Page 35 of Songbird
Less than sixty seconds after the screen door swings closed behind her, the uplifting notes of Rosie’s playing float toward me on a breeze of warm air. Her voice dances above the music—a strong soprano that vibrates with vulnerability but also hope and determination and relief that she’s finally doing what she was born to do.
She sounds like a songbird at sunrise and damn it if it doesn’t make me feel things.
I return the other guitars to the closet, and while I’m in there, I dig around in my overstuffed dresser for the fat notebook buried in the bottom drawer. With one ear on the music playing in stop-starts on the porch, I sink onto the edge of the bed, flip open the tattered book, and thumb through the pages.
Music. Lyrics. Poems. Ideas. Things to remember. Things I don’t want to forget. Page after page of nothing special. Nothing important. Nothing worthwhile. Page after page of everything that’s ever meant anything to me.
When I reach the end, I close the book and return it to its hiding place. Then I go and sit at the dining table and pretend to work while I listen to Rosie strumming her guitar and singing on the porch.
twelve
Rosie
I’vetriedhardnotto become a caricature of celebrity or a stereotypical pop diva. I never wanted a reputation for being selfish and self-absorbed, or unapproachable and ungrateful, or out of touch with the people who made it possible to do what I do and have what I have.
I grew up with next to nothing. My grandmother raised me on love and a veteran’s pension in a two-bedroom trailer just outside of Nashville. We didn’t have a lot, but I remember being happy, and I like to think I’m still her little girl on the inside, even when the outside looks very different. I have a driver and security, and I always get the best table at restaurants. I have no privacy, and I can’t walk down the street without being mobbed, but designers throw clothes at me, and I’ve got a five-figure monthly budget for skincare alone. My nails are always polished. My hair is always colored and styled. I have a personal trainer and a private chef, a stylist and a beauty team. A yoga instructor who comes by five times a week to run classes in my own studio at home. Gram’s old trailer would be dwarfed by the master suitein my LA house, but looking the way I do and living how I live are part of my brand. They’re things I’ve had to come to terms with.
But money does funny things to people, both those who have it and those who want it, and I’ve spent nearly a decade having everyday obstacles removed from my path before I’m forced to overcome them myself. I’m used to getting what I want, and in lots of ways my life is easy, which means it’s easy to get lost in it. Not the money so much, but what the money enables me to do.
It makes it possible for me to not have to think about anything else while I’m writing or recording or performing. I can tune out the world, be absorbed in my art, and forget that anything else exists outside my own imagination. When my head is filled with poetry and chord progressions and arrangements instead of worries and fears and memories that make me ache, I actuallywantto be there. When I’m creating, every other noise cuts out like someone flipped a switch. I’ve heard some people call it flow, but to me it’s like a vortex or a parallel universe. Some undefinable magic that makes it possible to leave all the bad stuff behind and just beme.
So when I raise my head from Finn’s guitar and let my eyes pan up from its glossy body and steel strings, over the worn whitewashed boards of the rear porch and past Dakota’s sleeping form, to the river sparkling in the distance and the sun almost touching the horizon, I’ve got no idea what day it is, or what time, or how long I’ve been sitting outside writing and playing. There’s a plate of half-eaten toast and a mug of half-finished honey-lemon tea on the table beside me, but I don’t remember consuming either, let alone making them. There’s a light cotton blanket over my knees and a bottle of water close at hand, next to a stack of sharpened pencils, a brand-new notebook, and a pile of pale pink picks, and I’ve got no idea where any of it came from. I’ve lost my bearings completely.
I push the blanket to one side, and taking care not to wake Dakota, I move into the house. It’s quiet and shows no sign of Finn, but the sight of the kitchen makes my stomach rumble, and I realize I’m hungry.
The fridge, which was all but empty the last time I opened it, is stuffed with groceries. I check the pantry and it’s the same there, almost overflowing with food. The living room, where Finn has been sleeping every night since I humiliated myself by behaving like a cat in heat, is neat as a pin, with Finn’s pillows and blankets folded and stacked at the end of the sofa and Gram’s playing cards set atop those. The windows are thrown open and a gentle breeze ruffles the patch-covered curtains. There are even fresh-cut flowers in a glass jar on the coffee table. It feels so homey and complete that I wrap my arms around myself and let the gratitude roll over me in a wave. Good fortune comes in lots of different packages, and the best of them don’t cost a single dime.
