Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(61)

“Okay,” Charla says. “So then it’s a good thing I set you up with three different producer teams and a buttload of studio time all over L.A.”

“Why three? Why all over?”

“That weasel needs to hear about it, that’s why. And I’m not even done. I still want you featured on an Ed Sheeran track, or something. Or we could go the opposite way—a hip-hop tune. We’re going to be as fresh and unexpected as good taste on a Kardashian! We’re going to be everywhere.”

I love that she’s full of ideas. “So it’s probably not a great time for me to take a few days in Brooklyn, then?”

“Oh, honey. What did we just talk about? Choices.”

“I know. Because…” My gut already knows how to prioritize. “The thing I can’t live without is my second album.”

“Then I need you in the recording studio, looking fresh-faced and ready to work. Gossip will be hounding Brett on the right, while my lawyers are hounding him on the left. We’re going to give this man no choice but to release your record.”

“Sounds good,” I say, wondering what I’m going to say to Silas. I would love to visit Brooklyn. And I’ve heard all about the cool old apartment building where he lives with his teammates.

Looks like I won’t be seeing it anytime soon, though.





Two days later, I’m sitting in a recording booth with a female songwriter named Sarah. She has giant glasses and pale skin that probably never sees the sun. She also has a voice like Joni Mitchell’s, and a fierce, lovely personality that I came to adore about ten seconds after walking into this room.

“I don’t know how to collaborate,” was the first thing I said after “Hello.” But Sarah didn’t care at all.

“Oh, nobody knows how to collaborate. We just have to sit here and spit ideas at each other until one of them doesn’t suck. Just unpack your guitar. Let’s do this.”

Four hours later, we’re feeling a little slaphappy. We’ve already written one song that’s not bad. It’s called “Not Totally Hopeless.”

We were going to stop, but we still had an hour of studio time. So we started fooling around again, her at the piano and me on my guitar.

“I think we’re coalescing around this line.” She sings it. “Ask the universe.”

“Ask the universe,” I repeat, adding, “Anything could happen.”

She plays it back, trying two different melodies.

“I think this song is about hitting Send. Asking for things.” I think that over. “Okay, ‘hitting send’ is not fucking lyrical.”

Sarah laughs.

“So I definitely need to think of another way to say that. But I like this idea that hitting Send is scary, but also exciting.”

“It is.” Her eyes light up behind those giant lenses. “When you hit Send, nobody has said no yet. Nobody has turned you down. Nobody has taken a shit in your cereal bowl.”

I snort. “Let’s avoid that imagery, maybe.” Then we both giggle like idiots. And I needed this laugh almost as much as I needed all the sex and cuddling I got last weekend.

“Who did we hit Send to, anyway?” she asks.

“Anyone. The cute boy. The job opening—”

“—the Grammy-winning producer,” she suggests.

“Exactly! Hitting Send is a moment that’s pregnant with expectation. This could be the thing that you’ve always needed. This could be the thing that changes everything.”

“Write that one down.” She points at my notebook. “The moment that changes everything. The day that changes everything. The hour… The minute…” We both stare into space, considering the possibilities. “What are you doing when you actually hit Send? What’s the visual?

“Pushing a button. Using…electricity. Electrons! Copper wires.”

“A little bit of electron magic, sending your dream out into the world.”

“Yes! Now I’ve got chills.”

“Good,” she says. “Let’s play this verse again to see if any of it flies. I’m going to bring up the tempo a little bit.”

As I strum my guitar, I can see Becky on the other side of the glass. She’s taking photos of us on her phone. There are other onlookers, too. Maybe they wonder what we’re doing in here. I close my eyes to shut them out.

This is one of those moments when I recognize just how spectacular my job really is. This never happens when I step onto a red carpet. That’s just stressful. It turns out that the glamorous parts of making music are the unglamorous parts. Today I’m making something out of nothing. All I need is my guitar vibrating against my breastbone and my warmed-up voice.

Anything could happen.

Ask the universe.

Send that message flying.

Ask the universe.





“I wrote a song with a stranger,” I gush into the phone when Silas answers. I’m in the back of Mr. Muscles’s car.

“That sounds fun,” he says, breathing hard.

“It was! I thought it would be so much pressure, you know? All my songs suck when I start them. I didn’t see why that would be fun in front of someone else. But it’s magic. She solved some of the snags that I hit, and then I solved some of hers.”