I’ve got about a dozen people in my control room bickering about lyrics while a six-foot-seven dude named Gumby stands over my shoulder.
“You know what all those buttons do?” he asks, watching me do a rough mix of the verse Yves St. Germain just laid down.
“Nope,” I tell him as I punch up the sample track of the violins Nice really liked. “Not a clue.”
“Man, stop pestering the lady,” Patch tells him. He leans back in the rolling chair beside me, teetering on the edge of falling over. “She don’t be trying to tell you how to dress like your mama put your school clothes on layaway in the nineties.”
“Yo, for real, though,” Gumby says. He reaches for one of the faders, and I smack his hand away from my board. “That’s a lot of buttons. How you even learn to do all this?”
Narrowing my eyes, I whisper, “Don’t tell anybody, but I don’t even work here.”
He snorts at me, shaking his head with a smile.
“Y’all get away from her and let the woman do her thing.” Nice, as Yves insists I call him, comes back into the control room from a short break. His rapper name is YSG, but his nickname growing up was “Nice.” Because he was a nice kid. It’s disgustingly wholesome and I love it.
“All good,” I say. “Come give this a listen.”
We’ve been at it since about seven this morning. The kid’s only nineteen, but he’s got a serious work ethic. It’s a big part of the reason we get along so well. Both of us would rather be in the studio, tinkering and experimenting, than just about anywhere else.
I play back what we’ve put down so far on this latest track. His entourage goes silent while they listen, bobbing their heads to the beat. Then those violins come in and Nice whistles, a huge grin spreading across his face.
“Yeah, Hannah. That’s sick right there.”
“What if you lay down some ad libs under it?” I suggest. “Thicken it up a little.”
“I like that. Let’s try it.” Then he pulls out a box from the pocket of his bright yellow jacket. “Got you a little something, by the way. For all your hard work.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I told you to stop giving me gifts!”
This kid gets me “a little something” just about every time I see him. Nice signed a massive recording contract after his single went viral last year. Now he throws money around exactly the way a teenager does when he’s got more than he knows what to do with.
“But I gotta let you know I appreciate you.” His smile is so earnest, I melt in the face of it.
“Dude, you need to get yourself a financial advisor,” I advise. “Put some of that money away for when you’re older.”
“I keep telling my man to get some of that cryptocurrency,” Gumby says.
“Nah, bruh. You know that shit uses as much electricity as it takes to power a whole country for a year?” Nice says gravely. “Screw that.”
Inside my box is a beautiful watch. “This is gorgeous,” I tell him. “But it’s way too expensive. I really shouldn’t.”
“But you don’t want to insult me, so you will,” he says, beaming. “It’s made from recycled ocean plastic. They only produced twenty of these. Elon Musk has three.” Then he pushes up the sleeve of his jacket to show he’s wearing four of them. Two on each wrist. Take that, Musk. “They’re funding the boat that’s pulling the floating garbage island out of the Pacific.”
I shake my head in astonishment. “It’s amazing. Thank you.”
As far as rappers go, Nice is unique. A lot of his lyrics talk about climate change and conservation. Different causes he’s passionate about. He’s legitimately one of the cleverest teenagers I’ve ever met, which comes through in his music and the way he puts rhymes together.
“Hey, y’all know Hannah’s boyfriend won a hockey award last night?” he says to his friends, who are all crammed on the leather couch with their phones out. The kid travels with an entourage.
“Hockey?” Gumby says, glancing up. “Dump him. I can set ya up with my boy on the Celtics.”
“Thank you, but I’m good.”
“How’d it go?” Nice asks.
“It was great. I’m pretty proud of him.” I grin. “Even if his ego is about to become unbearable.”
“You tell him I said congrats. And not to get feeling himself too much.”
Which is a trip coming from Nice. Not that he’s full of himself, but he’s got a lot of diva in him. Some people were just born to be superstars.
We get back to recording, but it isn’t long before I’m not feeling quite right. I shift in my chair. It’s getting hot in here, and there’s a sour taste in my mouth. Oh no. No, no, no. Not here, damn it. But there’s no stopping it. In the middle of Nice’s chorus, I blurt out, “Gotta pee!” and then dive off my chair. I sprint out of the room, leaving an embarrassing wave of laughter in my wake and Patch remarking, “Lord, these itty-bitty lady bladders, bruh.”
Luckily there’s a restroom less than five yards away. I stand over the toilet for a few minutes, breathing hard, gulping through the waves of nausea. But nothing comes up. It’s been this way for days, and I’ve had about all the fun I can stand.
