Page 37 of Falls From Grace
“Do you normally write songs?”
“Oh, god no. It was just sort of in my head? I mean, I write stuff sometimes, like… I don’t know, verse. Just words, mostly. But I usually throw it out; it’s embarrassing.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were a musician?” Savannah’s blue gaze was intense and accusatory. Brynn pulled back.
“I mean, I’m not?” she pointed out.
“Except that you very clearly are.” Savannah gestured to the piano. Brynn chuckled, trying to break the tension.
“My parents made me learn classical piano all the way from kindergarten through high school. It was supposed to help me become a surgeon, somehow. Look, I can play Chopin!” She smirked and let her hands remember the opening bars of Nocturne, Opus 27. Savannah gaped at her for a long moment, then reached out and pulled Brynn’s hands off the keys. She didn’t let go of Brynn’s fingers, pulling them into her lap and squeezing them. It made her pleasantly dizzy.
“And that voice? Is it trained too?”
Brynn snorted with embarrassment.
“I mean, obviously not. I did singing lessons for a bit as a kid, but the teacher didn’t keep me on. My mom said he’d told her I didn’t have the talent and it wouldn’t be worth keeping going with it.”
“Someone lied,” Savannah said flatly. “Brynn,” she squeezed her hand tightly, making her go light-headed again, “your voice is…” she turned to check Tucker was absorbed and far away then met her eyes, “fucking stunning.”
“Oh.” Brynn felt her stomach flip-flop. “Thank you, that’s nice of you to say. I’m glad you like it.”
“No.” Savannah looked at her fiercely. “I’m not nice and I don’t like it. I’m blown away by it. Sing me something else,” she said. “Anything at all.” She let go of Brynn’s fingers and waved her hand impatiently when she hesitated.
Brynn didn’t have to think too hard. She placed her hands on the keys and began to sing the song Savannah had played to Tucker to send him off to sleep. After she’d remembered a few lyrics from it and asked Noah the name of the artist, she’d been playing the song non-stop until she’d absorbed it, accidentally learning it by heart. This afternoon she’s started tinkering through it on the piano, hoping to soothe Tucker’s crankiness. Without realizing it now, she’d closed her eyes again to get through the song and when she opened them, Savannah was sitting completely still, her mouth ajar.
“Do you-” she started, then swallowed audibly. “Do you even know how hard that song is to sing? Brandi Carlile herself practically panics when she sings it live. Your range, Brynn, it’s…wild. And you made me feel it.” She searched her eyes hard, then suddenly stood up, abruptly grabbing her wineglass and taking a big swig.
“I think I’m in some kind of shock.” She began to pace back and forward. She turned and pointed at Brynn, her mood unreadable, still almost angry. “I just walked into my own damn living room to discover this incredible musician, singer and songwriter. Why didn’t you say something? Why aren’t you writing with us?”
Brynn flinched.
“I’m not. I’m not any of those things. Not like you or Noah. I’m not the creative type, I’m… I’ve never-” she stuttered.
“I’ve been working on that song for weeks. Every spare moment. Noah and I, both two experienced professional musicians. And you just completed it without even trying. You made it better than I ever dreamed it could be and you just got it. You got the feeling, exactly.” Her eyes flooded with tears again. Brynn swallowed.
“Well, I’ve got all the feelings,” she said quietly, far more honestly than she should.
“Stay,” said Savannah abruptly, even though Brynn hadn’t moved. “Can you…please just stay?” Her tone was pleading and Brynn nodded, unsure what she was agreeing to. The singer stared at her for a beat longer, as though assuring herself Brynn wouldn’t disappear, then walked over to where Tucker sat. Brynn realized the tired little boy had passed out. Savannah gently scooped him up and left the room.
Brynn got to her feet. She felt hazy and confused and a little resistant. It had been a long day, and now she was exhausted and discombobulated. She didn’t like feeling this exposed; honestly, Savannah was acting slightly bananas.
When Savannah returned from putting Tucker to bed, she found Brynn lying on the floor, looking up at the ceiling.
“Get up,” she said, tapping her fingers on a battered notebook. “We have work to do.”
“You’re going to have to excuse me,” Savannah said about an hour and a half later, “but I think I’m about to have to get quite drunk.” Brynn laughed. Savannah was already a little tipsy and frankly Brynn was enjoying it. The singer’s limbs were loose and she was alarmingly cute. “Is that okay? I’m not quite coping right now,” she said, pointing her finger accusingly at Brynn.
“It’s fine,” she allowed. “Just know I’ll be annoyingly smug in the morning when you’re feeling sorry for yourself.” Savannah pointed at her again, knocked back the remainder of her wineglass in one big gulp then put it aside.
“You’re right. I’m done. This buzz will have to see me through. What the fuck, Brynn, how did you - how did we do this? Are you hearing this?”
Brynn was. The longing song was complete. They’d sung each other snippets, finished each other’s lines, Brynn had played the melody and they’d just now sung it through once from the top, together. Mostly she’d been gobsmacked by how it felt to sing with Savannah, their voices intertwined, singing of desire, of want, of deep, ragged longing. They didn’t look at each other as they sang, Brynn couldn’t, not yet - maybe not ever. She felt like she was confessing her feelings over and over until it was dizzying. But as for the song? Even an amateur like Brynn could hear it was devastating.
“It’s… beautiful,” she said, inadequately.
Savannah looked her square in the eye.
“It’s the best song I’ve ever written. And it’s mostly you. Your first songwriting credit! What the fuck, Brynn?” She shook her head again in disbelief.
