Slow Crescendo

Normally, this is the part I loved — taking a jumble of noise and shaping it into something that made people move, something that spoke to them. But today, the music felt like it was fighting me every step of the way.

The waveform on my screen stares back at me with the same blank expression. Music pulses through the small studio, but something was off. The groove's flat. I feel nothing as the track plays. No matter how many times I tweak the tempo or add a new synth, the track refuses to come alive.

I lean back in my chair and massage my temples. A headache is forming in my forehead. The cheap headphones I bought in college weren't helping any.

When I agreed to create music for an indie artist's single, I thought it would be easy money. Throw some stuff together and collect the check. Now, it's not so simple. If I'm creating something, it has to be good. I need to be proud of it.

Work has been slim lately, so when I overheard someone in a coffee shop talking about needing music, I jumped at the chance. I just wish I knew what genre it was before I agreed.

My phone screen lights up with a picture of Dad, a goofy grin plastered on his face. He's wearing the same thin glasses he's worn practically my whole life. I save my project before pressing 'accept' on the Facetime call. I'm immediately greeted by Dad's empty kitchen.

"Uh, hello?"

"Oh, hey," Dad says off screen. There's rummaging in a drawer, and then Dad appears, wearing an apron I've never seen before. A smile breaks onto my face. He holds up a plastic spoon and adjusts the phone screen so I can see that he's cooking something on the stove.

"What are you doing?" I ask. One thing about my dad is he doesn't cook. Mom was always in charge of that, and after she left, we ate a lot of take out. I got that from him.

"Cooking!" Dad says. The oven dings and he puts on some oven mitts. A tray full of chicken that was sitting on the counter now makes its way into the oven. Dad closes the door and clicks some buttons on the stove before looking at me. "Some chicken and mashed potatoes and veggies."

"Are you...okay?" I laugh. "Do you even know how to work the oven?"

"Don't be jealous. Gordon Ramsey would call me to assist before you."

"I promise he's not calling either of us."

Dad rolls his eyes with a smile before pouring in a pack of mashed potatoes into the pot. I notice the grey that was in his hair is no longer there. Where there was once dark brown and gray, there's just dark brown. My eyes squint as I lean closer to the phone like it would help me to see more detail.

"Where's your grey hair?"

Dad chuckles as he stirs. "Really, Riley?"

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. Dad puts the spoon down and leans on the counter where his phone rests. He tilts his head so I can get a better look.

"Like it?" he asks.

"Cooking and dying your hair?" I'm silent for a few seconds. Dad and I have a stare off and I want him to speak first. His brown eyes mirror mine, but his are darker.

Dad groans. "Fine! I'm seeing someone."

I smirk. "Is that why you broke out the apron?"

Dad's eyes flick up to the top of his phone screen and a grin appears on his face. "She's calling. Can I call you back later?"

I wave my hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. Have fun tonight! Love you."

"Love you more."

I end the FaceTime call. Dad and I probably talk once every week or so. It's been more lately since finding work has been slow, but he never told me about someone he was seeing. He must really like this woman.

My eyes make their way back to the computer in front of me. Untouched and unchanged. Part of me was hoping the track would fix itself while I was on FaceTime. I was wrong.

My studio door opens, and I turn in my chair to be greeted by my best friend. Chase runs his hand over his blonde buzzed hair and plops himself down on the couch.

"Scrap it," Chase says, placing a Twisted Tea on the coaster next to my soundboard. "You never sit this long in front of a project when you're feeling it." He stares at my track for a few seconds. "Especially when all you have is that."

He's right. I save the current project and exit out of it. I can't look at it anymore. My headache is getting worse.

Chase takes a seat on the white couch. I pop the cap off the cold bottle and take a sip. "Dinner's almost ready, anyway. Take a break, come eat." He flashes me his award-winning smile I've known since middle school. I see how Jaslyn fell for that.

"Fine," I sigh. I power everything down in my small music studio and grab my maroon sweatshirt. It's always too damn cold in this house.

When I walk into the kitchen, I immediately smell the familiar food. My mouth is watering. "Chicken parm?" I ask. I take a seat at the bar, plates already set in front of me.

Chase nods. He removes a tray from the oven, and I see it's filled with an assortment of vegetables. I never liked them until he started cooking.

My stomach growls. "I'll never understand why you didn't pursue cooking."

"It's a hobby, not a passion. Besides, if I did, we wouldn't be friends."

That was true. Our middle school selves bonded over our love for music, even though he took the songwriting route and me the music production. Regardless, I'm glad he cooks, because I do not.

