stud.
“Let’s have some fun,” Mr. Logan says. He grabs a set of earphones. “Let’s get you in a booth and see what you sound like on tape.”
I take a step back. “No, no, no.”
“Why not?” Mr. Logan raises one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows.
Ever since I fainted while singing “Scarborough Fair,” and then the talent show “siren” incident, I’ve avoided being recorded. Those two are up on YouTube for all eternity. “I just don’t want to hear myself, okay?”
Jesse takes my elbow. “It’s okay. How about we do some scales instead? Me and you?”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
Jesse sits down at the piano. “Use the breathing technique you just learned.”
While Mr. Logan and Holly listen, Jesse and I sing for so long my stomach muscles feel like somebody’s ripping them in two.
“How do you do full concerts like this?” I ask and sip some water.
“People think my life is easy. It’s not. I work crazy hours, and when I’m not practicing or playing a gig, I’m writing or exercising. I never get much sleep.”
“You have to truly love music, or you’ll never make it,” Mr. Logan adds.
Jesse begins playing piano again—something classical—slowly, not methodically, with lots of flavor.
“I remember when I first heard you sing on TV,” I tell Jesse. “I must’ve been nine or so. I could tell how much you loved singing.”
“Still do,” he says quietly, softly drumming the keys.
“Want to sing your new song, Jess?” Holly asks.
He shakes his head. “Today’s about Maya.”
“I’d love to hear your song,” I say.
He looks at me, pensive, as he stops playing piano, stands, grabs an acoustic Fender, and slings the strap over his shoulder. He takes a deep breath before beginning to pluck out a melody. Shutting his eyes, he sings in the purest voice, “Eight years old when we first went fishing. Now ten years on, I wish we’d never gone. They say to live in the moment, to live right now. But I’m back there, when you loved me for me.”
Who’s the song about? His dad? Or Dr. Salter? Or somebody else?
When he’s finished, Holly pats his arm. He winces and opens his eyes. He takes a step away from Holly, and with a sad expression, she begins stacking sheet music into a pile.
She and I glance at one another before I say, “That was gorgeous, Jesse.”
A guy who clearly loves singing, who loves performing, and puts so much emotion and love into his songs—why would he quit? Give up something that is his whole world? The reason has to be big as life, right?
Jesse pulls the guitar strap from around his neck. “I’m starved.”
Mr. Logan claps once. “Lunch sounds great. Then we can resume the schedule for this afternoon. The tour of the Ryman Auditorium should be fascinating.”
Jesse sighs, grabs his cowboy hat off the piano, and puts it on.
“Mark.” Holly clucks her tongue. “I don’t know the rules of this job shadowing thing, but shouldn’t Maya be spending time with Jesse while he does his normal routine?”
Mr. Logan straightens his jacket and tie. “How about Mere Bulles for lunch, then? It’s fabulous. I got us a reservation.”
“Sounds nice,” I say, pretending I know what Mere Bulles is, but Holly shakes her head.
“Mark, how about you and I go to lunch together, and we’ll leave the kids alone to get to know each other. Okay?”
“But,” Mr. Logan blurts, and Holly gives him a monumental glare, so he quickly adds, “I think it would be great if you two went to lunch.”
“Really?” Jesse asks, looking up.
“I’ll send Gina and Tracy to handle any press who follow you and to deal with the restaurant. We’ll meet up after lunch.” Mr. Logan pats Jesse’s shoulder. “You okay with this?” he asks quietly.
Jesse glances over at me. “Yeah. She’s cool.”
Mr. Logan goes from looking surprised to happy in record time. “Good. I’ll have a car take you—”
Before he can finish his sentence about our ride, Jesse grabs
“Let’s have some fun,” Mr. Logan says. He grabs a set of earphones. “Let’s get you in a booth and see what you sound like on tape.”
I take a step back. “No, no, no.”
“Why not?” Mr. Logan raises one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows.
Ever since I fainted while singing “Scarborough Fair,” and then the talent show “siren” incident, I’ve avoided being recorded. Those two are up on YouTube for all eternity. “I just don’t want to hear myself, okay?”
Jesse takes my elbow. “It’s okay. How about we do some scales instead? Me and you?”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
Jesse sits down at the piano. “Use the breathing technique you just learned.”
While Mr. Logan and Holly listen, Jesse and I sing for so long my stomach muscles feel like somebody’s ripping them in two.
“How do you do full concerts like this?” I ask and sip some water.
“People think my life is easy. It’s not. I work crazy hours, and when I’m not practicing or playing a gig, I’m writing or exercising. I never get much sleep.”
“You have to truly love music, or you’ll never make it,” Mr. Logan adds.
Jesse begins playing piano again—something classical—slowly, not methodically, with lots of flavor.
“I remember when I first heard you sing on TV,” I tell Jesse. “I must’ve been nine or so. I could tell how much you loved singing.”
“Still do,” he says quietly, softly drumming the keys.
“Want to sing your new song, Jess?” Holly asks.
He shakes his head. “Today’s about Maya.”
“I’d love to hear your song,” I say.
He looks at me, pensive, as he stops playing piano, stands, grabs an acoustic Fender, and slings the strap over his shoulder. He takes a deep breath before beginning to pluck out a melody. Shutting his eyes, he sings in the purest voice, “Eight years old when we first went fishing. Now ten years on, I wish we’d never gone. They say to live in the moment, to live right now. But I’m back there, when you loved me for me.”
Who’s the song about? His dad? Or Dr. Salter? Or somebody else?
When he’s finished, Holly pats his arm. He winces and opens his eyes. He takes a step away from Holly, and with a sad expression, she begins stacking sheet music into a pile.
She and I glance at one another before I say, “That was gorgeous, Jesse.”
A guy who clearly loves singing, who loves performing, and puts so much emotion and love into his songs—why would he quit? Give up something that is his whole world? The reason has to be big as life, right?
Jesse pulls the guitar strap from around his neck. “I’m starved.”
Mr. Logan claps once. “Lunch sounds great. Then we can resume the schedule for this afternoon. The tour of the Ryman Auditorium should be fascinating.”
Jesse sighs, grabs his cowboy hat off the piano, and puts it on.
“Mark.” Holly clucks her tongue. “I don’t know the rules of this job shadowing thing, but shouldn’t Maya be spending time with Jesse while he does his normal routine?”
Mr. Logan straightens his jacket and tie. “How about Mere Bulles for lunch, then? It’s fabulous. I got us a reservation.”
“Sounds nice,” I say, pretending I know what Mere Bulles is, but Holly shakes her head.
“Mark, how about you and I go to lunch together, and we’ll leave the kids alone to get to know each other. Okay?”
“But,” Mr. Logan blurts, and Holly gives him a monumental glare, so he quickly adds, “I think it would be great if you two went to lunch.”
“Really?” Jesse asks, looking up.
“I’ll send Gina and Tracy to handle any press who follow you and to deal with the restaurant. We’ll meet up after lunch.” Mr. Logan pats Jesse’s shoulder. “You okay with this?” he asks quietly.
Jesse glances over at me. “Yeah. She’s cool.”
Mr. Logan goes from looking surprised to happy in record time. “Good. I’ll have a car take you—”
Before he can finish his sentence about our ride, Jesse grabs
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