Page 125 of Never Over
He rolls his eyes. “This morning you were writing lyrics about how magic must exist because I put you in a thrall.”
Magic must exist, must be
the fist I’m under
Deep into his thrall
I’m happy here, won’t wander
“Fair,” I say. “Is that what it’s like for you?”
He shakes his head. “It’s so much worse, Paige, because your words are so much better.”
Misha, Penny, and the Etta Girls are breathing fire into my melodies. The more bored they get of regurgitating their old songs every night, the more focused they become on creating something new. Meanwhile, I’m writing songs with fluffy titles like “Bubble” and slightly more dramatic ones like “your blood, my veins” and even a full sentence title, which has been a random, important bucket list item for a while now: “here’s a song I wrote you from the future.”
One morning in Charlotte, Liam snatches the guitar away, crawls over me, and says, “Need you, right now.”
“That song wasn’t evenaboutyou,” I say, smirking.
I’d been writing from the perspective of Tinker Bell, about her jealousy of Wendy. A song with a sinister, vindictive edge, just for fun. Writing that way never occurred to me in school and wasn’t encouraged by my teachers, who, with a few exceptions, played so far into the tortured artist role I think they’d forgotten how to spark joy in the process.
But under the influence of my friends, I’m… playing. Realizing that all music—allart—is made-up. It’s imagined, created by hand, which means it’s as real as a dream, as false as gravity.
“Yeah, I know,” Liam says. “I just—yourvoice. I would—” He pushes me flat on my back and stares at my throat, his jaw tight. “All I had for four years were those scant recordings, and now I get to hear you sing all the time, and it’s just—unbelievable, what you sound like to me. I’m fucking addicted to it.”
“Liam,” I say, experimentally.
His eyes darken, a shadow over still water. “Yeah, specifically that. Say it again.”
I do. Our clothes come off quickly, and when he’s inside me, Liam’s sentences turn exalting. And he whispers, “I’m not great with pretty words. But when we do this, the things I say to you are the closest I get to poetry.”
A few days later, it triggers something in my memory from years back:I can’t paint or design or write songs, but I can offer someone a slice of happiness by throwing the ball well for nine innings.
“Do you miss baseball?” I ask him on our drive to Washington, DC.
“Every day,” he answers.
When we get to the venue the next morning, I watch him unwaveringly. Wondering if this job, as good as Liam is at it, sparks enough joy in the process.
On the greenway in Atlanta, when I’d asked him what he wanted—he hadn’t mentioned anything related to work. Even though on the first night of the tour, he’d said something about a possible promotion.
Hadn’t he?
I’m still lost in my head when the Etta Girls approach me to ask my permission to perform a few of our cowritten songs tonight, crediting me by name.
“I didn’t even know that was allowed,” I say in awe.
Gretta winces. “I mean. Our manager would certainly notadviseit without paperwork filed through the U.S. Copyright Office. But the songs are technically already copyrighted since we made recordings of our new versions. If you trust us—”
“I do,” I say quickly.
“And if you truly want us to put these on our next album—”
“I do. Ifyoudo.”
Both the twins nod.
“Then it’s about time you sign with a music publisher who can represent your interests,” Gretta concludes. “I know you’ve got the one interested dude, but you owe it to yourself to allowfor some competition. This is the best way to expedite that process, especially since we’d need to get studio time booked right after tour.”
