“Ah. Division of labor. You should keep that up. Let him do that, while you focus on singing. Even if all the windows are open in your house and mine, I won’t be able to hear you sing, unless you got yourself a mic.” She gave me a look. “Don’t get a mic.”
Nobody had ever told me they didn’t want to hear me sing live. The no “us” in “ice cream” section of her brain must still be in charge. “So…that’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
She pulled her lips in for a second, then cleared her throat. Her eyes were clear and bright. “What were you expecting?”
“That’s our biggest hit from last year.”
She looked confused. “Okay…”
“You don’t recognize it?”
“Should I?”
Was she kidding? Disbelief flashed through me. This must be revenge for when I told her I’d never heard of her writerly alter ego. “Well…yeah. I mean, it was everywhere.”
She shrugged. “Sorry if you’re disappointed, but I don’t listen to music.”
“You don’t…” What was this blasphemy? I’d never met somebody who didn’t listen to music. It was like, like…somebody claiming they hated cake. Only the devil’s spawn hated cake. “What do you listen to when you drive?”
“Audio books. Maybe a podcast. Or nothing, depending on my mood.”
“How about when you write?”
“Nothing.”
Wow. So devil’s spawn did exist in the world. “That’s sad. A life without music is like a body without a soul.”
“I have a soul,” she said, slightly put out. “I write romance, remember? I couldn’t have more soul if I tried.”
Maybe. But personally, I just couldn’t picture a life without music. Music was everywhere. It was one of those things that made life more pleasurable and exciting.
“Music is distracting,” Emily explained.
“No wonder you had no clue who I am.” And I had a lot of work to do if I wanted everyone in the world to hear my music, just like everyone knew about the Beatles. I was aiming high, but what was the point of aiming low?
“You didn’t exactly give me your stage name.”
“Everyone knows me as Killian from Axelrod.”
“Maybe you should make a T-shirt that says so and wear it everywhere,” she said.
“Do you have a T-shirt that says, I’m Emma Grant, and I write romance?”
“No. But that’s a great idea. I love what I’m writing, and I’m proud of my work.”
She wasn’t being sarcastic. And it pained me. Not because I expected everyone to love my work, but because she wasn’t even giving my music a chance. And it felt personal.
“So am I,” I said, keeping my voice even.
She sighed. “I didn’t mean you weren’t proud of your music. I don’t think that came out well. I’m just…not very eloquent at the moment.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I’ve been up since four, writing. I just poured out over five thousand words.”
I was impressed. “So you’re out of good words?”
She smiled. “That’s a good way to put it. I’ve used up all my good words for the moment on my story. They’re so good that I expect most will remain after revision. But right now I’m braindead, and all I have left is garbage. I need to nap and recharge.”