by Lynn Stevens
Mom wiped under her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t want you to give up your dreams, honey.”
You did. “I’m not going to. I’m just changing how I reach them.”
I left the kitchen and headed toward my room. The shades were closed. I opened them to let in the sunlight in a few hours to help me get up. My bed was calling my name. I fell into it, but I couldn’t fall asleep. Dylan’s face filled my mind. Every time I saw him, my heart ached.
I must have fallen asleep eventually, because the sun and my alarm woke me from dreams of Nashville and Dylan Walker.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I pulled an extra shift on Wednesday, leaving the resort in time to get to the theater for a sound check. Unfortunately, that left me no time to shower. It was a long walk from point A to point B, giving me more stench. I felt gross and grimy when I walked backstage.
“You run a marathon?” George, the security guard at the back door, asked.
“Funny,” I said over my shoulder. In reality, I might as well have. Sweat drenched my shirt, darkening my Mountain Resort polo from a mint green to a dark forest.
Everyone was heading for the stage to do the sound check when I made it to the dressing room. Crystal wrinkled her nose when I hurried past her.
“There’s some Febreeze on my table,” she said, spinning in a circle. “Hurry up. He’s in a mood.”
Great. I ran into the dressing room, dropped my bag, and sprayed my clothes down with the fresh smell. It wasn’t perfect, but it helped. I pulled the ponytail holder out of my hair, fluffing it with fingers as I rushed to the stage.
And slammed straight into Hank’s slouched back.
He turned to glare at me, then a wicked gleam flinted in his eyes. “Cami, the whore who broke my son’s heart. I warned him, but he didn’t listen. Why’d you do it? My guess is you realized he didn’t have any money. Well, no real money anyway. Or that Dylan couldn’t help your career? That’s my second guess. Maybe it was a combination of both. So which was it?”
I swallowed back the bile building in my throat. “You want the truth?”
“That would be nice for a change.” He sneered.
“I broke up with Dylan because I have to stay here. He needs to go back to L.A. It has nothing to do with money or any career choices.” I shook my head, fighting off the emotional downfall that was trying to take over me. “I stand on my own two feet. Nobody’s going to carry me, Hank. If... when I leave here, it will be with my own money and my own way. Not on someone else dime. If that’s not a good enough reason for you, then fuck off.”
He laughed as I pushed by him and rushed onto the stage. Dylan scrunched his eyebrows, but I didn’t even acknowledge him. I couldn’t. Crystal reached out and squeezed my hand when I took my spot beside her. I squeezed back and put on a fake smile. Hank strode onstage, a huge grin covering his face. I wanted to shove my fist down his throat, cry, and run away all at the same time. Instead, I did what any professional would do: I did my job.
“You okay?” Crystal asked. I’d hung back after the sound check to avoid Hank, and she stayed with me.
“No,” I said.
“You will be.” She put her hand on my shoulder then followed everyone else off the stage.
I stood there, staring out into the seats. The dream seemed so impossible now. So useless. I was destined to sing karaoke at random bars, not headline my own tour. Loser. Wannabe. Dreamer without a dream. More like dream without a dreamer. This entire thing was over before it even started. I took my mic off the stand.
Just one song.
I wanted to sing just one song for me. Not a Hank Walker song. Not a cover. Something I wrote. Unfortunately, I’d only really written one song and that was with Dylan.
A cold June day
A storm rolling outside.
The world stirs of life.
Lightning cuts the night sky
Thunder echoes inside
As he dies.
As he cries.
Daddy always said
Life isn’t meant to be
A permanent thing.
Daddy always said
Life isn’t meant to be
An easy thing.
Daddy always said
Don’t forget to fly,
Don’t forget to love.
But most of all,
Don’t forget to live.
A guitar joined me at the end of the chorus. I turned toward Dylan. He strummed the chords we’d written together. I held the mic up and sang the second verse.
July brought ice
And the funeral fire.
August turned to September
Then October came along.
Daddy was long gone,
But his words were strong.
Daddy always said
Life isn’t meant to be
A permanent thing.
Daddy always said
Life isn’t meant to be
An easy thing.
Daddy always said
Don’t forget to fly,
Don’t forget to love.
But most of all,
Don’t forget to live.
I repeated the chorus, meaning every word. Dad had told me those things before. Dylan helped me learn to live. He strummed the final chord, inches from me. I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around him, pull him close. He let the guitar fall, pushing it behind him.
“Cameron,” he whispered. He touched my cheek with his fingertip.
“Please don’t make this harder.” I fought the urge to lean against his touch.
His hand fell and he backed away. I closed my eyes, wanting so desperately for him to leave and to stay. When I opened them, he was gone.
Crystal knew something was wrong when I got back to the dressing room. She tried to hug me, but I shoved her off. I needed to change and get ready for the show. By the end of the evening, nobody would even notice I smelled like ass. I didn’t care. The total devastation on Dylan’s face cracked every last string of strength holding me together.
