“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” he asked gently.
Finally moving my eyes to meet his , I realized he was seriously worried. A broken groan escaped me. “Trisha’s gone.”
“Oh fuck,” Dave sighed. “Nate, I’m so sorry. Where is she now?”
“Toronto. She dumped me over the fucking phone.” My shaking voice was disgustingly pathetic.
“Get up,” he commanded sharply.
I was so shocked that I obeyed, digging my hands into the carpet to roll until I was on my knees.
“You’re Nate Roberts, singer of Violet Circles, Hemlock and Emeralds, and winner of Love Rockers. Get on your damn feet.”
My body pulled itself up slowly, as Dave stood in front of me. His gaze was fierce.
“I’m sorry this happened to you. I won’t pretend to imagine how much this must hurt. And the timing absolutely sucks. But I need your answer on the album right now.”
“Damn. Forgot about that.”
Dave grabbed me by the elbow and shoved me toward the couch. He dug in the fridge and set a bottle of water in front of me before sitting.
“Thanks.”
His heavy sigh sounded stressed. Guilt seeped through me for a moment. At least that was a feeling.
“Quick – tell me your gut reaction,’ Dave said quickly. “Do the album or start with the band?”
“Do the album with the band,” I said, giving my head a shake. My hands were heavy and cold on my legs. “Trisha suggested that I do the album, using the show’s house band for the songs I did on the show, and my band for the new songs. Also, she said maybe I should think about non-relationship love songs. People also love places, material objects, coffee. Stuff like that.”
“She is a clever one,” he grinned. Whipping out his phone, his thumbs tapped rapidly across the glass. “Checking to make sure that meets their criteria.”
He turned to look at me head on. “I should hear back shortly. I’m sorry that we need to get on this right now. Do you need food? Coffee?”
Taking a deep breath, I tried to visualize my head clearing. I needed to focus enough to get through the day. I could fall apart again at night. “Coffee and a scrambled egg wrap.”
Dave quickly called room service, ordering the same for himself. Then he looked around at the usual array of notebooks and scattered pages. “You need around five more songs. How’s the writing going?”
“Two are done. I’ve sent a shitty phone recording to the band so they can think about their parts, and make suggestions. Another is half-written. I have endless scribbles, so I could get two more started today.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m glad you’re calling in the band for help. That’s smart.”
“Thank you,” I said, hearing the lifelessness in my voice. I couldn’t control it. “I’m sorry this happened at the worst time.”
“There’s never a good time for a breakup,” he said kindly. “But yeah, it sucks that you’ll have to write love songs when you’re not feeling it. Think about all of the hard-working people who have to mop floors, nail sheetrock, or shovel shit out of the barn today. I bet some of them aren’t feeling it either.”
Watching him chuckle, the best I could do is nod. “Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll get it done.”
“Go take a shower,” he said. “Then we’ll make a plan, and get cracking.”
“Thank you.” I shuffled off to the washroom, grabbing clean clothes on the way.
By the time I came out, I actually felt a little brighter. There was still a crushing pain where my heart should be, but I smelled better. I could see straight.
Sitting on the couch in front of my breakfast, I saw that Dave had already collected my notes and stacked them at the end of the table. Sipping my coffee, I started flipping through them.
“You know how I usually stay out of the actual process of your music?” Dave said through a mouthful of eggs.
“Yeah.”