Jason: You totally talked about me.
My thumbs jumped into action.
Sloan: I did not.
Jason: Liar. If you didn’t talk about me, what did you talk about?
Sloan: I may have mentioned you in a casual, very platonic way. Briefly.
Jason: Did you tell her about our date?
Sloan: It’s not a date.
It wasn’t. Right?
Jason: What would you call it?
I put my palm up in exasperation.
Sloan: An appointment.
Jason: Huh. How do I get it switched to a date?
Sloan: You don’t.
I chewed on my thumbnail. The dots jumped, and I waited to see what he had to say in response to my rebuff.
Jason: When I tell my friends about it, I’m calling it a date. You can’t stop me. There’s literally nothing you can do about it.
I laughed. This guy. He did not lack confidence, that was for sure.
I decided, in the spirit of keeping my promise to Kristen, to give him something small.
Sloan: I’m 26.
Jason: Another freebie! I’m 29. What high school did you graduate from?
I smirked. He was sneaky.
Sloan: Nice try. Then you’ll Google my yearbook and figure out my last name.
Jason: I’ll tell you my last name if you tell me yours.
Sloan: Nope.
Jason: It’s a really great last name.
Sloan: I’m sure it is. Not gonna happen, though.
Jason: Truth or dare?
Sloan: No.
Jason: Spin the bottle?
Sloan: No!
I was giggling now.
Jason: Monopoly???
Sloan: Yes, I will play Monopoly with you someday.
Jason: Now things are getting exciting.
He wasn’t wrong.
Chapter 7
Jason
♪ Talk Too Much | COIN
The massive time difference between Melbourne and California was fucking with me. I wish I could say I was jet-lagged, but the real issue was that I had to put off texting Sloan so I didn’t wake her up in the middle of the night. Poking her had become my new favorite pastime.
We’d chatted and texted on and off all day Thursday, my time, but I got slammed the whole day Friday with rehearsals and sound checks. She’d sent me a picture of Tucker and I’d shot her a one-word reply. After that I didn’t get a second to breathe until after dinner. At 7:00 p.m. Australia time, it was 1:00 a.m. for Sloan.
When I woke up Saturday morning I felt for my phone on the nightstand. I typed in my message, barely awake.
Jason: It’s a new day and I get a new question.
The jumping dots didn’t appear, and when the phone rang in my hand, it was Ernie.
“Good morning, Down Under. I’m guessing by your context clues that you haven’t checked your email today?” I could tell by the wind coming through the phone that he was in his coupé with the top down. “I’m going to need you to not lose your shit. It’s a fifteen-hour flight to Australia and I can’t be there to chokehold you off a ledge.”
Fuck. I sat up in bed and put him on speaker. I opened the email and took one look at the attachment and shook my head. “No. I write my own lyrics. I sing my own lyrics, Ernie.”
“I know. I know you do and this is a giant load of steaming horseshit, but we talked about this.”
“We talked about someone else writing my music?” I squinted at the screen. “What the hell is this? It looks like a pop song. They rhymed sweetie with teeny. I’m not singing this crap.”
A horn blared through the phone, and he told someone to go fuck themselves. Ernie drove like a madman. “Look, you need a strong crossover hit. I like indie rock. It’s nice to listen to while I smoke a joint when I’m hiding from the wife, but that stuff doesn’t go platinum. If you wanna get Don Henley famous like you said you wanted to, crossover hits for mass market is how you do that.”
“Yeah, I get that,” I said. “But I was supposed to write the music.”
“Well, we tried it your way. You haven’t written anything in six months and your label’s getting itchy. They wanna know they’re gonna get a return on their investment. You’re in bed with these people now, it’s time to tickle their balls a little. Lie to them. Tell them what they want to hear, that you’ll roll over and sing what they ask you to, then write something that’ll blow their fucking socks off and bait and switch them when you have it. Done.”
I dragged a hand down my face. “Fuck,” I mumbled. “And if I can’t write something that’ll blow their fucking socks off? Then what?”
“Then it’s two songs on an album of ten and you do whatever the hell you want with the rest of it. Look, you and your label have the same objectives. To sell records. If you can’t come up with the material to do that, they’re gonna come up with the material for you. It’s a partnership. I know you’re an artist and this is your medium and the very suggestion that you sing something that you didn’t write feels like picking which STD you want, but you went with the big boys and now this is big-boy time. It’s time to put on your big-boy pants.” Two swift honks. “You grin and bear it, and you know why? Because you are a goddamn professional.” Another long, blaring horn.
I stared at my reflection in the black TV on the dresser at the end of my bed. I couldn’t write. I was having some sort of lyrical performance anxiety. I’d never had to compose on demand before, and knowing they were waiting for it felt like an energy suck. I’d cranked out the soundtrack, but just barely, and the best stuff on the album was the three songs I’d written with Lola Simone—and that was mostly her. I’d taken those two weeks hiking in New Zealand hoping the solitude would kick-start my creativity again, but not even that had done it for me.
I wasn’t opposed to collaborating. I wasn’t even entirely opposed to singing something I didn’t write—but the song had to be great. It had to sound like me, and it had to be amazing. And that’s not what this was.
I pinched my temples. “I hate this.”
“Yeah, well, let the money and fame console you.”
I glanced again at the lyrics and cringed. I didn’t even like the idea of saying I’d sing this. But what choice did I have? I didn’t want to look uncooperative, and it wasn’t like I had anything else to give them.
“Fine.” I spit it out like the word tasted bad in my mouth.
“That a boy. Also, they’re adding pyrotechnics and fog to your concerts.”
“What?”
“I hope you like confetti. I’ll let them know you’re on board and you’re thrilled. Hey! Pick a fucking lane—”
The call ended.
I let out a long breath. I sang on stage with nothing but a spotlight, a stool, and a microphone. I didn’t do props and theatrics, and I sure as hell didn’t sing some pop shit I didn’t write.
Ernie had warned me about this. I’d known when I signed my record deal that this day might come, and I’d find myself compromising my vision for my work. But now it felt like more than that. It felt like I was selling my damn soul.