After I’ve washed my hands and dabbed some cold water on my face, I check my phone to see I have a bunch of missed texts.
ALLIE: Don’t leave me hanging. Did you do it??
I sigh. Allie is my best friend and I love her to death, but she’s starting to drive me nuts. Ever since I told her I was pregnant, she’s been on me to talk to Garrett. Not that it’s a ludicrous course of action or anything. I mean, of course I need to tell the father of this baby that he’s, well, the father of this baby. But I’m starting to feel the pressure and that just makes me queasier.
ME: No. We ran into his dad at the awards ceremony. Wasn’t a good time.
Instead of texting back, she immediately calls me.
I answer with, “Hey. I’m still at the studio so I can’t talk for long.”
“Oh, don’t worry, this won’t take long.” Her tone becomes part scolding, part pity. “Han-Han. When you start eating pickles and a whole red velvet cake on the couch at two in the morning, he’s going to figure it out. You have to tell him.”
“Ugh, don’t mention food.” The thought gets my stomach churning again. “I’m currently in the bathroom trying not to puke.”
“Uh-huh. See? Not drinking and going to the bathroom every ten minutes to pee or vomit is something else he’s going to notice eventually.”
“I know I need to tell him. But it seems like every time I try, there’s some reason not to.”
“And there always will be if you want there to be.”
“Allie.”
“I’m just saying. Maybe you need to ask yourself if you’re stalling for some reason.”
“What do you mean, for ‘some’ reason? Of course I’m stalling and I know exactly why.” Hysterical laughter bubbles in my throat. “I mean, gee, it’s not like this is going to completely change our lives forever or anything. Why would that be scary?”
Garrett and I haven’t even discussed kids in any serious way. Getting pregnant and springing it on him seems like a hell of a way to broach the subject. How could it not feel like a trap?
“Can I ask?” she says hesitantly. “Do you want to keep it?”
My teeth dig into my bottom lip. That’s the thing. The big question. The one that keeps me up at night staring at Garrett while he sleeps and trying to imagine what our life would look like a year from now.
“In a perfect world, at the right time? Sure,” I admit, a slight trembling to my voice. “I always thought having a couple of kids would be nice. A boy and a girl.” Growing up as an only child, I envied my friends who had siblings. It seemed like so much fun having another kid around.
“But?” Allie prompts when I don’t go on.
“But the realities of being a hockey family don’t make it easy. He’s on the road for months out of the year, which basically means I’d be taking care of a baby by myself. That’s not exactly ideal.”
Even without a kid, it’s a tough lifestyle. Between pre- and post-season, the hockey life is travel, long hours, and exhaustion. By the time Garrett walks through the door, he barely has the energy to put down a meal before he collapses into bed. There’s hardly enough time for us, much less a child. A crying newborn on top of that?
Panic starts crawling up my throat. I swallow hard, and my voice shakes when I speak again. “I can’t do this by myself, Allie.”
“Aw, babe.” Her sigh echoes over the line. “It sucks your family doesn’t live closer. Give you some help, at least.”
“That’d be great, but there’s no way.”
My parents are stuck in a second mortgage in the crappy small town in Indiana where I grew up. Buried under a mountain of debt that’ll probably keep them in that miserable place for the rest of their lives.
“Look. Whatever happens,” Allie tells me, “I’m here for you. Anything you need. All you have to do is call, and I’ll be on the next flight or train to Boston. I’ll hitchhike if I need to.”
“I know and I love you for it. Thank you.” I blink through my stinging eyes. “I have to go back to work now.”
After I end the call, I walk back to the mirror to make sure I don’t look like I’ve been crying. In my reflection I see tired green eyes and pale cheeks and a look of pure terror.
When it comes down to it, I’m scared. Of raising this kid by myself. Of the overwhelming responsibility. Of what Garrett will say when I finally find the right way to tell him. Because I am going to tell him. I just have to find the words.
For the time being, though, there are more pressing issues. Like the exorbitant rate Nice is paying for studio time that is like setting money on fire every minute I’m having an existential meltdown in the bathroom.
We spend the next several hours in the studio banging out a few more songs. When Nice and I get into a rhythm, we work quick. The flow is there, that free creative energy that makes the time pass in a blink. Until suddenly we do blink, and discover that his friends are all passed out on the couch and the night janitor is wandering in to empty the trash cans.
We finally call it quits for the night. I gather up my things and accept Patch’s offer to walk me to my car. Can’t be too safe these days.
“G’nite, Hannah baby. Lock your door.” Patch taps the window frame of my SUV before lumbering back to the building.