I knew I was doing the right thing. He couldn’t stay here for me. It was not even an option. His life was in L.A. His real life. This thing in Branson was temporary. He knew it. I knew it. But I had planned on leaving. And until I realized how bad my family was off financially, I had settled on going to L.A. With him.
Dylan didn’t know that. I’d never told him. But I thought we had months left. No weeks. Not days. He never knew I was going to follow him west. Now it was irrelevant.
Crystal cocked her head to the side, and I smiled. My costume was on. I was back in the zone. It was time to fake being happy. I might as well get used to it. She put on my game face and then offered me a bottle of her favorite perfume. Clearly a sign that I reeked. I laughed at our silent exchange. We didn’t need to talk anymore. We just knew. We headed toward the stage, a cluster of excitement for the performance. No matter how pissed everyone was at Hank, this was what each of us lived for. I just enjoyed the moment. Dylan stopped us backstage.
“I need you to stall,” he said to Heath. “Just play a song, any song, and keep the crowd entertained.”
“What the fuck?” Mike snapped. “He’s not drunk again, is he?”
Dylan shook his head.
“You want Cami to sing something?” Heath asked, pointing at me over his shoulder.
Dylan didn’t even glance my way, but he shook his head again. “That would only make this worse. Just... Please? One song.”
I couldn’t see Heath’s expression, but it was enough to satisfy Dylan. And put a damper on the rest of the mood.
“This is bullshit,” Mike declared.
Heath turned around, calmer than I’d ever seen him. “Yep. But we’re going to play something. How about a little ‘Highway to Hell’?”
“Why not? We’re already on it,” Crystal said, shrugging for good measure. “Cami, you know the words?”
“Well, yeah, but Dylan said—”
“I give
zero shits what Dylan said,” Heath said cutting me off. “You’re singing. Let’s go. I’ll introduce you.”
I didn’t like it. Dylan said it wasn’t a good idea. There was a reason behind that. But I also didn’t think failing the crowd, failing Mr. Reynolds was a good idea. Hank had blown two shows. What if he blew another one? Would Mr. Reynolds cut his losses. The crowds had gotten smaller in the last few weeks.
Inhaling a long, calming breath, I decided to do what was right for me. Just like staying in Branson was right for my family, singing now was right for me. I couldn’t worry about Dylan. He would be gone. But Crystal, Heath, Mike, and everyone else would still be here. We had to take control of our destiny and that meant taking control of how the show opened tonight.
I stepped onto the stage as the first chords of the classic AC/DC song echoed through the theater. Then I ran, sliding across the floor on my knees as Heath shouted my name. There weren’t any cheers or applause, but I didn’t care. I launched into the song. Halfway through the guitar solo, I saw Hank standing on the side of the stage.
Smiling, I turned toward the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Hank Walker,” I shouted before continuing the next verse.
Hank stormed onto the stage with his hands in the air and Dylan on his heels. When the chorus came back around, I made it a point to sing with Hank. He put his arm around me like we were best friends. It appeared all good fun and the audience went wild when Hank blessed them with his appearance. The way he squeezed my neck was definitely not friendly.
Halfway through the chorus, I heard it. His voice cracked. It strained against the notes. If I hadn’t been singing along with him, it would have been obvious.
Hank bowed after the song ended. His Adam’s apple bobbed several times, like he was swallowing. His smile never left his face.
“How’s everyone doing tonight?” He shouted with a grimace. “Give it up for your own Cami Ann Harris!”
I took a bow, tossing a concerned gaze toward Dylan. His eyebrows furrowed. This was far bigger than Hank being a dick. I knew it then. I waved to the crowd and ran to my post beside Crystal. If she heard the cracks, her face didn’t show it.
We ran through the first five songs without too much trouble. Hank’s voice would crack subtly at times, more obvious at others. It sounded intentional. I willed Dylan to look at me, but he stayed on his side of the stage with his gaze firmly on the crowd. He never smiled.
Hank chugged a bottle of water as Dylan introduced the rest of the band. He did not introduce me, but Hank already had so I didn’t let it bother me. Much.
“You feel—” Hank grabbed his throat and rubbed it. “Sorry, that water—” He cracked and rubbed more. “I ca—”
Shaking his head and faking a laugh, he pointed to Heath to start the next song. Heath raised an eyebrow, but he lifted his sticks with a grin and began “Heart Thumping,” one of Hank’s more intense songs. It wasn’t the next one on the set list, either. Hank’s eyes narrowed toward Heath.
But the crowd knew the song, and they were already singing the “thump” with the bass drum. The guitars joined in. Crystal nodded toward me with a fake smile and panicked eyes. We began our part.
Then Hank turned toward the audience.
And cracked every word.
Thrown off by this development, Heath and Dylan stopped. Hank’s head dropped. The silence in the theater was deafening. My heart hammered in my chest as Hank dropped the mic and walked off stage.
Then the boos began.
It was heartbreaking.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The texts came in while I was sleeping. More like tossing and turning. The boos echoed in my head from the night before. They were wicked and nasty. I swore to myself then and there that I’d never boo anybody every again. Each one was like an arrow to my chest. If I felt this way, how had they made Hank feel? Dylan?
