Pretty Baby

Chapter 22

I sit in the dimly lit studio, surrounded by empty whiskey bottles and crumpled sheets of paper. The mixing board in front of me is a blur of knobs and faders, each one representing a different layer of sound in my latest album. It's been nearly two months since I got the news about the custody hearing delay, and I've barely left this room since.

The clock on the wall ticks relentlessly, reminding me of every second that passes without Penny in my life. Two months. It’s been two fucking months until I’m finally able to make my case to see my daughter again. The thought makes me want to put my fist through the wall, but instead, I reach for another bottle.

I hit play on the latest track, letting the music wash over me. It's good, maybe too good. Every note drips with the pain I'm trying so hard to numb. As the song fades out, I adjust the levels, trying to find the perfect balance between raw emotion and polished production.

The days have blurred together in a haze of writing, recording, and planning on an endless loop to keep my mind busy. I work tirelessly on the album, using it as a shield against the thoughts of Penny that threaten to overwhelm me. Each song becomes a piece of my heart, a musical diary of our separation and my desperate desire to be reunited with her.

But there's one song I can't bring myself to finish. Penny's song. The melody haunts me, playing on repeat in my head whenever I close my eyes.The words won't come. How can I capture her essence in lyrics when she's so far out of reach?

I stare at the blank sheet of paper in front of me, willing the words to appear. But all I see is Penny's face, her smile, the way her eyes light up when she laughs. The pen falls from my hand, and I reach for the bottle instead.

As for the rest of the album, all the producers and other random session musicians that Mason Records have sent over to help me have long since stopped trying. My answer to all of them has been the same. This album is my baby, and I’m doing it all.

Taylor Shea calls every few days, but I let it go to voicemail. Along with the rest of the world, she has become aware of my lack of custody and missed album deadlines. Her messages become increasingly concerned, but I can't bring myself to respond. What would I say? That I'm fine? That I'm holding it together? The lies stick in my throat. No comment is all I can say.

I throw myself deeper into the work. I obsess over every detail of the album, tweaking and refining until my ears ring and my eyes blur. It's easier to focus on compression ratios and EQ curves than to think about the empty space in my life where Penny should be.

But in the quiet moments, when the music stops and the whiskey runs dry, her absence hits me like a physical blow. I find myself staring at photos of her, tracing the lines of her face with my finger. She looks older in each one, growing and changing without me there to witness it.

The album is nearly finished now, but Penny's song remains incomplete. I sit at the piano, my fingers hovering over the keys, but I can't bring myself to play. It feels wrong somehow, like I'm trying to capture her in music when I can't even see her face.

It’s late afternoon when I clean up the liner notes, type out the lyrics, and organize the track-listing for the album.

~ ~ ~

The late afternoon sun beats down on me as I lace up my running shoes. The city is just starting to party, but I don’t care. I’ll run through crowds if I have to. Tomorrow's the big day. The custody hearing that will determine my future with Penny. The thought of it makes my stomach churn, so I do what I always do when I need to clear my head.

I run.

I start down Broadway, the neon signs of the honky-tonks still glowing faintly in the daylight. It's strange seeing this street so quiet. Usually, it's a riot of noise and color, packed with tourists and aspiring musicians. Now, it's just me and the occasional city worker, nodding at each other as we pass.

As I run, I think about Penny. Her laugh, her smile, the way she reaches for me when she's tired or scared. How can anyone think I'm not fit to be her father? I've changed so much since she came into my life. I'm not the same man I was, the hard-drinking, womanizing musician who cared more about his next million than anything else.

I pass by Tootsie's Orchid Lounge, its purple facade a stark contrast to the brick buildings around it. I remember the night I played there, not long after moving to Nashville. It was the first time I'd performed my new songs. Songs about being young and thinking I knew anything about love.

The memory spurs me on, and I pick up my pace as I turn onto 4th Avenue. The rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement becomes a steady beat in my head, and suddenly, words start to form.

Staring at these sad empty walls,

Echoes of your laughter coming from the halls

Your Pictures are scattered on the floor,

A reminder of the days I can’t ignore

I let the words roll around in my mind as I run, the beginnings of a new song taking shape. It's about Penny, of course. Everything I write these days is about her in some way. She's changed me, in ways I'm still discovering.

As I reach the Gulch, I slow my pace a bit, taking in the mix of old industrial buildings and sleek new developments. This area reminds me of how much Nashville has changed since I've been here, how much I've changed. I used to think I needed the chaos of LA or New York, the constant drama and excitement. But now, I find peace in the quiet moments. Reading Penny a bedtime story, watching the sunset from our back porch, writing songs in the early morning hours while the rest of the house sleeps.

I pass by the famous "Wings" mural, usually crowded with people taking photos. Now, it's deserted, and I pause for a moment, catching my breath. I think about the wings, about flying, about freedom. Is that what I was afraid of losing when Penny was born? My freedom? If so, I was a fool. Being Penny's father has given me a kind of freedom I never knew existed, the freedom to love unconditionally, to be the best version of myself.

As I start running again, more lyrics come to me:

Please come back to me,

This silence is killing me,

I can’t pretend that everything’s fine

I smile to myself, feeling the familiar rush of creativity. This is why I run. Not just for the physical release, but for moments like this when the world falls away, and it's just me and the music in my head.

I loop back towards Broadway, the sun now fully up; the city coming to life around me. As I run, I think about tomorrow's hearing. The fear is still there, a knot in my stomach that no amount of running can fully dislodge. But there's determination too. I'm not the perfect father. Far from it. But I love Penny with every fiber of my being, and I'm doing my best to be the man she deserves.

I slow to a walk as I approach my house, my breath coming in heavy pants. I'm drenched in sweat, my legs aching, but my mind is clearer than it's been in months. The run has done its job. I feel centered, focused, ready for whatever tomorrow brings.

As I stretch on the front porch, cooling down, I see Jade through the window. She's in the kitchen, probably making breakfast, her hair up in a messy bun. The sight of her fills me with warmth. I may not have gotten everything right in my life, but loving her… That's something I know I've done right.