Page 16 of Love Deep
“I think songwriting is the same,” I say.
“Have you ever written any songs?”
I pull in a breath. “I have. I’ve cowritten quite a bit as well. It’s fun, writing with other people. Collaborating. You know, I haven’t done it in a while. I used to produce as well.” It’s been a while since I’ve done any writing. The business side of having a record label is more and more demanding.
“I didn’t know that,” Rosey chimes in, and it’s like she’s broken through some kind of private bubble Juniper and I had been in. It feels sharper and less welcome than it should.
I don’t take my eyes from Juniper. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to see.
“I’d love to hear your songs sometime,” she says, and then as if she suggested something entirely intimate, she jolts slightly and shakes her head. “I mean, if you were comfortable sharing them, and obviously, I don’t expect you to?—”
I place my hand on her arm. “It’s fine. I’d love to share with you. But it’s not like how I imagine paintingwould be. The songwriting I’ve done was very collaborative. So, it’s hard to necessarily tell what I did and what a particular artist did or another producer or cowriter.”
“Yeah, painting is quite solitary, but then again, it’s really not. At least it never feels lonely. Quite the opposite, actually. I can lose myself in my studio because I’m so completely in the work, if that makes sense?” She talks passionately, and she comes to life when she’s describing the process.
“Yeah, it makes complete sense,” I say.
“Do you wish it could be full-time?” Byron asks. “I remember you at school, and art seemed to be who you were.”
Juniper takes a big breath. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I’m not a kid anymore. Life can’t be one thing. And I might fall out of love with it if I had to make a living from painting. Would I feel pressure to create, you know? Maybe if I were some trust-fund kid who didn’t have to worry about the water bill, it would be different.”
“I get that,” I say. “I love parts of my industry. The creativity. The passion. The life that it creates in people. It’s the show-business side that I hate. The pretense. The image. The packaging. Sometimes, it takes the shine off of things.”
Juniper laughs, and I can’t help but smile. “You’re a music industry executive. Surely, the image and the packaging are what sells records. Isn’t that what you’re trying to do?”
“I’d probably be more financially successful if that’s what I loved. It’s not about the money for me. Not anymore.”
Juniper doesn’t say anything. She just nods.
“Maybe that’s why music works for you, Fisher, andwhy art works for you, Juniper,” Byron says. “Money isn’t the primary consideration for either of you.”
Is it me, or is Byron trying to matchmake now by pointing out things we have in common?
“Still going to introduce you to some people if I can,” I say.
Juniper smiles awkwardly, like she doesn’t want to expect anything of me. She’s so humble. I’m used to seeing thehumble act. The public likes nothing more than a successful, super talented artist to act like they’re working a day job at Duane Reade. Often, it’s the ones who come across as humble on the chat-show circuit who are the biggest monsters.
But with Juniper, there’s nothing fake about her modesty. None of it is for show. Maybe it’s because she’s never made it big. It makes me want to know more. I want to know everything about her.
The four of us fall into easy conversation. I’m used to the dynamic when it’s Byron, Rosey, and me, but with Juniper, it doesn’t feel off-balance. It’s the opposite. Somehow, she fits in like it’s always been the four of us. She teases Byron, just like any of us would. She laughs at Rosey’s take on the world. There’s no pretense. No guards up.
And when I have her attention, everything falls away, and it’s like nothing else matters.
SEVEN
Juniper
I’m pretty sure tonight will go down as one of my favorite evenings of my life that doesn’t involve my daughter. Great food, great wine, and some of the very best company. And I’m getting a ride home after I snagged a ride on the employee bus on the way up here.
“I had a really good time tonight,” Fisher says from where he’s sitting next to me in the driver’s seat.
I can’t remember the last time a man drove me home after a… not that we’ve been on a date.
“I was just thinking the exact same thing. And thank you for bringing me home. You really didn’t have to. It’s just on the left, in the gap between the trees.”
He clicks on the turn signal of Byron’s truck, which he’s borrowing, although there’s no one else on this road, and then he turns into my driveway.
“It’s my pleasure. And anyway, Rosey would have never forgiven me if I hadn’t.”
