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“How about you sing this time, instead of me? It’s your song.”
“It’s our song,” she protested. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
I shook my head. “That’s where you’re wrong. I might have clarified your thoughts, but it was your idea, your story, and, for the most part, your music. That song has been inside you for a while. All I did was help you allow it to come out.”
Her expression was skeptical. “I think you’re wrong.”
“Read the lyrics,” I insisted, tapping the page. “Show me one line that was all mine.”
She knew there weren’t any; I might have added a few words here and there, but that was more about editing than creating, and she’d come up with the hook and the easily remembered phrases.
“Okay, but the music was really yours.”
“You had it all, you just needed help breaking the logjam. Every phrase and key change, you led.” I pressed on. “Morgan, I’ve never written a country-pop song before. It’s not what I do. Trust me—this song is yours, not ours. We both know it’s a song I’d never be able to write, if only because I’m a guy.”
“That I do accept,” she said, laughing in agreement before growing quiet again. “I still can’t believe how fast it all came together,” she murmured. “I’ve been working on that song on and off for weeks. I’d almost given up, until today.”
“That happens to me, too,” I admitted, nodding. “I’ve finally accepted the idea that songs come only when they’re ready to come, never before that. I’m just glad I could be part of it.”
She smiled before placing a hand on my knee. “Thank you,” she said, her voice husky with—what? Gratitude? Wonder? “This was…the best learning experience I’ve ever had.”
“You’re welcome. And now I want to hear you sing it.”
“Me?”
“It’s your song. You should sing it.”
“It’s been a long day,” she demurred. “My voice will sound tired.”
“Stop making excuses.”
While she hesitated, her hand remained on my knee, its warmth spreading through me.
“Okay,” she relented, clearing her throat. Removing her hand, she reached for the notebook. “Just give me a little bit to get ready.”
I watched as she rose from the couch and moved to the center of the room. “Hit the record button when I’m ready, okay?” she directed.
She clasped her hands in front of her, as though steeling herself. When she finally raised the notebook and nodded, I pressed record on her phone, then set it on the coffee table between us.
At the sound of the opening bars, Morgan seemed to come alive. Her limbs suddenly loosened; her face glowed as if incandescent. Before she reached the end of the first stanza, I was electrified.
Adele, Taylor, or Mariah had nothing on the voice emerging from the petite young figure before me. Her range and control were incredible, and her sound was huge. I couldn’t believe that delicate frame could produce the deep, soulful sound of a diva in her prime. I was stunned. Forcing myself to concentrate on the accompaniment, I struggled to make sure I didn’t miss a cue. Morgan’s performance, on the other hand, appeared effortless, as though she’d been singing the song for years. She made adjustments on the fly, riffing on the lyrics and rounding out the chorus with trills and vibrato I hadn’t anticipated. Her presence filled the room—yet as she stared into my eyes, I felt as if she was singing just for me.
People wonder what it takes to be a star, and every successful musician has their own story. In that moment, however, I knew without a doubt that I was in the presence of a world-class talent.
“You’re incredible,” I finally said as her voice died away.
“You’re sweet,” she deflected. “I said the same thing about you, remember?”
“The difference is, I’m being honest. Your voice…It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before.”
She set her notebook on the table, then moved toward me. Bending over, she tipped my face toward hers and kissed me softly on the lips. “Thank you. For everything.”
“You’re going to be a star,” I murmured, believing it.
She smiled. “Are you hungry?”
The change in subject brought me back to earth. “I am.”
