“You shouldn’t have gotten me anything,” I say.
“Fuck right off with that. I have more money than I know what to do with and a man I love with all my heart. Of course, I’m going to buy you a gift or two, especially after you sent me and my family on such an extravagant trip.”
“Laila, it was Cabo. Let’s not overstate the extravagance here. Plus, I sent you on that trip as a gift. Gifts don’t require payback.”
“Would you shut up and open my gift, motherfucker? I can spend my money any way I see fit, whether you like it or not. And what I want is to give my man this gift.”
“Jeez. So feisty.” Chuckling, I take the large gift and begin unwrapping it and soon discover it’s an old-school guitar amp.
“Oh, wow. This is so cool!”
Laila shrieks, “It belonged to Jeff Buckley!”
My jaw drops. I don’t think I’ve mentioned my near-obsession with Jeff Buckley to Laila. Not that I was keeping it a secret. It just never came up. Did she hear about it from Kendrick? “Laila,” I breathe, my heart pounding. “He’s one of my all-time favorites.”
“Yes, I know. Hence, the gift.”
“Laila,” I say stupidly, feeling overcome. “Wow. Thank you.” I hug her tightly and sputter, “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”
“Check it out,” she says. “It’s super cool.”
I turn my attention to the amplifier, running my hands over it. Twisting its knobs, each touch of my flesh on places where Jeff Buckley’s hands also touched giving me goosebumps. All traces of sleepiness gone, I hop up from the bed, shouting, “I’m gonna get my guitar and plug it in!”
“Not yet!” she yells. “Wait, Adrian! There’s more to the gift!”
I dance around like I’ve got ants in my pants. Like I’m four years old, wearing my Christmas jammies, and just got a toy train that needs its caboose. “Babe, I want to get my guitar. Please.”
She giggles. “Before you do that, there’s more to this gift.” She motions to the spot I just left. “Please.”
“Whatever more there is, take it back,” I say, shuffling toward the bed. “It’s only downhill from here. This is literally the best thing you could have gotten for me, in the history of time.” I resume my seat on the mattress next to her. “Did Kendrick tell you how much I love Jeff Buckley?”
“No, you told me, without actually telling me.” She winks. “You always sing Jeff Buckley in the shower.”
“I do?”
She nods. “All the time. And, of course, besides that little lullaby you always used to sing to Mimi, you often sang little snippets of Jeff Buckley to her, too. I could tell how meaningful his songs were to you.”
My heart is bursting. “Still, though, it’s a giant leap that you’d think to shell out the kind of money it’d take to buy one of Buckley’s actual amps. I’m blown away.”
“I love you. That’s worth more than all the money in the world.”
I grin broadly, thinking about the money I’ve given up to keep Laila on the show. And once again, like I told Reed the other night, I’m positive I did the right thing. In fact, I’d do it again and again, every single time, if my life were Groundhog Day. If it meant I’d be here with Laila this morning, with “True Love High” still ringing in my ears, and Jeff Buckley’s amp sitting on my bed . . . and, most importantly, Laila’s beautiful smile lighting up my bedroom.
Laila points. “The amp’s got papers certifying it was Buckley’s. I taped them to the bottom of the amp. Check ‘em out.”
I turn the amp over, as requested, and I’ll be damned, there’s a folded-up piece of paper taped to the bottom. I detach the paper and unfold it, excited to see Buckley’s name in black and white. Which I do. But I also find a small envelope with the certificate. I open the envelope and find a USB flash drive inside. I hold it up to Laila, a question on my face, and she smiles as big as the Grand Canyon.
“Adrian Savage, my love,” she says. “On that flash drive, you will find . . . a rare treasure.” Against all odds, her smile somehow finds a way to widen even more. She says, “That flash drive is loaded with the pro tools multi track stems . . .”
“No.”
“Of the entire album . . .”
“Oh my God, Laila.”
“Of Grace!”
“Laila!”
“Every single track from every single song on Grace, your favorite album by your favorite artist, the original owner of that guitar amp.”
I feel like I’m going to faint. Or have a heart attack or stroke. All while being simultaneously shot out of a cannon. It’s unthinkable that she’s acquired this impossible treasure for me. It’s beyond my wildest dreams or fantasies or imaginations. In my palm, I’m holding something priceless. Something that can’t be bought on the open market: the actual raw files from the recording sessions which were then layered and edited and seamlessly woven together to create the songs on my all-time favorite album. In other words, she’s given me the Holy Grail. A magical gift only a fellow artist would ever give—a gift only a fellow artist would possibly understand to give.