Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Scarlett nods happily.
I wrote out the music, and she tried and tested it, loving it, but it’s hard for me to fully get an idea of what she’s wanting without hearing it. When I sing it, I can hear it, and I can feel it a whole lot better. That was mostly how I became so familiar with her style, by playing and singing her songs over and over, until I knew them like the back of my hand.
I close my eyes and start playing, letting the music travel over me. Then I sing to myself, getting a feel for the song, trying to understand exactly what it is she feels it’s missing.
“Burning, oh, like a flame. Burning, oh, untamed. Your heart trapped mine, there before the sunrise, and it took me so long, oh sweetheart, so long, to realize ... that you were my fire, my whiskey, my burning desire.”
I know what it’s missing, the moment I stop singing and my eyes pop open. “It’s the last verse! My fire, my whiskey, my burning desire. It needs to be higher, it needs to drag out a little more. At the moment, it’s too slow.”
I hold Scarlett’s eyes, and she’s just staring at me. Face blank. Oh, God. I’ve offended her. I glance at Isaac, he’s staring at me, too. Great. I’ve put my foot right in it. I never meant to upset her. Did my words come out too harshly? Quickly, I try to correct my mistake. “I’m so sorry, Scarlett. I wasn’t trying to be rude, or offensive. I don’t know anything about music, at all, and—”
“You can sing.”
I read the words on her lips so clearly, but they still confuse me all the same.
“Pardon me?”
“You can sing?”
Her hands raise up, and she claps, over and over, then runs over, pressing her hand to her mouth for a moment, before leaning forward and putting her hands on my shoulders. “Amalie, you can sing! Why didn’t you tell me you had such a breathtaking voice?”
I do?
I’ve never sung before, well, I have to myself but everyone sounds good to themselves. Piano has always been my passion. I’ve never once thought about singing. Maybe she’s just being nice. Scarlett would think anyone sounded good if she loved them enough.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No, I can’t sing.”
“You can sing! That was ... incredible! The way you sung that, the way your voice captured those words. It came out exactly how it sounded in my head and now I know why, because it’s inspired by your music. You wrote that to the version in your head, and I just heard it and I loved it. But what I loved more is that you can sing! And you’re incredible!”
I shake my head, cheeks rosy. “Honestly ... no ...”
“Isaac,” Scarlett says, and we both look to Isaac.
He nods, eyes still on me, intense. “You can sing, Amalie. Outside of Scarlett, that is the best damn voice I’ve heard in a very long time, and music is my life.”
They’re just being nice. Right?
I can’t sing.
Can I?
The door opens and Susan walks in, followed by another one of the producers for the album, Steve. Susan’s eyes fall on me, and she smiles, which is rare for her. “Well, Amalie, I have to say I’m blown away. You hid that incredible talent very well.”
“You have a beautiful voice,” Steve tells me.
Scarlett rushes over to Susan and starts rambling something to her. I watch them, their conversation quick, flinging back and forth, and then finally Susan nods, pulls out her phone and leaves with Steven in tow. I rush over to Scarlett. “What did you just do?”
She grins, big, strong, proud. “I just asked her if we can record a few songs together, with both of us singing, on the album. It will add a fresh new spark, something incredible. She is going to speak to my label and the producers, and see if they’ll allow one or two songs to incorporate you and your voice, as well.”
I stare at her. “But ... I can’t ... I can’t sing.”
“You can, Amalie.”
“Not professionally. Scarlett, I can’t hear myself as well as a normal person. I wouldn’t know if I was singing right, or wrong, I’ll just make a fool out of myself and ruin your album.”
I’m rambling.
Because I’m nervous.
I play the piano. I don’t sing.
“Amalie, listen to me,” she says, hands on my shoulders, brown eyes locked on mine. “You feel music. You feel it right into your very soul, and that’s why when you closed your eyes and sang then, you didn’t miss a beat. Because you trust yourself. You trust music. And you trust how it feels. You won’t let me down, you could never let me down. If they agree, can you just try one with me, just try it? If we hate it, it doesn’t have to go on the album. You will still be playing for me, but please, will you see if we can do this?”