Cynthia is the first to speak. Finally. “I’m speechless, Rosalie. That was…” She puffs up her cheeks and blows out an overwhelmed breath. “That wasgood.”
“Oh, God.” I release a breath and sag in my chair. “Really?”
“It’s so much more than good,” Nya says. “It’s…” She looks for help around the room, breaking whatever hypnotism had everyone in suspended animation a moment ago. “What is it? What’s the word I’m looking for? Whatever it is, the market is going todiefor this record.”
“It’s a confessional, right?” Zane leans forward with elbows on his knees and passion in his eyes. “It’s about pain and self-loathing, falling apart and putting yourself back together, finding hope and claiming love. It’s vulnerable and it’s powerful. It’s transparent and it’s mysterious. It answers a hundred questions then asks a hundred more. It’s a paradox and it’s universal truth. It speaks. I’ve got so many ideas already for how to lay these down. Damn it, Rosalie. I think you broke my brain.”
A laugh falls from my throat, a mix of relief and gratitude for Zane’s insightful analysis, and the butterflies in my stomach start to feel less like nerves and more like impatience to get into a studio and make this album the best it can be.
I risk a glance at Finn, who couldn’t stand taller if he tried, then turn back to the group feeling warm all over. I reach for my water and try not to worry when Zane, scribbling down notes on a notepad on his knee, shakes his head before lifting his narrowed eyes at me.
“Song number seven,” he said. “It’s good, but it’s missing something.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “I—we—It was written as a duet.”
His head bobs with understanding. “Yeah, I can hear that. Did you have any artists in mind to record with you? I can think of two who’d really push the track into country, if that’s the way we want to go.” He rattles off a list of artists, some at the top of the charts, other smaller acts who he tells us are going to be big someday. “What do you think? I’ll make some calls.”
This time, I carefully avoid looking Finn’s way. I don’t want him to see that I’m quietly wishing he’ll step into the conversation and insist he play with me. “I already had somebody in mind for that track.”
“Oh, yeah?” Cynthia leans forward, too, mirroring Zane’s eagerness. “Anyone we know?”
“I don’t think so, and I haven’t asked him yet,” I say. “I’ll let you know when I do.”
There’s a curious murmur but the discussion is diverted easily enough when Pia suggests I play the set through again. My performance is more confident this time, already having received positive reviews, and another hour passes after that as we talk about the music and possible recording schedule, marketing and promotions, and maybe another tour.
My head is spinning in the best possible way when Pia finally escorts the group to the door, leaving me alone with Finn for the first time that morning. I turn to him with a hopefully sheepish smile.
“So, what did you think?”
“I think you blew them away,” he says, collecting me in his arms and spinning me around before kissing me hard. “But I knew you would, so I’m not surprised. I’m so proud of you, Songbird.”
I land on my feet with a rush of energy and warmth, his arms around me and his cognac eyes warm and wrinkled at the corners with joy. When I’m with him, I’m fearless, which is why I ask without thinking first. “You know who I have in mind for the duet, don’t you?”
Finn lifts one eyebrow and shakes his head. “Not going to happen.”
“What? Why not?” I settle back on my heels, the impulse to bounce on my toes gone, and I squeeze his biceps. “What better way to tell the world we love each other? And if it proves your talent as an artist, it could launch your career as—”
“I don’t want to,” he says. “And I don’t want to argue about it.”
I frown, letting my hands fall, and he takes that as a signal to release my waist and take a step back. The distance between us feels greater than arm’s length, possibly because I can’t understand why a man with as much potential as Finn doesn’t embrace it.
“But why not?” I ask. “You’re gifted, Finn, and I don’t think I can sing this song with anyone else. It belongs to us.”
He runs a hand through his hair and paces three steps away, then three steps back.
