Page 48 of Lost Lyrics

My family.

This was living. This was love. This was my future.

Chapter 13

SLIP

In Maddy’s condo in Vancouver, I tinkered on my guitar, waiting for her to get home from work. There was nothing unusual about late September rain falling constantly, the ocean forming a dark blanket across to the islands, or the busy road noise drifting up from the street below. But the twang tightening in my chest was new. So was the pull in the pit of my gut.

I stared at the pile of notebooks scattered across the chaise. One of Phil’s peeked out from underneath my pads full of lyrics and music. I hadn’t been able to open it. I was too afraid of what it might contain. Phil’s private thoughts. His lyrical prowess. Or just too many heartbreaking memories. But now the faded book called me. Called me in a way I hadn’t anticipated or expected.

It had been a year since my band and I had finished touring. I’d been sober every day since. The craving for a drink or a hit of drugs no longer ruled me. Going out with friends and being around others indulging in booze had gotten easier. I didn’t want to get wasted or wake up hungover. I was good. I had more energy, slept well, and lived healthily. But now my notebooks and Phil’s had sparked a new addiction inside of me...something that burned hotter and brighter every day. Something I had no power over, no control over, no way ofstopping ever...The need to work on new music had ignited, and I couldn’t switch it off.

Since moving to Bowen Island, I’d played nearly every day, but I hadn’t written many songs, composed any great tunes, or created anything serious. I’d jotted down random lyrics and notes here and there just to capture what was in my head. But since Maddy had gone back to work in early July, and we’d spent time here in the city, new melodies and words kept me awake at night.

So did Maddy’s unrest.

She hadn’t told me what was bothering her. We talked about anything and everything. There was no problem with our communication. I guessed she needed time to process whatever was troubling her before she could discuss it with me.

I put down my guitar, hauled myself off the sofa, and ambled into the kitchen. I grabbed an alcohol-free beer from the fridge and resumed my position in the living room. As I cracked off the lid, Phil’s notebook caught my attention again.

Shit!

What was with that?

Maybe it was time.

Was I ready to read his words?

I took a sip of my drink, closed my eyes, and inhaled a deep breath. Memories of Phil’s smile and laughter, and us playing music together, danced through my mind.Fuck.I missed him. But grief no longer crippled me. I had a lot to live for. Be grateful for. I’d beaten my addiction. I had a beautiful wife. I had fantastic friends.

The break after the tour and rehab had healed me physically, emotionally, and mentally. I was in a good place.

But . . . could I do this? Open his notebook?

Yeah . . . I can.

With a shaky hand, I reached for Phil’s lost lyrics. Sinkingback into the sofa, I rested the pad on my legs and ran my hand over the cover. I smirked at Phil’s scraggly, messy handwriting scribbled across the front:

Property of Phil Glover

PRIVATE

FUCK OFF!

I turned to the first page full of inked words, with random lines crossed out and new ones written above them. The page was dated six years ago.

I promised you the world, but somehow that came undone

I promised to love you, but somewhere it all went wrong

I promised to be yours, but something else had a hold on my heart

I promised to stand by you, but every day I fell apart

You deserved to be loved by someone better than me

You deserved to shine, not be held back by the likes of me

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