Page 54 of Until You Say Stay
She leads us through the crowd toward a group gathered near the windows overlooking the street. The space opens up here, floor-to-ceiling glass reflecting the city lights back at us. I notice Lark’s hand fidgeting slightly with her clutch, the only tell that she’s nervous underneath all the confidence she’s projecting.
“Everyone, this is Lark Reyes,” Maya announces to the group with enthusiasm. “The artist I was telling you about. Lark, this is Harrison, one of our senior A&R executives.”
Harrison is maybe mid-forties with salt-and-pepper hair. He extends his hand. “Lark, really great to finally meet you. We’ve been impressed with what we’ve been seeing.”
“Thank you,” Lark says, shaking his hand firmly.
“Of course,” Harrison says, leaning in slightly like he’s sharing something important. “Seems like you’ve got some loyal fans developing, and they’re actively sharing your content. That’s gold in this industry.”
“I’ve been really intentional about engagement,” Lark says, and I can hear her confidence building. “Responding to comments, sharing behind-the-scenes process stuff.”
“That’s exactly what we like to see,” Harrison says, nodding. “Artists who understand the business side of things.” He pauses, studying her with interest. “So tell me, what’s your songwriting process like? Your lyrics have this narrative quality that’s really compelling. Very story-driven.”
And just like that, Lark’s off. The nervousness fades completely as she talks about her music, her hands moving expressively as she explains how she builds songs from small observations or overheard conversations. She’s funny too, making self-deprecating jokes about her writing process that have Harrison and the others laughing.
I watch her work the room, and something twists in my chest. She’s magnetic without even trying. Smart, funny, talented as hell. Every person she talks to leans in, interested in what she’s saying.
“I have about three hundred voice memos on my phone that are just me humming melodies at random times,” she says with a grin. “My neighbors probably think I’m losing it. Just this woman wandering around her apartment singing the same three notes over and over trying to figure out if they work together.”
“That’s the creative process though,” Harrison laughs, clearly charmed. And who wouldn’t be. She’s incredible. “Some of our biggest artists have the same habit. The voice memos, the random middle-of-the-night recording sessions. It’s all part of it.”
Maya introduces her to more people over the next half hour. A producer named Sam who immediately starts asking technical questions about her vocal range and recording experience. Another artist on the label, a guy named Devon Kane whoLark clearly recognizes and tries not to fangirl over. Each conversation, I watch her get more comfortable, more herself.
I hang back mostly, letting her do her thing. This is her moment, not mine, and she doesn’t need me hovering. But I can’t help watching her. Can’t help feeling proud of her. I’m not her actual boyfriend. I’m just here to boost her image, make her look good for the label.
Except it doesn’t feel fake when I watch her light up talking about music. It doesn’t feel like a business arrangement when I realize I’d rather be here watching her shine than anywhere else.
Fuck. I’m in trouble.
After about forty-five minutes of networking, Lark finds me near the bar. Some producer had pulled her away earlier with an enthusiastic wave and a “I promise I’ll give her back!” and a wink.
“Hey there, thought I’d lost you to the industry vultures,” I say as she makes her way over.
“You nearly did,” she says, leaning against the bar beside me with a small sigh of relief. “I managed to break away but Idesperatelyneed a five-minute break where I’m not trying to be impressive. Plus my face literally hurts from smiling so much. I need a cocktail to give me the courage to go back out there.”
I laugh, signaling the bartender. “What would you like? I’m at your service.”
She considers this, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on the bar. “Ugh, what to pick. Something that tastes good but won’t make me embarrass myself. I still have to be charming and articulate for at least another hour and I can’t do that if I’m making weird faces at my drink or slurring my words.”
“So no tequila shots then?” I tease. “Or should I order you a Long Island iced tea? I remember a certain story about a high school party…”
“Absolutely not,” she says, shooting me a withering look that could probably kill plants before breaking into a grin. “I learned that lesson the hard way and I’m never revisiting it. I should have never told you that. That night isbannedfrom all future discussions.”
I hold up my hands in surrender, laughing. “Message received. Long Island iced teas are off the table forever. How about a French 75?”
“Ooh, that sounds good actually,” she says, her face lighting up. “I made that for someone a few days ago, but it’s been ages since I’ve had one myself.”
I order her drink and another beer for myself. When the bartender slides the elegant champagne flute across to her, she takes a careful sip and makes an appreciative sound.
“Okay, this is dangerous,” she announces. “I forgot how good these are.”
“That’s how they get you,” I say, amused.
She takes another small sip, then turns to survey the room before looking back at me. “This is insane though, right? Thanks for being here, by the way. Moral support and all that. Really helps to have someone to ground me when I start overthinking everything. And to have arm candy that makes me look good.”
I laugh at that. “Happy to provide aesthetic enhancement to your professional reputation.”
“Thank god for that.” She takes another sip, her eyes scanning the room before landing back on me. “Speaking of music, Sam was telling me he used to work with Joni Mitchell back in the day. I mean, can you believe that? I just about died. I wanted to ask a million questions but I didn’t want to seem like a total fangirl.”