I’m just pulling out of the lot when I get a call from my agent. Elise usually calls about this time every evening to check on our progress. She’s got the record label calling her every ten minutes wanting to make sure their money isn’t being wasted in the studio.
“Are you holding anything hot?” she asks instead of a hello.
“Huh? Like did we write anything good tonight?”
“No, are you literally holding something hot in your hands right now? Coffee? Tea? If so, put it down,” she orders.
I experience a jolt of alarm. “I’m driving home. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, if you like money.” Elise sounds too pleased with herself, which makes me nervous.
“I like money,” I say, albeit warily.
“Good. Because the song you wrote for Delilah took a sledgehammer to the charts last quarter and I’ve just sent you an obscene check. You’re welcome.”
“How obscene is obscene?”
“It’s a surprise. Congratulations, Hannah. This is what making it feels like.”
I’m hesitant to guess at the number. The pop star I’d written the song for had been all over my social media for months, and I knew the streams and downloads of the single had done well. Which meant the royalty would be pretty nice. But I make it a habit not to pay too much attention to those things. Better to concentrate on the work ahead than obsess about the last gig. The second we get too far up our own asses, the music suffers.
The truth is, this industry is fickle. What’s hot today is hot garbage tomorrow. You just have to rack up the credits and enjoy the ride while it lasts.
At home, I can’t wait to share the news with Garrett—and then find a way to slip a baby into the conversation—but when I walk in the door, there are already open beer bottles on the kitchen counter and he’s angrily playing video games in the den.
“Fuck,” he growls, and throws the controller at the coffee table where it lands with a stinging crack.
“Hey, there.” I lean against the doorframe and offer a cautious smile.
Garrett just sighs. He’s still in the pajamas he was wearing this morning. Which is never a good sign.
“What’s up?” I take a seat on the arm of the sofa to kiss him hello, but our lips barely meet before he’s pulling back with an irritated curse.
“He’s fucking with me,” he spits out.
“Who? That same kid with the lisp? Oh no. He’s back?”
For weeks after last Christmas, Garrett had a ten-year-old nemesis taunting him on one of his games. I thought I was going to have to get rid of the console, legitimately worried Garrett would find a way to track the kid down and show up at his house carrying his hockey stick. But then the kid and his lisp just up and disappeared in the spring and I thought the ordeal was over.
“My father,” he says darkly. “Nothing satisfies him, so now he’s got to rub it in.”
My brain is beginning to hurt. “Start from the beginning. What happened?”
“Landon calls me this morning. Says a producer from ESPN wants me to do an episode of The Legacy. Only it’s not one of their usual career snapshots type of episodes—it’s some bullshit father-son feel-good story. So my dad can get on there and talk about raising a prodigy while they throw my baby pictures up behind his head.” Garrett’s eyes flash a stormy gray. “He’s seriously just being sadistic at this point.”
“You think Phil set this up?”
“Like it’s something novel, going behind my back and trying to interfere in my life?” Garrett tosses over a knowing look. “Doesn’t sound familiar?”
He has a point. When we were still in college, Phil Graham all but blackmailed me to break up with Garrett, threatening to cut him off financially if I didn’t.
“You’re right. It’s exactly what he’d do.”
“I’m being punished for something. Or maybe he’s gone mad with power. Whatever it is, I’m not biting.”
“Good,” I say, rubbing his shoulders. Nothing takes a toll on Garrett like his dad. “Screw him. Whatever attention he’s hoping for, don’t give it to him.”
But my boyfriend is too agitated to sit still. I trail after his broad, muscular body as he goes to the kitchen to grab the last remaining beer bottle from the fridge. He drinks nearly half of it in one gulp, then rummages around for something to eat.
“It’s shit like this that makes me not want to have kids, you know?”
The bitter reflection comes so far out of left field, I’m totally and completely blindsided by it.
It smacks me right in the face, a sharp pang radiating through my chest as I absorb what he just said.
“You’re lucky,” he says gruffly, turning to face me. He leans against the fridge door. “Your folks are decent people. You’ve got the good parent genes in your DNA, you know? But what about me? Like, what happens if I turn out just like my dad one day and screw up my kids? Make them grow up to hate me?”
I gulp down the lump of anxiety choking off my airways. “You’re not your dad. You’re nothing like him.”
But Garrett tends to disappear into himself when Phil gets under his skin. He becomes quiet and withdrawn. And I’ve learned the only cure is time and space. Let him work through the thoughts in his head without pushing him or adding extra pressure.
Which means that once again, we don’t quite make it around to the subject of, hey, I’ve got a kid you most definitely won’t screw up brewing in my belly.