I rolled over and saw the green flash on my phone. When I checked it, there were five unread texts. It was just after seven. Before I could read them, my phone buzzed in my hand with an incoming call from Mountain View Resort.
“Hello?” I answered, still groggy from a lack of sleep.
“Hi, Cami, it’s Amilia. Is there any way you can come in today? We have a wedding tomorrow and I could use some extra help setting up the banquet hall.” Amilia’s high-pitched voice shot an octave higher toward the end.
I really didn’t want to go in, but I agreed. “As long as I’ll be out before the show tonight,” I added.
“Oh,” her voice hitched. “You haven’t heard? The concert has been canceled for tonight. I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
My mind shot to the unread texts on my phone. I guess I knew what they said.
“Can you be here by nine?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, throwing my comforter off the bed and sitting up.
“Thanks, Cami.” Amilia hung up.
My feet hit the cold floor. I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead into the palms. Things went from bad to worse. Now I didn’t even have the show. That wasn’t necessarily true. The show was just canceled for tonight. Amilia hadn’t said anything about the rest of the weekend or the rest of the summer. I needed coffee, a shower, and to clear my mind. Tossing my phone to the side, I headed toward the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, I felt awake at least. I dressed in my uniform and picked up my phone.
Mom sat at the small dining room table with a magazine and coffee. I smiled. For once she looked relaxed. I couldn’t remember the last time she looked so content.
“Hey, Pumpkin,” Dad said behind me.
I turned around, shocked that he wasn’t in his chair. Then I felt horrible for not even realizing he wasn’t there. He’d become a fixture in the living room, but he stood in front of me with a cane and a grin.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“Therapy,” Dad said. His grin widened into a full-on smile. “I’m moving a bit better.”
“So I see,” I said.
His left hand still curled, and the left side of his face sagged, but there was a glint in his eye that had been dimmed. He pressed his hand on the cane and moved forward. He pulled his weak left leg behind him.
“This new doctor has been a miracle worker,” Mom said. She smiled. A real, genuine smile. I almost lost my balance. “There’s a long way to go though.”
“Yeah, I may not getting my dancing feet anytime soon, but I’ll be able to shuffle better.” Dad laughed.
I ran up to him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “I’m so glad to see you moving around.”
He kissed the top of my head. “Me too.” He leaned back. “You want some coffee?”
“Yeah,” I said as I let go.
“Good, get me one too.” He laughed and shuffled toward the table.
I couldn’t stop smiling as I filled our mugs, sweetening mine to tolerance, and took them to the table. Mom was reading her magazine. Dad stared out the patio doors. If I listened hard enough, I could probably hear my little brother snoring in his room. It was nice, peaceful. I sipped my coffee and unlocked my phone.
The messages all said the same. The show was canceled for the night. I responded to each of them and finished my coffee.
Mom held up the keys to the car. “Take it. I’m off work today.”
I raised my eyebrows. Mom always worked. She jangled the keys again.
“Okay,” I said, taking them. “But call me if you need me.”
She nodded. I kissed them both on the cheek then ran out the door. Mom’s car wasn’t fancy, but it was reliable. The drive to the resort didn’t take long.
Amilia met me at the time clock and ushered me toward the banquet hall. The entire room was a disaster area. Tables were scattered and chairs stacked.
“Um,” I said, not really sure where to begin.
“That about sums it up.” Amilia clutched her clipboard tight against her chest. “I have a couple of guys who are going to move the tables and chairs. The rest
will be up to us.”
I stared at Amilia. She was tall and athletic with sandy brown hair. Her normally smiling face was scrunched into a nervous frown.
“I’m sorry I called you in,” she said, facing me. “Bella quit last night, and the other girls called in sick. Mr. Reynolds mentioned you probably needed the hours.”
“It’s okay,” I said with a shrug. “Just tell me what we need to do.”
We spent the next two hours cleaning the tables after the guys put them wherever Amilia pointed. I cleaned the chairs and helped maneuver them into place. Once that was done, it was time for the detail work. Amilia and I put the table cloths on, then placed the centerpeices on each of the thirty tables. The wedding party table was arranged in a wide U shape at the front. It had its own style to it. I didn’t get why, but whatever. I just put everything where Amilia told me to put it. It was almost three by the time each table was set up for guests. The entire banquet room was spotless.
Mr. Reynolds strolled in as Amilia and I admired our work. His face was grim.
“Does it look that bad?” Amilia asked, her face falling into a worried frown. She turned and glanced around the room. She spun back, her eyes wide with panic. “It does. I’ll fix it. We’ll take everything down and—”
“The room looks great,” Mr. Reynolds said, holding his hand up. “Spectacular really. You two did a great job getting it in order.”
Amilia’s face lit back up. “Thank you.”
“Can I have a word with Cami?” He smiled at Amilia and glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes.
Amilia nodded and hurried away, checking something on her clipboard.
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Is Miranda okay?” The words rushed from me without a filter to slow them down.
“Miranda’s fine.” He rocked back on his heels. “But you’re right. Something’s wrong.”
My body seized, preparing for the worst.
