Page 64 of Before We're More Than Friends
I sighed. “Maybe. But nothing too overstimulating, please.”
“Thank you.” He grinned. “Have you ever heard of What Do You Bean?”
“Is that supposed to be a trendy café or an awful band name?”
He laughed. “The most amazing café I’ve been to. Great live music, great atmosphere, great food. A great place for inspiration.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Have you written anything since you moved here?”
I shook my head.
“If you’re free at seven, my favorite band is performing there. I can drive us.” He leaned back in his chair. “All up to you, birthday boy.”
“I’ll check with my parents to make sure we’re not having dinner at that time, but if we’re not, I’ll be there.”
Hayden flashed me a smile. “It’s a date.”
“Hey, now, I didn’t promise any favors,” I teased.
He chuckled. “That’s too bad because I think I’ve finally found the love of my life.”
Hayden wasn’t wrong about the café having an amazing atmosphere. I’d expected it to be just another brick-walled building with good lighting and the sweet aroma of coffee and pastries, but this was so much more than that. What Do You Bean was more like a restaurant than a café. It was bigger than a typical café, with booths and tables of different sizes.
There was a moderately sized stage in the back where a band of four guys and a girl were playing. The guy with reddish-brown hair sang into the microphone with a grin, fully absorbed in the love song he sang. His voice was warm but compelling, reminding me of something I’d hear on the radio.
“This is where I usually sit.” Hayden sat down in a big booth, and I sat across from him. “The perfect view of the best band in the world.”
As the lead singer lulled the crowd with his voice, the two guitarists, a guy with brown curls and a brunette with blonde highlights, backed him with their harmonious vocals. The keyboardist, a lanky strawberry-blond guy, and the drummer, a guy with tight black curls, both bobbed their heads as they mouthed the lyrics.
“They sound great,” I told Hayden. “Who are they?”
“Somewhere in the Sky. They started performing here last fall.” Hayden drummed his fingers against the table. “The lead singer is Ivan, the guitarists are Everett and Celia, the drummer is Nick, and the keyboardist is Eli. They perform here every Friday night, sometimes on the weekends. Eli’s aunt and uncle own the café.”
I smiled. “I like them already.”
“Of course you do. They’re the most underrated band in Nevada, if not the whole world.” Hayden sighed. “Can you believe that they’ve never performed anywhere else?”
“Really?” From the way the band performed, I knew they were professionals, not just some band that got gigs because they had connections.
“Yeah, it’s disgusting. Every song of theirs is a banger, even the bad ones.” Hayden closed his eyes as he belted the words to the song, and I remembered how much I liked his voice. It was higher than I’d expected it to be, but he was able to carry each word.
“You’re a good singer,” I said.
“Thanks, but you’re better.” Hayden pulled out a notebook with stickers on the cover, a few pieces of paper, and a few pens. “I thought we’d brainstorm lyrics and talk about some things.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “What things?”
“You’ll see.” He smiled before handing me the sheets of paper and a blue pen. “I don’t have a spare notebook for you, but just write for a few minutes. About anything.” He flippedhis notebook—full of doodles and song lyrics—to an empty page. “I always dump whatever is in my mind before forming a song. It’s much more helpful than trying to write the verses from scratch.”
“But I don’t know what to write.”
“Use my most recent brainstorm as an example.” He pushed his notebook toward me. “Just don’t flip too far back. Your invitation into my mind has its limits.”
“I’m fine with that.” I read his notes, taking in his neat handwriting. Some of his notes were in different colors. He’d crossed things out a few times, but the page still looked like artwork. The notes consisted of his thoughts about not fitting in, though I couldn’t pinpoint what parts of his life he was referring to. I flipped a page back to where almost everything was crossed out. “You definitely have a lot going on.”
“The process is messy, but the end product is everything.” He pulled his notebook back toward him. “That’s how I came up with ‘Don’t Pass Me By.’”
“I love it,” I said, genuinely meaning it. “You poured a lot of yourself into it.”
“That’s what songwriting is for.” He tossed his braids back. “I’ll get some drinks and food. What do you want?” He nodded to the menu that sat on our table.
