Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters)
She stood beside Fox in the corner of the control room, listening to the song’s playback over the speaker, while on the other side of the glass, the band was visibly preparing to start the next song. Running through the lines individually.
Could she just interrupt the process with an opinion that might be totally wrong?
“Just tell them what’s bothering you,” Fox whispered in her ear, laying a lingering kiss on her temple. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“How can you tell something is bothering me?”
He studied her face, almost seeming like he was battling the weight of his affection, nearly making Hannah’s legs liquify. “You get this expression on your face when you listen to music, like you’re trying to climb inside it. Right now, it looks like the door is locked and you can’t get in.”
“Yeah,” she whispered, an ache moving in her breast. Unable to say more.
Fox nodded at her, his own voice strained when he said, “Kick it down, Hannah.”
Adrenaline rippled up through her fingertips, along with a white-capped wave of gratitude. Urgency rushed in and she didn’t hesitate a second longer. Approaching the microphone that extended up from the mixing desk, she pressed the button to talk. “Alana. Guys. The refrain on ‘A Seafarer’s Bounty.’ When we get to ‘trade the wind for her,’ can we pause and embellish a little? How do you feel about drawing out the word ‘wind’ on a four-part harmony?”
“Make it sound like the wind,” Alana called back, forehead wrinkling in thought. “I like that. Let’s run through it.”
Hannah let go of the talk button and exhaled in a rush, exhilaration coasting down from the crown of her head, down to her feet. When she leaned back, she knew she would land against Fox’s warm chest, their fingers weaving together just like the music, rivaling the thrill of the band’s next version of “A Seafarer’s Bounty.”
She’d been right. That one addition and it soared.
After that, the day was nothing short of a fairy tale.
In no way did the Unreliables live up to their name. In Hannah’s head, they would henceforth be called the Reliables, but she sensed they’d be offended if she legitimized them, so she kept it to herself.
Sitting beside Fox on an old love seat, she listened to the band sing her father’s songs about the ocean, tradition, sailing, home. At one point, Fox left and came back with tissues and only then did she realize her eyes had gone misty.
It sounded like a cliché, but they brought the words to life, made them curl and dance on top of the page, infusing them with sorrow and optimism and strife.
Alana seemed to feel every note, as if she’d known Henry personally, and lived through the triumphs and tragedies of his songs with him. Her band anticipated her and adjusted on the fly, boosting her, supporting her as she wove. Magic. That was how it felt to take part in the creative process. As an obsessive listener of music, Hannah had benefitted from that kind of inventiveness since she could remember, tucked away in the worlds turning inside her headphones, but she’d always taken it for granted. She couldn’t see herself doing that ever again.
They ordered lunch in to the studio, the band members telling Hannah and Fox stories from the road. At least until they found out Fox was a king crab fisherman and then all they wanted were his stories. And he delivered. Brushing his thumb up and down the base of Hannah’s spine, he recounted the close calls, the worst storm he’d ever seen, and the pranks the crew played on each other.
On the next take, there was even more flavor to Alana’s vocals. Hannah and Fox watched it happen from outside the booth, his arm settling around her shoulders and pulling her close. He performed the action as if testing it, testing them both, and then one corner of his mouth edged up, his hold tightening with more confidence.
“Your stories did that,” Hannah managed, nodding at Alana, then looking up at Fox to find him staring back down at her. “Do you hear that note of danger in her voice? You inspired her. The song is richer now because of you.”
Fox stared back at her stunned, then moved in slowly to lay a kiss on her lips. With the sides of their bodies pressed together, they let the music wash over them.
Hannah wanted to stay and listen to them record the entire demo, but Fox had to leave in the morning, so they parted ways with a round of hugs, well-wishes on their tour, and a promise to have the digital recording files to Hannah the next day. She didn’t realize her fingers were intertwined with Fox’s until they were halfway to his car. Overhead, clouds were beginning to thicken in the early evening sky, as they were wont to do in Seattle, passersby on the sidewalks carrying umbrellas in preparation for the moisture collecting in the atmosphere.