Page 88 of Under One Roof

Captain

Or I will assume something happened to you, and I’ll be heading directly for Holiday Inn-Columbus with backup from friends who have been awfully bored since SEALs retirement.

Don’t threaten me with a good time.

Captain

Don’t try me, baby.

I drove right to Dahlia’s house and all but collapsed into her arms when she opened the door, both happy and sad tears dampening her T-shirt. We stayed up talking for hours and fell asleep in her bed while Vic took the bed in my old room, only for us to wake up the next morning and immediately get to work.

Yet it’s notworking.

It’s been over a week, but I haven’t been able to come up with anything new or close to exciting. I know it takes time to get back into the creative space, but I was able to write while I was in Pennsylvania. I felt really inspired there. Here? Nada.

It’s like my brain stopped functioning somewhere around the Arizona/California border when it occurred to me that I never actually told Griffin that I loved him.

That I love him.

I will always love him.

He is everything I want and more than I could possibly need.

All I can think about is the last song that played in the car, “Please Call Home” by the Allman Brothers, so every lyric I attempt to write is something along the lines of I’ll beg to come home/let me come home/can I come home?

Not to mention that little ditty about call me baby one more time and I’ll come running.

“Maybe we need to take a break,” Dahlia says from her chair in the studio, where we’ve been writing with a man named Uther, hired by the label.

“Another one? We just got back from lunch.”

I rub my hands over my face and flip through pages in my notebook. “Why don’t we just go back to the one we were working with yesterday?”

“No.” He flicks a pen in a circle. “Number one, it doesn’t fit Dahlia’s voice. Number two, it’s not the vibe. It’s too sad. Like a Sarah McLachlan dog commercial. I mean, what the fuck are we doing here?”

Needless to say, Uther thinks I’m shit.

Not,theshit.

Butshit.

“That’s rude,” Dahlia says, defending me, but it’s true. I’m leaning way more into the crying while staring out the window at rain vibes than sticky dance floors and hot summer nights, like we’re going for with this album.

“You know what…” I stand. “I’m gonna…go for a walk.”

I’m halfway through the door when Dahlia follows. “I’m coming with you.”

I hear Uther groan in frustration, but I’m too over him to care.

Outside, there isn’t much to look at. NoHo is an industrial neighborhood with almost no greenery. It’s all gray and concrete and quiet sidewalks. Not much to get the creative juices flowing or releasing tension on a walk.

Dahlia stays quiet until we round the block, heading for a Starbucks, although I know caffeine won’t kick-start anything. But I’m glad she’s humoring me.

“So, what’s up?” she finally asks.

I shrug. “I feel…clogged.”

“My abuela has a great tea for that.”

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