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“I don’t know why, but I thought you were renting a place right on the beach.”
“Not all of us have doctor parents who pay for accommodations.”
“That may be true, but you also said it was your first real vacation in years. It might have been worth springing for someplace with a sunset view.”
“I didn’t need one. I’m singing on the beach, so I get to see amazing sunsets all the time. This place is mainly for sleeping and changing and doing my laundry.”
“And writing songs,” she added.
“Only when the mood strikes.”
As I opened the door, I was thankful I’d tidied it up earlier and equally thankful I’d kept the air-conditioning on. It was hot and growing steadily warmer, the approaching summer already making its presence known.
I set the cooler inside the door, feeling nervous in a way I hadn’t expected. “Can I get you a drink? Water or beer? I think there’s another tea left in the cooler if you want that instead.”
“I’ll take a tea,” she said.
I pulled another tea out, and grabbed a bottle of water for myself. I watched as she twisted off the cap while checking out the living room.
“It’s nice here. I like the decor.”
It was standard Florida Beach Vacation Rental, with functional, inexpensive furniture, pastel pillows, and garage-sale-quality paintings of fish and boats and beaches hanging on the walls.
“Thanks,” I said. When I booked it, I’d barely perused the photos because I was mainly focused on the price.
She motioned to the music equipment and guitar heaped in the corner near the couch. “So this is where it happens, huh?”
“I usually sit on the couch, but really I can write anywhere as long as I can play the guitar while I do it.”
She placed her tea on the coffee table, then gingerly took a seat on the couch. She leaned back, then sat forward, shifting around on the cushions.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m trying to catch whatever it is you have that makes writing songs so easy.”
I shook my head. “You’re funny.”
“I’m a lot of things,” she said. “But I also have a confession to make. I brought some of my work with me today. A song I’ve been working on, I mean. I have most of the lyrics and some of the music, I think, but I was wondering if you’d listen to what I’ve done. I’d like to get your impressions.”
“Show me what you’ve got,” I said, feeling a bit honored. I grabbed my guitar and took a seat next to her on the couch. Meanwhile, Morgan set her phone on the coffee table before rummaging through her bag. She pulled out a spiral notebook, the kind high school and college students used. When she saw me staring at it, she shrugged.
“I like to use pen and paper,” she said. “Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not judging.” I leaned over to the end table and waved my own notebook at her. “I do the same thing.”
She smiled at that before setting the notebook on her lap. “Showing this to you makes me nervous.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because you’re so talented?”
At first, I wasn’t sure how to respond. Finally: “You don’t need to be nervous. I already think you’re amazing.”
I wasn’t sure where the words had come from; they seemed to have formed without conscious thought. For a moment, noting how she dropped her gaze, I wished I hadn’t said it, before realizing that she might actually be blushing. Not wanting to push, I drew a long breath.
“What genre of music are you interested in?” I asked. “And what kind of song are you thinking?”
I watched her shoulders drop a little before answering. “Right now I’m mostly interested in country-pop. Like early Taylor Swift? But probably more pop than country, if that makes any sense.”
