She shifted, angling her legs to avoid more contact. There was plenty of room for the two of them. No doubt the bus had been custom designed with his specific height and build in mind. Still, the booth felt smaller, more intimate, with him filling the seat across from her.
“I jotted down some notes this morning.” He gestured toward the leather notebook that sat open between them, a silver pen nestled in the seam of the bound pages. Lines of text in a messy script filled one full page and half of another. Some lines had been crossed out. Several repeatedly. A few were circled, two marked with an asterisk.
“May I?” Cat touched the top corner of the notebook, waiting for his permission.
When her ideas were percolating, still in that nebulous stage, she tended to keep them to herself. Patricio might be the same.
For her, the genesis of a lyric or a melody might come from a tickle in her subconscious. Or a niggling sensation building, churning in her chest. Sometimes her muse whispered an enchanting idea in her ear. However it started, the seed of the idea required nurturing and care. Time to sink into her being and fully form before it was ready to be shared.
Every once in a while, a song poured out of her. Notes and chords, words and phrases tumbling over each other, and she raced to get it all written down before it disappeared. That’s when she grabbed her phone and gave thanks for her voice-memo app.
Some days, she scribbled in a lined notebook much like Patricio’s or typed haltingly into the notes app on her cell, the words hovering on the edge of her consciousness but unable to make the leap into the outside world.
The writing process was sacred. It could also be fickle and frustrating, much like Patricio’s recent behavior.
“Go ahead,” Patricio answered. “There’s nothing much useful, though.”
“Modesty? From you?” she teased, brows raised in mock surprise.
He huffed a breath between his teeth. A corner of his mouth trembled as if fighting a grin, but ultimately it tipped in the opposite direction with his admission. “I’m still trying to grasp that elusive . . . something. It’s there. But it’s not. Y’know?”
His tiny shoulder hitch said “no big deal.” But the worry divot between his brows . . . the way his gaze skittered over the pages, then dashed away . . . those anxious tells were a far cry from Patricio’s typical cocky assurance.
Curious, she slid the notebook closer.
This was her first real peek into the mind of the man whose talent had earned him accolades she dreamed of. Their two weeks of rehearsals before the San Antonio concert had been so hectic, they hadn’t spent much—any, really—time discussing his vision for this album, his first since his crossover album had skyrocketed up the pop and Latin charts.
Millions around the globe had sung his praises. Fans had clamored for his concert tickets.
Surprisingly, though, there had also been a small faction of haters—mariachi traditionalists, his father included, who made it clear they believed Patricio had sold out. Gone over to the dark side of commercial music instead of staying true to his heritage. El Rey had even proclaimed his displeasure with his son’s decision in several interviews.
Pretty shitty move if you asked her. And she knew a thing or two about shitty moves by fathers.
To his credit, Patricio had refused to comment publicly.
As someone who regularly bucked similar small-minded traditionalists and often faced the wrath of their rebukes but rarely kept quiet, she’d been impressed with his restraint.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she murmured.
“Wait!” Stretching forward, he flattened a large hand over his chicken scratch.
Cat tilted her head in question.
“If I show you mine, you’ll have to show me yours,” he grumbled.
Laughter bubbled out of her.
He scowled his displeasure.
“I didn’t fall for that line from Carlito Pérez in fifth grade. And he was our class hottie. Doubtful I’m falling for it now. But good try.” She winked and tried to slide the notebook out from under his grasp.
Patricio didn’t budge. His fingertips pressed into the paper, tendons and blood vessels popping up along the back of his hand. The intensity in his gaze sharpened.
“That was a joke,” she said, drawing out the last word. “Look, I know what it means to collaborate. We’re a team, right?”
He slid his gaze to the far windows, where Alberto could be seen talking on the phone outside. Patricio’s lips thinned as if he were forcibly keeping words inside. Strange reactions to what she had thought was a rhetorical question.
Something was off. She didn’t know why or what. But she was certain of it. Odds were good that Alberto probably knew what Patricio was hiding, based on the two men’s silent exchanges and the old man’s cryptic remarks. And while she wanted to ask, she doubted Alberto would betray Patricio’s trust by confiding in her. Hell, she didn’t expect him to.
This was a problem she’d have to figure out on her own. And she would. Her success—her promise to her familia—depended on Patricio eventually trusting her enough to bare his musical soul. A trust she wanted to earn, if he would only let her.
“This is your album, Patricio. Yes, we’re a team, but it’s only right that you and your vision should take the lead.” She gently patted the back of his hand, relieved when he took the hint and loosened his death grip. “Just don’t get too used to it.”
Patricio sagged back in his cushioned seat with a shake of his head. “Madre de Dios, you never let up.”
“Pedal to the metal. Always.” She grinned at his eye roll. “Now, let’s see what you’ve got for me.”
Running a finger slowly down each line of text, she scanned his notes. This was one of her favorite parts of the creative process. The idea dump. Reading over someone else’s thoughts. Opening her mind and heart to whatever grabbed her or teased her inner muse out to play.
Within seconds, the synergy that can come of brainstorming with someone began to shimmer inside her. Whether he realized it or not, hidden in the subtext of Patricio’s bold scrawl lay a theme. A message. One that craftily made itself known and spoke to her.
Roots—binding, life-giving, gnarled
Nuestra historia. Our history.
Made in Mexico. Hecho en México.
Mamá’s favorite rancheras
Canciones de nuestra historia, followed by a list of old classics by Antonio Aguilar, Pedro Infante, Jorge Negrete, José Alfredo Jiménez, Vicente Fernández, Rocío Dúrcal, Lucha Villa, and several other musical icons who had blazed the trail in mariachi.
Revenge—crossed out, then circled, or maybe it was the other way around. She couldn’t be sure if it was a keep or delete idea.
Tradición y modernidad
Prove him wr—
This one interested her mostly because the unfinished thought had been crossed out so many times, she could barely make it out.
Reality vs. persona
Also crossed out, though still legible.
Familia y traición
The last entry—family and betrayal—had been underlined. Multiple times. With an intensity that left deep grooves in the paper. An asterisk had been scrawled at the end of the entry for added emphasis. A sign that perhaps his father’s denigration in the press over Patricio’s successful pop album had hit harder than he let on publicly.