Jeff had made some choices.
“Hey,” said Max, “do you guys know what a torch song is?”
Giving up the pretense of not being embarrassed, Jeff let his guitar strap hold the instrument’s weight and covered his face. “Guys—”
“You know that phrase ‘carrying a torch for somebody’?”
Jeff dropped his hands. “You’re the worst.”
He wasn’t really mad—this kind of banter, especially at smaller shows, helped give them a little break to change gears between songs, and showing off the chemistry between them was important. For some fans it was that, as much as the music, that drew them in, that made it worth the price of admission.
And to be honest, Jeff had missed it too.
“Jeff has two gears,” said Joe. “Scathing social commentary, and love songs that make you want to peel your face off.”
“Wow,” Jeff deadpanned. “You really know how to sell it.”
“Just telling it like it is.”
“Jeff loves love.” Trix picked up her mic as she came out from behind the drum kit and gestured to someone just offstage. One of the tech crew walked out with a stool. Another followed with Jeff’s acoustic, which he’d already finished with for the set.
Or so he’d thought.
“And I happen to know,” Trix went on, taking the guitar from the stagehand, “that he’s been working on something new to share with us.”
She had to know what she was doing. She had to be aware of the position she was putting him in. But none of it showed on her face or in her demeanor as she smiled winsomely—for the audience, butat Jeff—and held out the instrument. “You guys wanna hear it?”
You bitch.Jeff fought the urge to clench his teeth in fury.
The crowd, obviously, went apeshit.
Trix had backed him into a corner. If he didn’t deliver a new song,he’dbe the asshole—and he risked rumors of a Fleetwood Mac style rift following them for the rest of the tour. Every music blog would speculate about their feud. They’d bring up Max’s public intoxication arrests, poke around with the (true) theories about his drug addiction, probe any comment Jeff had made in the past year for meaning. Someone would be the bad guy. Fifty-fifty it was him.
Or he could play a song.
The part that pissed him off was he couldn’t remember—if he played it onstage, did Big Moose automatically own the rights? They’d been so young when they signed the extension to their contract, he couldn’t remember.
But fuck it. Either way this would be the last song they ever got from him.
He took the guitar, but he didn’t smile. “All right,” he said as the tech moved his mic stand closer. He sat; it was easier for a song he hadn’t played a hundred thousand times. “This might be a little rough because no one’s heard it yet.”
Not even the man he’d written it for. Jeff cared about the copyright more than the money, but what he cared about most was that this was the first song he’d be performing that he could’ve openly played for Carter and said,This is for you. And he hadn’t gotten the chance.
He vowed he’d never let her steal another opportunity. Carter would just have to put up with Jeff’s half-finished musical love confessions.
He cleared his throat and checked the tuning—it was perfect, but he fidgeted a little anyway, to buy time. “I guess you could call this a torch song.” Normally he’d have ducked his head in a combination of genuine and affected embarrassment. But this song didn’t embarrass him. His feelings for Carter were nothing to hide or be ashamed of anymore. So he just gave a half smile and said, “This is called ‘Honey, Time.’”
It didn’t take him long to settle on the introduction. He wanted something mellow and ringing, with gravitas—a different feel from most of Howl’s work. It didn’t surprise him that the not-quite-end product was reminiscent of early 2000s Coldplay, since that had been Jeff’s go-to when he was a teenager wallowing in feelings he didn’t know how to express.
He let the introductory riff ring, that delay pedal doing its job to reel people in; he could feel the eyes on him. Apart from the sound of the guitar, the stadium was utterly silent.
“It rained the day that I met you—that’s what my mom said, and I guess it must be true.” The memory made him smile. “Left our coats on the hallway floor. Should have known then. You were six and I was four.”
As the verse shifted into the chorus, he stuttered on the frets, cursing himself in his head, but the audience didn’t make a sound. Unnerving. He hadn’t played new music live like this since before they had a label. But the gentle sway of cell phone lights in his periphery kept him going. “Honey, time was never on my side until now. Honey, I could never meet your eyes until now.”
Another verse, another chorus, his heart pounding in a way it hadn’t since his first live performance at fourteen. Then the bridge: “You were raised by a man who knew it takes strength to be tender. Yeah, he raised me too, but I was never as strong as you were.”
Then the home stretch—final verse, final chorus. “Honey, time is on our side now. Honey, look me in the eyes… now.”
