Page 57 of The Lyrics of Love

“Uh, hi, Mr. Edwards. Nash. I’m Jarrod. Jarrod Simpson. The one who helped get you set up to SUP. You said I could send you my stuff. Well, I kinda told you I’d written a song. But the thing is, I don’t play music. I don’t even sing so great, not even in the shower, and everyone’s supposed to sound awesome in the shower.”

Nash paused the video. “Oh, this is painful.”

“Keep watching,” Rylie encouraged. “You promised you would.”

He touched the arrow to start up the video again.

“So, like... well, I don’t have a real song for you to listen to. And I know I’m tall and geeky and too skinny. That’s why I don’t want to say the lyrics to you. Because you’ll be looking at me and not hear what I’ve written. I’m turning the camera to my computer screen. I’ll say them while you look at them. I write poetry. And poetry is a song lyric without music. That’s where you’d come in.

“I don’t expect you to write the music for me. But maybe if you think it’s good enough, my words, you could point me in the right direction. If I could partner with someone who knows music, I think this could be a really great song.”

The camera turned, and the poem Jarrod referred to appeared on the screen. He began reading the words aloud, his tone deeper and more serious, the pace perfect. He knew when to pause. When to turn the phrase in a different direction. When to punch a word.

By the time Jarrod finished reading his poem, Rylie was blinking back tears. She looked at Nash.

“Oh, it’s so good. Who knew something that remarkable could come from such a sweet nerd?”

“It’s better than good,” Nash declared. “With the right accompaniment, it could be a hit.” Determination filled his face. “I want to write the music for Jarrod’s words. And I sure as hell want to find out if he’s written any more poems.”

He rose and went inside the house, returning with his guitar. Handing her the phone, he said, “Run it to where the first verse’s words are flashed onto the screen.”

As she fiddled a moment, finding the place in the video, he began plucking the guitar’s strings. Rylie found the beginning of the poem and paused the video.

Nash stared at the screen a moment, still toying with the strings. Gradually, he started strumming, trying out different chords as he put music to the words. After twenty minutes, he played the melody he had just composed and sang the first verse.

“That’s so moving,” Rylie said.

“Film me with your phone,” he said. “I’m still not familiar enough with the words yet and need them in front of me.”

She began recording and he started at the beginning, singing the first verse and motioning for her to scroll to the second one. He toyed with music for a chorus, telling her to keep the tape running, until he hit upon exactly what he wanted. Then he sang the third verse. Without any previous attempts, he created a bridge out of thin air, and sang it and the chorus again, moving to the final stanza. Once again, he repeated the chorus, changing keys, singing it twice and then fading out on the third round.

Nodding at her, she turned her video off. Chills ran through her.

“I think I just saw a genius at work,” she said, awe obvious in her voice.

“This kid is a genius,” Nash declared. “I’m used to writing both my lyrics and the accompanying music. But if I had a lyricist like Jarrod? Who knows what I might accomplish?’”

He slipped his phone into his pocket and rose, guitar in hand. “Let’s go eat—and then we’re going to call my new songwriting partner.”

CHAPTER 19

Nash let Rylie hit the bathroom first. He lay in bed, thinking how much his life had changed during these past six weeks in the Cove.

He spent every night with Rylie, either going to her place or having her stay over at his. They had been inseparable, learning new things about one another each day. Nash knew he was the most content he had ever been in his entire life. He was also the most productive. He had encouraged Jarrod Simpson to quit his job at the sporting goods store, putting him on salary—for now out of his own pocket—and telling Jarrod that Phil Mooney would draw up a songwriting partnership agreement for them. He still intended to keep Jarrod on salary, but he would also make certain the young man received his fair share of the songs they were putting together.

Today he would be heading into Portland to meet with his three bandmates and management team, along with Pops. Not only had Nash written what he considered three hit songs the first week he had been in the Cove, he had been busy with other new ones, as well. He had taken what he considered the five best of the poems Jarrod had shared with him and taken about two weeks to put them to music he crafted. After doing so, he had played the songs both for Jarrod and Rylie, soliciting their feedback and then tweaking the songs accordingly.

He and Jarrod had also begun writing new songs together. While Jarrod did not have the life experience Nash brought to the table, he had a beautiful turn of phrase. Nash could give him the idea for a song and speak in broad terms as to what he wanted the song to convey. Jarrod then used Nash’s experiences and turned his broad strokes into smaller ones that told beautiful tales of love, loss, heartache, and hope. He believed they would have a long, solid partnership.

Rylie came out of the bathroom dressed in her wetsuit, a small toiletries bag in her hand.

“I’ve gathered up all my cosmetics. Even my toothbrush and tampons,” she joked. “I don’t expect to be staying here while Pops is in town.”

He rose from the bed and slipped his arms around her waist. “You know you can stay. Pops wouldn’t mind.”

“I guess I just feel a little funny about sleeping in your bed the same time your grandfather is visiting. But if you happened to sneak over a night or two while he’s in town, I wouldn’t be upset in the least.”

Nash wanted to make their relationship more permanent but still hesitated to do so after so short a time and his track record. He worried if he suggested they move in together, that Rylie would throw out a caution flag. For now, he would merely let things ride.

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