As Chase finishes plating dinner, I open my email app to see if there is anything in my inbox. I've been working freelance for about two years now, but it's been harder than I thought. After college, I worked in a music store while producing music on the side, and then when I was getting consistent work, I changed to full time. Since those initial projects, work has been scarce. They paid well, but never lead to more work. I've been trying not to let it get to me and Chase has been great about coughing up some extra money for rent, but it takes its toll. I want this career so badly, but when does one decide to put it aside until another time?

"Phone down," Chase scolds.

We try to have these dinners once a month to catch up since both of us can get really busy. Well, mostly him. But having dinner together is a nice way to slow things down and talk. He's my oldest friend, but he's been acting more like a caretaker lately. He doesn't think I notice, but I do.

My phone lies face down next to me as the two of us eat. "This is delicious," I marvel. Chase's cooking was always top tier. He really could've been a chef if he wanted to.

It's silent for a few bites when Chase says, "Hey, don't worry about the music. It'll come to you. It always does. There's no one more talented than you."

"You're just sucking up so I go out and buy you ice cream after this."

Chase lets out a chuckle and almost chokes on his food. "I definitely want ice cream after this, but I'm so serious. Your music is good. It would be better if you believed in yourself, but you'll get there."

He may be a little right. But it's hard to believe in yourself when you're stuck on the same project for weeks.

I roll my eyes, but a smile pulls at my lips. We fall into a silence together. These dinners are all about catching up, yet we always fall into a comfortable silence.

"Jaslyn about ready to open up?" I ask, shoveling green beans into my mouth. I don't know how he seasons them, but I could eat them for the rest of my life.

He smiles. "Almost there! She's waiting on the last shipment of notebooks before she can officially open, but probably in two weeks or so. I'm so excited for her."

"Me too," I agree. "She really deserves it. You better get her a nice grand opening gift." My eyebrows wiggle, and Chase nudges me.

"Shut the fuck up." He laughs. "Maybe that's what you need."

"Well, let me just call Campbell then-"

"Ew." Chase shutters. "You have your pick of women, dude, and you still choose Campbell?"

I cut at my chicken and put a small piece in my mouth. "Oh, stop, it's not like we're dating. You rarely even see her."

Chase's phone lights up, and Jaslyn's face pops up on the screen. "Fuck," Chase breathes. He rubs his hand over his face.

I laugh. "Not the response I was expecting when your girlfriend calls you. What did you do?"

"Nothing that you're thinking. But she is calling me to ask if I talked to you yet. She's been badgering me all week and I told her I'd mention it at dinner." Jaslyn's face disappears from the screen and a notification of a missed call pops up.

Chase stops eating and looks at me. "I was talking to Jaslyn about your music rut-" I wouldn't necessarily call it a rut, "-and she mentioned getting in contact with her friend Keon from business school. He's a manager for an artist-"

"No," I say. I go to fork more chicken into my mouth but realize I finished my plate. I opt to take a sip of my drink instead.

"You didn't let me finish," Chase scolds. "Keon is working with an artist, but they need a producer. Something about their last one not working out. Jaslyn said that Keon would talk to you. Nothing is promised, but it doesn't hurt to chat."

Having no work is frustrating, but there's nothing I hate more than handouts. Chase wants me to believe in myself, yet his actions speak the opposite. I don't need help. I can do this myself. I will get where I deserve to be through hard work and talent. Not because my best friend's girlfriend went to college with someone who happens to work in my field. I need to do this myself, even if that means I hit rock bottom.

"I'm fine without it," I say. "Work will come through soon. I appreciate all you do for me, but I need to figure this out myself."

My phone dings. "I sent you a link to Keon's artist. Her name's Jessica Rivera. Listen to her music, will you?"

I've heard of this girl before, but not much. I think she's up and coming. Has an EP out, but that's it. I don't know anything about her, so how could this even help me?

"I'm telling you, Chase, I got this." I stand and clear my empty plate. Jaslyn pops back up on Chase's phone again. "Take it," I say. "I'll clean up."

He mouths 'thank you' before pressing accept on his phone. "Hey, baby!" Chase shuts the door to his room, and I'm left in silence. My lips taste the Twisted Tea again, and I'm grateful for the calming liquid.

I won't be listening to Jessica's music. Chase is only trying to help, and I love him for that, but I can do this. I know I can. Music production is what I was born to do, and just because it's slow right now doesn't mean it's the end.

Lucky for us, Chase has an actual 9-5 as a copywriter, but it doesn't bring in all the money, nor is he passionate about it. He's taking a step back from songwriting so that I can pursue my dream. I need to make it worth it for him.