I’m checking the date on Finn’s open laptop—it’s been two days since he gave me his guitar, even though it’s impossible that so much time has passed—when a tough grunt floats in through a window. I cross the space to peek outside, then duck behind the curtain before Finn notices me.
My stomach tightens as I nudge the curtain aside and watch with a careful eye. Finn is in the front yard with a shovel, cutting into the ground along a path he’s mapped out with stakes and pieces of string, tossing loads of dirt onto a growing mound of earth behind him. He’s sweaty and shirtless, his tattoos dusted with dirt, the tops of his shoulders pink from an afternoon in the sun, the muscles in his arms flexed and quivering.
Finn is the kind of beautiful that makes you look twice. He turns and slams the shovel into the soil, his slick back undulating and his ass tensing under his jeans as he sets his boot and heaves his body weight to slice into the ground. His blond hair fallsacross his forehead, and he sweeps it back with a rough hand that leaves behind a line of dirt on his cheek.
I’ve been writing about Finn today, lyrics and compositions that practically pen themselves, and it’s been confronting to see the degree to which he manifests in my music. I didn’t start out with Finn as my muse. My first few tracks were introspective, angry and cathartic, pop-rock female rage anthems spilling onto the page in an exorcism of the pain and frustration I’ve kept bottled up for years. And while I’m nowhere near done unpacking all the ways Chip has hurt me, the baggage Ihaveunpacked has somehow made space for other sensations, emotions, and desires.
I watch Finn work and marvel at how he manages to pull off the right amount of arrogance, like he knows what he’s got and what he’s worth and has nothing to prove, and while he’d never go looking for trouble, he can take care of it if he needs to. There’s something about him that feels dangerous. It was there when I met him a year ago and even here at home, where he should be more relaxed, it exudes from him in waves.
I don’t even notice my breath coming faster until a throb between my legs makes my underwear damp, and I jump back from the window like I’ve been caught doing something bad. What kicked off in bed with Finn the other morning has grown more intense after a few days with my guitar, and having a place to feel safe and emotionally unfettered has freed something else that’s been repressed for too long. My need for sex.
It’s been a long time since I was this turned on by a man, and I’d eventually decided I wasn’t wired that way. I’d only ever been with one man, and any attraction I used to feel for Chip was long gone, waning as the anxiety of being with him increased until sex became a task I performed only when he wanted it. He hadn’t made a move in the bedroom in at least three months, and in our six years together, he never bothered to make me come. Ever.
Unable to resist one last peep around the curtain, I bite my lip at the sweat dripping from his chiseled chest and remember my dream about sinking my nails into his inked biceps. There’s no doubt in my mind that Finn’s cockiness works just as well in the bedroom as it does out. He would never leave a woman unsatisfied.
After a quick change into yoga pants and a black tank, then a visit to the bathroom to brush my teeth and comb my hair, I spot a second mason jar of flowers, this one a spray of pink and purple wildflowers. They’re so simple and thoughtful, and I’m suddenly awash with shame. I wanted to be a good house guest, and instead I’ve behaved like a spoiled child who expects to be waited on hand and foot.
With a renewed determination to do something to repay Finn’s generosity, I raid the kitchen for what I need to make my grandmother’s baked rice pudding. I haven’t eaten it in years—all that milk and sugar placed it in thepractically poisoncolumn of Chip’s nutrition plan—but I always watched when Gram made it and I’ll never forget the recipe. It was her favorite dessert, and nothing sayshometo me like a bowl of her pudding with peaches and cream.
Once the dish is in the oven and I’ve set the timer, I dig out my sneakers and head outside. Finn’s so engrossed in his work that I’m standing there for three whole minutes, admiring him close up and feeling all warm and tingly, before he notices me.
“Oh, hey.” He plants the shovel in the ground and leans on the handle. “Did you need something?”
I cross my arms under my breasts. “I’m sorry I’ve been checked out the last few days. I haven’t cooked or cleaned up after myself or done any of the things good guests are supposed to do. It happens sometimes when I’m writing. I zone out completely and forget anyone else exists. But that’s no excuse, and I apologize.”
Finn drops his head to one side and squints at me. “Why are you sorry for doing your job?”
“I…” I frown and think about his question. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t need to explain yourself to me—or to anyone. You know that, right?”
