Page 6 of A Song for Another Woman

Duke almost chokes on his coffee. I almost tell her to watch her mouth. Instead, I look at the hook and realize she’s right.

Now we hit the chorus, and the song lifts so hard the hairs on my arms stand up. Melody grins mid-line. I grin back before I can stop myself. Not flirtation. Recognition. The reckless, stupid joy of a door opening inside a room I thought was bricked shut.

From the corner, Cy watches me like he can see the bill coming due.

At nine-thirty, Emmy texts.

Still at the studio?

I read it while Duke plays the rough mix through the big speakers for the third time, nodding like he’s hearing dollar signs in B minor. I type,Wrapping soon.

Then Melody says, “The second chorus still feels too behaved.”

I look up. She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, phone angled against a water bottle, recording us listening to ourselves. Her hair is falling out of the knot on top of her head. She looks tired, stubborn, and young.

Duke points at her. “That. That’s why this works.”

“What works?” Cy asks.

“The push-pull.” Duke’s eyes move between Melody and me. “People are going to eat this alive.”

“It’s a song,” I say.

“It’s a story,” Duke corrects. “Songs get played. Stories get replayed.”

Cy’s jaw shifts.

I should answer Emmy. I should say,I’m sorry. I know I promised dinner. I’ll be home in thirty.Instead, I set my phone facedown on the console.

“One more take,” I say.

Cy exhales through his nose. We do six.

By the time I get home, the kitchen is dark except for the light over the stove. Dinner sits covered beneath foil, neat as a reprimand Emmy would never make out loud. I stand there with my guitar case still in my hand, listening to the quiet house. Our house is too big for quiet.

I find Emmy asleep on the couch in one of my old shirts, a book open against her chest. Her hair is tucked behind one ear. There’s a crease between her brows, like even rest has started asking something of her.

Guilt moves through me, clean and unpleasant.

I should wake her. I should apologize properly. I should sit on the edge of the couch and tell her the song is good, maybe really good, and I’m scared of how much I need it to be. Instead, I ease the book from her hand, kiss her forehead, and whisper, “I’m home, babe.”

She makes a small sound and turns her face toward the cushion.

In the morning, I’ll tell her.

In the morning, the label calls before breakfast. The world finds “Wildfire” before we even finish the final mix.

Melody posts a ten-second clip of us arguing over a lyric, both of us laughing because neither one of us will back down. Nothing happens in it. We’re six feet apart. I’m holding a pencil. She’s saying, “You can’t rhyme fire with desire unless you wantme to die in this room,” and I’m telling her half of country music is built on worse crimes.

By noon, the clip is everywhere. By dinner, Duke sends me a screenshot of the numbers with no words, just three flame emojis. By midnight, somebody has slowed the clip down to the half second where Melody touches my forearm to get my attention, and the comments are full of people who think they’ve discovered electricity.

I show Emmy the harmless version in bed because I want her to laugh. She watches it with the phone held carefully in both hands.

“She records a lot,” she says.

“Everybody does now.”

“She posts a lot of you.”