“You’ve thanked me enough already. It was just a bed and some sheets.”
“And an entire refrigerator of cold cuts,” I reminded him.
He laughed. “Yeah, well, since I’ve apparently hitched my wagon to yours musically, I suppose I could spare some ham.”
“That too. You’ve experienced so much and I’m just some newbie.” The word, like so many American turns of phrase, tasted odd on my tongue. “I appreciate you wanting to sing with me.”
“You have pipes men twice your age dream of. Don’t ever sell yourself short. The rest of the world will do that plenty. Don’t join in on the chorus, all right?”
“All right.”
“But don’t think that gives you a license to be a douchecanoe either. You headed in that direction some before. Not cool.”
I nodded. “Right. No being a…douchecanoe.”
I didn’t exactly know what that meant. Luckily, I’d found a source called the Urban Dictionary that didn’t laugh at me as much as Flynn did.
With a grin, he held out his fist and I tentatively bumped mine to his before he dragged me in for a hard hug.
Swallowing deeply, I backed up and tipped my cap again before I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder and bent to retrieve my guitar case from the ground.
When I looked up again, he was gone.
I smiled as I dealt with the ticket counter and boarded the train. Once I was in my seat with my belongings spread on the little table before me, I dug out the notebook I’d found the other day at a bazaar Lark and Perry had asked me to check out with them. It was made of brown, scarred leather and had apparently gone through several hands.
This notebook had probably seen far more than I had. But I was ready to change that.
I spread open the flaps and ran a fingertip over the notebooks I’d stuffed inside. The leather contraption held a few. Inside them, I’d scribbled random observations and snatches of lyrics. It was like my composition book, just upgraded.
Since I’d be traveling for a long—very long—time before I switched trains, I intended to get a lot of work done.
I pulled out the white earphones Sabrina had called air pods. She claimed they were the latest, greatest thing and she’d gifted them to me before getting off. Err, leaving. Flynn had explained to me the dual meaning of that phrase, which I’d already known but my mind didn’t always veer into the gutter. Unlike many Americans.
I missed one certain American. God, I couldn’t wait to see her. Even if she slapped me dead in the face.
Because I was learning to have a thing called self-worth, I wouldn’t say I deserved it. But I welcomed the opportunity to prove to her I was changing.
In the meantime, I would listen to my music—not my music, because I might be growing in confidence, but I wasn’t turning into that much of a douchecanoe, thanks, Flynn—and write enough material that I might have a whole album’s worth, with or without Simon.
Yet the words didn’t pour out of me as I’d hoped.
I’d barely written two songs by the time I switched trains. Another two had joined them when I switched trains one more time.
My arrival in LA left me standing at the train station with one of my new notebooks in the leather journal a third full. Six songs in total were scribbled there, in various stages of completion. But I had a foundation. That was all I could ask for.
Now? I needed a ride to Simon’s. After that, I’d figure out a place to stay overnight, since my flight to New York wasn’t until tomorrow.
I called Frank on a wing and a prayer. Miraculously, he answered and agreed to come pick me up.
Granted, I knew he worked for the record company and wasn’t doing me a personal favor. It still felt like one.
When he pulled up to the train station, I gave him a sheepish wave and carted my guitar case and few bags to the car. He disembarked to help me stuff them in the boot.
Trunk. Right. Someday I’d switch over entirely to calling it a trunk, even in my own head.
Maybe.
“Are you still talking to me?” I asked as I got in the back of the car.