Dreamland(15)

“Do you make money with that?” I asked, fascinated.

“We do, but only recently. Figuring out how to monetize it requires a lot more work, and there are decisions about brands and whether the company is honest or whether it’s something we’d be willing to promote. Stacy and Holly do most of that, too. I didn’t really have time for that, but the other three have started to make some money with it—and because they do all the work, it’s only fair. They could use it, too. Stacy is going to medical school this fall, and Holly has student loans. Ironically, she got a job with ESPN, if you can believe that. She wants to be a broadcaster.”

“And Maria?”

“Well, that depends on her audition with Mark Morris, but her mom is a choreographer who’s done some work on Broadway, so Maria choreographs all of our dances. Her mom actually sent my recordings to some managers she knows in Nashville, so we’ll see how that goes.”

In my limited experience, meetings seldom led anywhere—even the band I was in had meetings with potential managers, albeit minor-league ones—but I wasn’t about to tell her that.

“Sounds exciting,” I said. “I’m sure your presence on TikTok and Instagram will help get their attention.”

“I guess,” she offered. When I raised an eyebrow, she continued. “Honestly, I have mixed feelings about the whole social-media game and the constant effort to build followers.”

“But having an existing fan base can only help launch your career, right?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Our fans are almost all girls following us because of our looks and our dance moves. And I’ll admit that we play up our sexiness in the way we move and dress. It’s what sells.”

When she paused, I asked the obvious. “But?”

She sighed. “I want to be known for my singing, not because I’m a hot girl who can dance, you know? And then there’s the fact that social media isn’t necessarily a good thing for teenage girls. There’s so much editing that what they’re seeing isn’t exactly real, but it’s hard for people to separate the fantasy. It’s not as though we just walk out and dance without practicing or that we don’t spend a lot of time perfecting our hair and makeup and outfits before we film. So what’s the point in being regarded as an influencer—or, God forbid, a role model—if it’s all kind of fake?”

I said nothing, impressed she’d considered those things. I’ll be honest: I hadn’t. But then again, hardly anyone followed me, so what did it matter?

“Anyway, we’ll see how it goes,” she said, dismissing the subject with a wave of her hand. “Now I want to hear the song you wrote.”

I opened my case, taking a minute to tune my guitar and recall all the changes I’d made earlier. When I was ready, I launched into the opening stanzas, injecting additional energy to the chorus as I sang to her.

Morgan stared at me, a rapt smile playing on her lips. Watching her sway unconsciously in time with the music, I realized again how much she’d inspired the song. Not just the lyrics but the music itself; there was a bright energy and momentum to the song’s driving chorus, much like her.

When I finally silenced the guitar, she leaned toward me. “That was beautiful,” she breathed. “You’re amazing.”

“It still needs work,” I said. I’d never been comfortable receiving compliments, but I already knew it was a song that I would eventually add to my rotation, if only in honor of my memory of her.

“What was that one you sang last night? The one about feeling lost?” She hummed a fragment of the top melody. “Could you sing that one, too?”

I knew the song she meant; the lyrics had come to me after a particularly hard day on the farm, and it was full of angst and uncertainty. It was also a crowd favorite, something I could probably play in my sleep, so I went right into it. After that, I rolled into another song that I’d written years ago—one with echoes of Lady A—then kept going. Morgan would sway or tap her foot in time to the music, and I found myself wondering whether she’d finally ask me to play something that she’d be willing to sing.

But she didn’t. She seemed content to listen, and I felt myself drawn into the music in the same way she seemed to be. Each song carried with it a memory, and with the moon bathing the shore in its milky glow and a beautiful woman sitting across from me, it struck me that there was no better way to end the evening.

When I finally set my guitar off to the side, light applause drifted down from the hotel. Turning, I saw six or seven people clapping and waving from the deck.

Morgan tilted her head. “I told you your voice was special.”

“It must be an easy-to-please crowd.”

“Did you write all those songs yourself? Without anyone?”

“Always.”

She looked impressed. “I’ve tried to write my own music, and I can put together really good bits and pieces, but I usually have to partner with someone else to finish it.”

“How many songs have you written? On your own, I mean.”

“Twelve or so? But I didn’t start until a couple of years ago. I’m still learning.”

“Twelve is still pretty good.”

“How many have you written?”

I didn’t want to tell her the whole truth, but I offered part of it. “More than twelve.”