Page 16 of First Verse

Still firmly in the bubble of my personal space, Anna bounces on her heels and screeches. The high-pitched sound makes me wince.

“And? Do you love it? You have to love it. It’s unreal. So freaking good.” She spins around, almost slapping me in the face with her hair-sprayed beach waves. “Where’s your phone? Let’s put it on.”

I share another look with Rye. This time I let him see exactly how much I like his newest girlfriend, which is not at all.

“Anna, give it a rest,” he says in a tired voice that tells me their four-month relationship is on its last legs.

She pretends she doesn’t hear him—or she can’t be bothered to read the room—because she grabs my phone off the counter.

“What’s your passcode? Oh wait, I remember it.” Her fingers fly over the screen, and I drown in regret for letting her borrow my phone last week to call hers when she couldn’t find it in her purse.

The Slow Pulp song ends abruptly, and a second later, a dreamy, piano-driven intro begins. Moody and airy with a fuzzy bassline, it makes me think of salty ocean spray and moonlight.

Just like it’s supposed to.

Sea glass and churning foam

Her eyes call me home

Now I’m trapped in her snare

But she isn’t here

She’s nowhere

Heterochromia

Heterochromia

Wilder’s voice has changed in the last three years. I can tell he’s worked on it with a professional. His range has expanded; his pitch is perfect. Now his baritone is so smooth it melts in my ears, with a raspy edge he uses to a spine-tingling effect on certain notes.

The track itself is arranged beautifully. The piano, the synth, the guitar and drums that build and culminate in the bridge, where they pound like a furious heartbeat.

There’s a second chance

To be what you said you’d be

Come home to me

Come home to me

Another lovely transition leads to the last chorus and a fading outro. The final note of piano hangs delicately in the air until Anna shatters it with another screech. She throws herself dramatically against the kitchen table, rattling plates.

“I’m literally dead. Can you believe how beautiful that was? You’re so lucky. I’d shit myself if someone as fuck-hot as Wilder Ashburn wrote a song about me.”

Rye drops his head to his chest.

I pick up my knife and massacre more cucumbers.

* * *

Rye and I eat alone.

We talk about our families, our jobs, and my show at a local venue tomorrow night. Rye is a natural chatterbox and carries us from one topic to the next with barely a pause. But the skin around his eyes is tight, his smile not its usual wattage.

A cord of tension hangs in the air, poised to choke us with all the topics we’re avoiding. Like how after Anna made me listen to the song, Rye discreetly ordered her an Uber, then took her outside and dumped her.

And we definitely don’t talk about the fact the song, “Waves,”has racked up over a hundred thousand streams already, its instant popularity due to a two-month-long social media strategy. The kind that points to deep pockets, with professional behind the scenes videos of the four-man band, aesthetic track teases, and photoshoots with famous photographers.

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