LOOSE - a Bill Hader Novel

XXIII

"Can we stop for a second?" Emerald echoed into the microphone, taking her headphones off.

She stood in the isolation booth at Shangri-La Studios in Malibu, her hair in a high ponytail and thick framed glasses on, in full work-mode. A music stand held the handwritten lyrics of her newest track, and she picked up the pencil and scribbled down some corrections. Something wasn't quite right.

All ten songs for the album were written, many of them recorded. Something about this track, currently called Malibu, felt false, felt preachy.

Emerald looked at her producer Lars through the glass of the booth, and bit her lip.

"Lars, you're gonna hate me. I think I need more time on this one."

Lars nodded. "Definitely don't hate you, I actually agree. You wanna work on backup vocals for Echolalia for the rest of the day instead?"

"Yeah."

Emerald's phone buzzed, April calling her. She smiled and excused herself from the studio for a moment, exiting out the French doors to the green hillside. The best part of Shangri-La was how it felt like a home instead of a studio, topped off with a beautiful view of the Pacific ocean.

"Hello stranger," Emerald answered the phone.

"My lord, you hire me as your manager and I practically disappear off the face of the planet. I'm sorry. How are you?"

"Missing you! But otherwise I've been wonderful." Emerald laughed as she removed her shoes, letting her bare feet feel the cool grass.

"Jeez Em, I miss you too. How's recording?"

"Eh," she sighed. "I'm in a rough spot right now. The rest of the record came to me really easily, but there's this one track that I don't know what to do with. I'm at the studio right now, actually."

"You'll figure it out. You always do."

Emerald twirled her ponytail through her fingers. "I hope so."

"You have a title for it yet?" April asked. It sounded as if she was chewing, probably on one of those vegan protein bars she was always eating.

"Nope. I really wish it would come to me."

"Give it time," April assured her. "Everyone at the label is waiting patiently for you. There's no rush. You're the artist, and there's no pressure."

"I know," Emerald nodded. "It's just hard to remember sometimes."

.
.
.

"I don't know what to call it."

The next day, Emerald and Bill were at La Scala in Beverly Hills for a lunch of chopped salads. She stabbed a fork into the lettuce so hard it made a clanging sound, and the couple sitting in the booth closest to them looked over.

"Take a deep breath," Bill said with a smirk. She rolled her eyes and inhaled then exhaled.

"You're putting too much pressure on yourself. I think sometimes you forget that you're the Emerald Rowan."