Page 43 of That Weekend in Paris
AS IT TURNS out, we write until almost three in the morning. We take a break at eleven to order a pot of coffee from room service. I’m not sure I even need it to stay awake because I’m so cranked by the creative process of working with Dillon. I have a feeling the song is going to be the one that tells my story more than anything I’ve ever written myself.
I’ve co-written with plenty of other writers in Nashville, so this isn’t a first for me. But somehow it’s different. It’s like I don’t mind revealing parts of myself to her that I would be reluctant to share with a stranger, someone I didn’t know before we walked into the writing session together. With Dillon, it’s like I’m writing with an old friend. Someone I’ve known the majority of my life.Someone who knows the shadows and fractures and ugly parts, as well as what’s come since.
But I haven’t known Dillon all my life. We’ve actually spent very little time together in the big picture of things, and yet I’m comfortable with her. I have the feeling that she accepts me for who I am and not just the shiny, polished up Nashville country music star version.
I glance at my phone at 2:52 A.M., noting the moment when it feels like the song is completely finished. I sit back in my chair and put my guitar on the floor. “I’m pretty sure I’ve never written anything this good.”
Dillon smiles, and her face is lit with the same kind of happiness I’m feeling right at the moment. “It’s amazing, isn’t it,” she says, “when something comes together and feels so right.”
“This is all you,” I say. “You asked the questions, pushed the buttons, forced me to look at things that I would never have looked at on my own, or with anyone else I’ve ever written with.”
She drops her gaze, and when she looks back up at me, I can see exactly what my words have meant to her. “That makes me feel so good, Klein, but this is your song. No one else could sing this but you. It’s your story.”
“I really don’t know how to thank you.”
“There’s no need,” she says, “and you know, I don’t want writing credit for this because this one isn’t mine.”
“Oh, it is,” I say, “and you will definitely be getting co-writer status.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she says. “Honestly, it was such a pleasure to spend these last few hours creating something that turned out so right.”
“Want to play it through one more time?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says.
“Just one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“You have to sing it with me.”
“Oh no,” she says. “You sing.”
“Nope. That’s my final request before we send this out into the world.”
“Fine,” she concedes, reluctant.
“Seriously, come on over here. Sit by me.”
She gets up from her chair, reluctantly walks over to sit on the corner of the bed. “I’ll whisper sing, how about that?” she says.
I laugh. “Real singing.”
She places the laptop on the coffee table in front of us, positioning the screen so that we can both see the lyrics I typed up in their final version.
“Okay,” I say, and strum the intro. I start, and it takes Dillon a line or two to sing the words where I can actually hear them. But before we reach the end of the first verse, I glance over at her. Her eyes are closed, and she’s feeling the words as well as singing them. I realize how much I’ve loved this entire process with her, starting with the title and a few words, and then creating this song we’re now singing. How I haven’t felt this kind of energy for my music in a very long time.
When we reach the last word of the outro, I put my guitar across the bed and say, “Wow. That was amazing.”
“Yeah, it was,” Dillon says. “Who needs drugs or alcohol? Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No need to apologize. I agree. This is way better than anything alcohol ever did for me.”
“I’ll be happy if you never play that anywhere outside of this room. It’s just really nice to have made it with you.”
“I don’t think I can keep this one locked up.”
She looks pleased by this.
