Page 12 of That Weekend in Paris
I lift my glass, take a sip of the cold mineral water, try to sort my response into something that won’t be about me. “What’s happened, Klein?”
He shrugs. “I’m just seeing life a little differently these days,” he says. “I chased after this thing for a long time, and I don’t know what I thought it would do for me. Make me happy, I guess. And there are moments of that, for sure. It’s been a pretty incredible ride. But when it gets right down to it, it hasn’t made me into a better person. I’m pretty sure it’s made me a worse person.”
“I don’t know what you’re using for a gauge of comparison, but I’m aware of some of the things you’ve done for other people, Klein, and you’ve used a lot of what you’ve achieved for good.”
“With money, that’s not that hard.”
“Not everyone sees it that way,” I say. “There are a lot of people who aren’t as willing to share their good fortune with others.”
He shrugs. “At some point along the way, I let it all go to my head. I started to believe that good wasn’t good enough. That maybe I needed perfect.”
I place my fork on my plate, brush my hand across my napkin. “Is this about the breakup with Riley?”
“I don’t know if it’s as much about the breakup as it is about why I broke up with her. And something that happened because of it.”
I want to ask him what, but I force myself not to because I have a feeling it is deeply personal. And now doesn’t seem like the time. “It would be a great loss for you to give up your music. What if you just took some time off and looked at it fresh in a couple of months?”
He shrugs, shakes his head a little. “It doesn’t feel like that will make a difference.” He looks at me for a moment and then, “What is it you wanted to see me about, Dillon?”
I consider not telling him now because, in light of what he’s just shared with me, it’s almost certainly pointless. It seems shallow, as well. I draw in a deep breath, a flutter of awkwardness in my stomach. I decide to jump in, drop the pretense of beating around the bush. “I’m thinking about starting my own company. I’ve asked Josh for the rights to all of my songs. I’m no longer under contract with him.”
I can see I’ve surprised him. “That’s probably a good thing,” Klein says, measured.
“Yeah.” I hesitate, looking for the right words. “I wanted to see you because I’m hoping you might consider moving to my new publishing house.”
“Oh.” His surprise is clear. “I’m happy for you, Dillon. I think you’ll do well. I feel sure a good number of Josh’s writers are there because of you. I was certainly one of them.”
I know this to be true, but even so, hearing him say it surprises me a little. “It was just lucky for me that I was at the Bluebird that night. Someone else would have signed you for sure.”
“Maybe. But I don’t know that I would have taken their offer the way I did with you.”
The admission forms a connection between us that is nearly tangible. I want to latch on to it, use it as leverage for the hope that Klein will somehow renew his love for the music that got him to where he is today. “I know this thing we do cannot be just about success. Once you’ve achieved a certain level of that, the focus shifts back to a need for it to mean something. For it to matter somehow in the big picture.”
“Has that been true for you?” he asks.
“Yeah. It has. Being named songwriter of the year was something bigger than anything I had allowed myself to dream. But after that, I went through this period where I felt like whatever I was writing had to do more than make the top of a chart. I wanted to know that I had something to say that would move someone. Make them feel like they weren’t as alone as they thought they were. And for a while, I couldn’t write anything that lived up to that.”
“What changed that? Why are you still writing?”
I consider this for a moment, but the answer is easy. “Because I don’t know who I am without it.”
I see that this resonates with him, recognize the flare of kinship in his eyes. “I’ve been trying to picture who I’ll be after all this. I have to admit it’s not clear.”
“Is there anything else you’ve ever wanted to do?”
“Not that I can remember,” he says, his expression resigned to the fact that he’ll most likely be lost without this thing that has been his identity as writing has been mine.
I want to find the words to convince him that leaving his music behind would be a mistake, but I can’t dig anything up from the well of disappointment inside me. Even as I wonder if it is entirely selfish, I realize I feel the kind of grief I am sure most of his fans will feel at the thought of him no longer making the music they have loved from him. But something tells me that arguing this point right now isn’t the thing to do. And so I drop it under the realization that maybe what Klein needs is a friend. Someone to listen, hear what it is that has brought him to this point.
“What time do you have to be at rehearsal?” I ask.
“Four o’clock,” he says.
“Well, you have a few hours until then. Would you like to look around the city with me?”
He hesitates. I force myself to let him make the call without any further prodding from me.
“I thought I might visit the Louvre this afternoon.” He glances down, suddenly awkward. “I know. I don’t look like the museum type.”
