It’s a musician’s paradise. It’s as if Brando reached into my subconscious, discovered what my ideal apartment would look like, and then came up with a place twice as impressive. I step forward slowly, like Alice through the looking glass, eyes popping out of my head, dizzy from noticing so many beautiful things. A butterscotch ’66 Telecaster lies on the couch in the middle of the room as if it was just another guitar. A vintage Steinway upright piano sits casually against the wall, sheet music messily spread across the keys. A rare Linn drum machine leans against another wall, cables squirreling out of it in all directions.
And vinyl. Lots and lots of vinyl. On giant partitions that I would need a step-ladder to reach the top of. Piled high in every corner of the room. Decorating the walls and most of the furniture. I can smell it, and it’s intoxicating.
I grab an album that I’ve never heard of, its colorful cover compelling me to read a few of the song titles, and put it back, continuing to step slowly through Brando’s musical grove. If I’d known he had a collection like this, I would have never abandoned him that first night in the club.
“Whoa!”
The word comes out of my mouth in a shocked gasp. Without even thinking about asking, I grab a beautiful mahogany acoustic guitar from an antique chair and hold it in my arms like a newborn. I strum a few chords and it hums and purrs perfectly, the sound from it almost magical. After way too long with my broken pawn shop guitar, holding this feels like a revelation from God.
I play a little more, basking in the velvety richness of the sound, singing a little softly. When I open my eyes, Brando’s in front of me, a drink in each hand.
I freeze, hand firmly caught in the cookie jar. “Shit. I—”
“No. Don’t stop.”
“I’m sorry. I just…it’s so beautiful.” I lean over to put the guitar down.
“Don’t apologize,” Brando says. “Come over here. Bring the guitar with you.”
He leads me over to the sunken area in one part of the loft, a low, soft couch lining it, and sets my drink down on the table. He pats the spot next to him, a mischievous smirk on his face, and I oblige.
“Play for me,” he says, gently.
My heart flutters for a second as I realize what I’m doing, sitting in a loft filled with beautiful things, holding a guitar I’d give my left leg to own, and about to play to a handsome man – still pretty much a stranger – who seems to genuinely want to hear me. It’s almost too much, but before my flight response has a chance to kick in, I catch Brando’s eye, and something in it plucks my heart like a low E string and soothes my nerves. I settle the guitar on my lap, half-facing him on the couch, and start playing.
I close my eyes, not even needing to look at the fretboard, it fits my hand so perfectly. The words pour out of me like birds taking flight. It’s the easiest song I’ll ever play. The acoustics of the loft, the feel of the mahogany guitar, the gentle looseness that’s still permeating through my body. The man I’m playing for. It’s too perfect. When I finish, I wonder if I’ll ever play like that again.
I open my eyes and look at Brando. His lips are parted, his eyes dreamy and lidded, as if drugged by the sound. He gazes at me for what feels like an eternity, then shakes his head slightly before speaking.
“I haven’t heard a song that moved me like that in a very long time.”
“Ah…” I smile, hoping the delight at hearing he liked it isn’t obvious, “it’s just a work in progress. I need to change the middle eight and—”
“It’s perfect,” Brando says, “you’re perfect.”
I try to speak and fail.
“Sign with me,” he continues. “Let me manage you, book you for gigs, get you into a studio with some great producers who know how to work with real artists, and I can promise you that you’ll get the acclaim you deserve. You owe it to the world to put your music out there.”
My heart is pounding in my chest, my cheeks burning with a spreading blush, but instead of jumping up and down and throwing my arms around this man who claims he can make all my dreams come true, I shake my head and push the guitar to the side.
“I…I don’t know… This all seems really fast. I need time…I need to think about it.”
“Time?” Brando says, the largeness of his voice filling the room. “There’s no ‘time’ in this business. Take your time and you’ll find yourself in the same place years later – only a little older, and a lot worse for wear. You’ve got something, here, now. If you wait even a second too long you’ll waste it.”
He stands up and paces over to the other side of the coffee table.
“You’ve only heard one song. How can you be so sure?” I say. “What if I’m not ready?”
“Is that it?” he says, stopping mid-pace. “You don’t trust my judgment?”
“I…I do. You know, it’s just…you’ve only heard a few songs, most of them in pieces.”
Brando laughs and buries a hand in his thick black hair.
“Haley, throughout that whole song I was asking myself ‘How is this girl singing at open mic nights?’ And now I remember. You can’t see an opportunity when it’s staring you in the face. You’re ready. Believe it.”
I squirm a little, looking down at the guitar and picking a few notes to avoid his eyes.