A Love Like Ours

Chapter 9

"Best one yet," Julian said as I slid the headphones off.

I took a deep breath, my heart still pounding, the words, the music still reverberating through my chest.

We were in Julian's home studio, as we had been for most of the last week. Just writing and recording and writing and recording again and again and again. And it felt good. The whole process of it, the familiarity of it, the repetition of it. I'd become so accustomed to recording in makeshift studios over the years—set ups in hotel rooms, buses, bathrooms, you name it—that Julian's home studio had the perfect vibe. The comfort of a home, and the professionalism of a work setting, blended together to create an environment I wanted to be in. And I didn't want to be many places these days.

But here, writing everything I was feeling, singing the words until I was exhausted, until I was completely spent emotionally—it was the only outlet I had.

"Shit, this is good," Julian muttered as he played the track back in his headphones. I sat beside him once more, flipping through my journal for the words I'd just sung, wondering if they needed tweaking.

We'd written at least an album's worth in the last several days, and I couldn't seem to stop. But I didn't know if what we were recording was anything anyone would ever hear. Of course, I'd always planned on releasing more music—with the band and as a solo artist. But what we were doing, the songs we were making... they were so personal. Too personal. Too raw. Too...real.

I'd always loved the process of writing. Of creating a story from a concept, of pulling from personal experiences and embellishing them. But these... there was no embellishment. There was no hiding. These were my heart, broken as it was. These were the deepest, darkest corners of it. All of the places I hadn't known existed within me, but had been inhabiting since I'd left New York a week ago.

"It's dark, it's raw, it's you exposed... and I love it," Julian said, almost to himself as he took the headphones off. "Let's go over it again on the acoustic, then I'll track it."

"No," I said, leaning forward, placing my elbow on the table beside my notebook. "No, leave just the piano."

"Yeah?" he asked, his eyebrows drawn together as he thought it over.

"Play it," I said, needing him to hear it the way I wanted it to sound—hoped it would sound.

And when he did, my voice came over the speakers, filled the room, strong and true, with just the right amount of vulnerability, just the right amount of desperation... of pleading. I hadn't even had to try. The soft piano, building into a somber chorus of why, and if this is it..., and what do I do now, was the only accompaniment my words needed. And as we listened, as the song trickled down again, into the quiet tones of a man asking for more, asking why once again, I watched Julian realize it, too.

"Alright..." he said, his hand over his mouth. He tried to smile at me as the last words echoed around us. "No guitar, then."

A smile tilted my lips, but shrunk back down all too quickly. It took effort to smile now. Effort I didn't have in me. The only time I felt strong was when I was singing. When everything poured out of me, and my chest heaved to support the words, my feet stood steady to support the sound, and my voice—my voice said more than I could ever express without the music.

"This is good stuff, my man," Julian said, leaning back in his chair and swiveling to and fro in it. "Your best stuff ever, I think."

My laugh was totally humorless as I sat forward, barking a breath of it as I leaned my forehead on a closed fist. "Ironic."