Page 70

Paisley closes her eyes and nibbles on her lower lip as it plays. Her eyebrows dip and rise with the intro music. She tilts her head when the first verse hits, and the edge of her mouth twitches into a smile when I start singing. Even though I was thinking about recording a doubled vocal line track, I kind of like the way my voice sounds all by itself against the guitars. Her head starts bobbing when we reach the chorus, which sounds bigger with two voices since I’ve managed to do a decent job of blending our tracks so it sounds like she’s singing backup vocals.

When the second verse starts and Paisley’s breathy, slightly hesitant singing voice comes out of the studio monitors as if she’s singing a solo, all the color drains out of her face.

She might not like it, but I love the way her voice sounds. The way it floats over the melody, the perfect contrast to the whine of the electric guitar and the driving train beat.

Paisley frowns. A deep crease develops in the center of her forehead as the verse progresses and it stays there throughout the chorus. At the bridge she finally takes a breath, and a bit of color comes back into her face. Still, she sits as rigid as a rock until the final few bars of the song.

I’m almost afraid to ask her opinion. I thought it was great for my first attempt at mixing, but I’m pretty sure Paisley doesn’t feel the same way about it. Still, I need to know what she thinks in order to improve. “Well?”

She clears her throat. “I can tell you spent a lot of time on it.”

That’s like the equivalent of a parent trying to figure out a way to say something nice about their kid’s art class project when it’s an absolute eyesore. I know this because I sucked at art, so I got a lot of This must have taken a lot of time and I can see you put a lot of effort into this from my mom.

Being a performing musician requires a thick skin when it comes to feedback, but mine’s feeling onion-skin-thin and just as brittle at the moment. “Right.”

Paisley’s face falls. “No, that’s not what I—” She reaches out and takes my hand. “I think you did a great job with what you were working with. You have a great ear, and you took the mix so much further than I expected in such a short time.”

“YouTube,” I say.

“I just…I didn’t expect to hear my voice so prominently featured.”

Oh.

I’m such an idiot. Paisley wasn’t criticizing me. She was laser-beam focused on how she sounded. I should have seen it coming, knowing how self-conscious she is about her singing voice. I wish she could hear herself sing the way I do, because I think her voice is beautiful and nuanced and vulnerable. It’s the imperfections that make it stand out and make you want to keep listening.

But how am I supposed to tell her that?

“I get it,” I say. “I was just messing around with the song, seeing how it might work as a duet, and I liked how it sounded.”

She gets a thoughtful, faraway expression on her face. “Actually, it does work well as a duet. I wonder if Exit 12S has a singer they can pair you up with.”

Only if it’s you.

December 18

After Paisley helps me set up the studio to record the different tracks, I spend the majority of the day recording lead vocals, doubles, harmonies, and ad-libs until my voice hurts, and electric and rhythm guitar parts until my fingers are numb. Then I spend some time looking for the perfect MIDI track for a bass guitar and a few percussion embellishments to give it a little something extra. There are so many tracks saved in the Ka$hTrain file when I finish, I’m not sure how I’ll keep them all organized.

Once I start mixing, I don’t stop. Well, I break for coffee and Easy Mac and snacks, but otherwise, I’m the Little Engine That Could, chugging along through the night. The song’s due today, and I’ll catch up on all the lost sleep once it’s done and turned in to Barry.

I’m bleary-eyed and bone-weary when Paisley arrives at the studio.

“Whoa,” she says, sweeping her eyes over me and the disaster zone that once was the studio desk. Now it looks more like a pack of raccoons broke into a 7-Eleven and had a field day. “Okay, how are you, Kash?” she asks in the same kind of voice you use on a wild animal you don’t want to startle.

“I’m fine. I’m tired. I’m sorry about the mess.” I rub my eyes and stretch. “But I think I finished it. Wanna give it a listen?”

“Yes,” she says, like there are no other possible answers.

I yawn and press play.

Today, when she listens to the mix, her eyes sparkle and gleam like ornaments on a Christmas tree. She sits there, paying rapt attention to the music, as if she can hear every note I sing, every vibration of a guitar string, every detail. She smirks at the train whistle and claps when we get to the end. “That was fantastic, Kash.”

“You think?”

“I know,” she says. “They asked for a country dance song, and you’re about to deliver that and more.”

I pull her into my lap and wrap my arms around her midsection, letting my head fall onto her shoulder. She brushes a lock of hair from my face and presses a kiss to my forehead.

“You did it,” she says.