HARRY'S POV
As Janie's hips sway seductively to "Time of the Season" by the Zombies, I sit back and watch the show. She's in her own world. Her honey colored locks flow over her shoulders, also moving with the beat. Her left hand is laced around a wine glass while her right hand uses a spatula to move veggies around on a pan.
She's wearing a pair of cut off Levi's, the true California summer essential, and one of my old tattered ACDC shirts with "HOT N HARD" printed across the back. She seems to be living in my clothes these days.
The weather hadn't been kind, with temperatures reaching up to 90 almost daily. But today, it was a crisp 75, and as the sunset behind us, I could feel warmth seeping into my skin. She was sunburned and her hair was twice as long as it was when she arrived in May. She looked like a California girl, born and bred.
I've loved watching her grow. Extending her roots and wings and blossoming into herself. Grasping for everything within her reach and more. It didn't take an expert to see that who she was at her core had been repressed for years. But here, in a city of millions, she's evolved. You can see it in the way she dresses, how she walks into a room. You can see it in the way she now confidently corrects Mitch on a chord and argues with Tom about which sounds to hum for backing tracks. You can see it in the way she smiles at me now, like she's allowed to. Like I'm hers.
"What's your name? Who's your daddy?" I hear her murmur out the tempting lyrics, laying the trap for me to join her in the kitchen. With another sway of her hips, she glances nonchalantly over her shoulder at me.
Taking the bait, I stroll across the kitchen in a few strides before arriving by her side. I tuck a piece of hair behind her ear that is threatening to fall into our meal.
"So, what're we doing tonight?" She asks, humming in appreciation at my touch.
"We need to work on a song," I reply softly, twirling her hair around my index finger lovingly.
"How many did the label say we have left?" She asks as she subconsciously leans into me.
"Just one, I think."
It's been two weeks since Rosie's birthday party. A few days after our hazy celebration, we sat down with the label as we discussed our final moves. We had walked in the door with eight songs; eight songs that were made with love and perfected by the two of us.
For a moment there, we thought we were done. The car ride to the meeting had been silent, as we both considered the possibility of what would happen if they didn't like what we had done. We hesitantly showed them a track titled "She," and hoped they wouldn't notice the psychedelic influences. Luckily for us, they had loved it all, every single track. The only problem; they wanted nine songs. So, we set out on a mission to write the final, and hopefully the best, song on the album.
Unfortunately for us, since the meeting, we seem to have hit a mutual writer's block. Every piano tune feels screeching, each guitar riff seems irritating. Everything always sounds out of tune and pitchy. Nothing was right and neither of us knew why. But as we unsuccessfully attempted to mend and mold songs, I couldn't help but think: "Are we not writing well together because we don't want this to end? "
Because it was about to end. Not tomorrow, or the next day, but soon. We were nearing the end of July and with each passing day, I could feel a pressure bubbling between us. She knew it and I knew it.
We never spoke of it. I never even considered bringing up any questions about the life she had waiting for her back in Tennessee. Partially because I didn't want to think about it, but also because I was hoping that if she truly fell in love with it here, she would never want to leave.
"It's almost done," she assures me with a quick smile as she continues to move the caramelized vegetables around on the pan. I'd be lying if I said they didn't look a little bit burned, but I wasn't about to say a word about it. She had insisted on cooking tonight, claiming that it was her turn to treat me.
After a few more minutes of aimlessly moving things around on the pan, she fixes a plate for both of us and proudly presents to me her meal. We move in unison to my kitchen table and sit down beside each other, knees knocking below the table cloth.
"Do you associate songs with colors?" she asks thoughtfully during a brief moment of serene silence. I turn to her, eyebrows pulled together in intrigue.
"Sometimes. Like, most of the songs on the first album reminded me of pinks and cool tones. Quiet, relaxed. Intimate. That's why I decided to make the album cover that picture." She hums quietly as she soaks in my words.
"I can see that," she nods. "Like, "Sweet Creature" or "Ever Since New York"."
"Do you? Think of songs with colors?" I ask, wanting to pick her brain if possible.
"Yeah, I do. Always have. Whether it's my own songs or songs by other people." She's quiet for another moment, chewing a bite of her food before piping up again: "Do you associate any colors with "Lights Up?'"
"I do," I say immediately, colors flooding my mind at the thought of the song.
"Which ones," she asks quietly, her knee bumping mine purposely.
"Green," I say confidently and she gives me a puzzled look.
"Why green?"
"Because you were wearing green the night I met you."
"I was?" She asks in disbelief, shocked that I would remember. I can practically see her brain running a million miles an hour, trying to remember the outfit she had on that fated May night.
"You had on that green tee-shirt of a band I didn't know, tucked into those ripped black jeans I love. And of course those white sneakers you wear daily. I remember when the lights would hit your shirt, it felt like the entire room lit up green. Like it was seeping into my skin. It was everywhere. So, green, I would say," I finish and take a long swig of my wine, trying to play off my comment as casual. "What about you?"
"Red. And recently, blue."
"Why's that?"
"The sign outside of the bar was red and so were all the florescent signs inside. I remember the red light reflecting off of your white shirt. The whole room was dark, almost like a dark blue kind of. And there you were. You just looked so...effortlessly cool. It looked like you were shining," she reminisces with a smile stretched across her lips.
"And why blue?"
"Blue makes me think of you," she beams, patting my hand and rubbing her thumb alongside my palm. "Like that blue shirt you had on at Rosie's party. My favorite shade of blue." I squeeze her hand back in response to this, feeling my heart blooming at her words.
"Blue," I repeat.
"Blue," she confirms.
We talk about each of the songs from our album and what colors we associated with each of them. She told me about what color I am; dusty blues and petal pinks and everything good. I tell her she's orange, not like a Dreamsicle but like the sunset. She was the color of the sky after a perfect summer day, following a clear blue sky. With the light of the sunset behind us illuminating her, it had never felt more true.
"We need to write," I say begrudgingly after we wasted just too much time at the table. Our plates had been empty for nearly an hour. She throws her head back, groaning in fake misery.
"Can we go outside? I need fresh air to write tonight," she explains and I nod with a soft smile.
"We can do whatever you want, baby honey." She beams at me at the use of the nickname, her favorite out of the rotation.
After cleaning up the dishes and throwing on sweatshirts, we made our way to the roof, guitar and songwriting notebooks in tow.
I lay out blankets for us to sit on as Janie stares out into the ocean, taking deep inhales of the ocean breeze. After I signal her to, she perches on top of her pile of blankets. I look at her, and one word comes to mind.
Golden.
A/N: short update, but just wait for next chapter... :)