by Pratt, Lulu
“What can I get y’all?” An older woman called, hanging over the edge, hiding in the shade of the awning of the food truck.
“I’ll order for both of us,” Billie said without asking. “I’ll have one brisket sandwich with baked beans and… a cornbread bowl with brisket.”
“Sounds good,” the woman jotted down on a small notepad. “And what to drink?”
“Two sweet teas, please.”
“Uh-huh,” she scribbled, glancing up. “And anything else?”
“Umm,” Billie glanced down at the menu written along the side of the truck on a chalkboard. “One peach cobbler.”
“Rod!” The woman yelled so loudly Billie flinched. When a man in the back of the truck hollered back, she continued. “We still got some cobbler?” The man yelled again, but I couldn’t hear his response. “You got the last slice, darling.”
Billie smiled, handing the woman three ten-dollar bills. I’d stopped fighting my sister about rushing to pay for things long ago and she was a generous tipper to boot. When we were younger, I refused to let her spend a dime when we were out together. But now that our latest album was officially double platinum, I knew she had more than enough to handle lunch.
We’d just settled at the end of a small picnic table with three massive Styrofoam plates and two cups when Brad appeared. Amongst the crowd of casual shoppers and diners, he looked out of place in his tailored suit.
“There she is,” he called from behind Billie. “The most beautiful woman in Tennessee.”
My sister’s smile transformed her face as she got up from the table, draping her arms around him. Brad produced a bouquet of red roses and a small gift wrapped in light blue paper with a ribbon. I’d never seen a man try so hard to be a hero in my life.
“This is so nice. Wyatt, isn’t this nice?” Billie turned to me, setting the flowers on the table.
“Very nice. Y’all heading to prom?” I teased, which earned me a dangerous glare from Billie.
“Just wanted to put a smile on her face,” Brad answered without malice. The man never appeared flustered, no matter how hard of a time I gave him. A good trait for a lawyer, I guess.
“It’s nice. I’m only giving you a hard time, Brad,” I reasoned.
“Oh, I know,” Brad grinned. “I’m going to win you over one way or another, like I did your parents. Let me know how you like that brisket.”
“Will do,” I nodded, lifting my sandwich.
“I can’t stay, sweetheart,” he spoke softly to my sister. “I have to get back to the office as I have a meeting with a client about the latest changes in her will, but I wanted to bring you a little gift.”
“Thank you, baby. You’re so sweet,” she kissed him, nearly spoiling my appetite. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to seeing my sister so head over heels in love.
“I’ll see you as soon as I can leave the office,” he promised.
“I can’t wait.”
And then he was gone. Billie turned to me with a tiny bit of disappointment in her eyes. I could tell she wished Brad was sitting in my place instead.
“Wyatt! Stop eating. I didn’t even get a picture of the food,” she argued. She quickly retrieved her phone before moving the plates until she found them aesthetically pleasing.
“Sorry, I thought we were just eating,” I rolled my eyes.
“It’s fine,” she batted her eyelashes. “With you in the background, it’s sure to get over a million views.”
“You’re welcome,” I spoke through a mouth full of brisket drenched in barbecue sauce. I couldn’t understand why Nashville insisted on the vinegar-based sauce, but even that couldn’t hide the delicious flavor of the brisket. The sweet tang of the sauce mixed perfectly with the smoked aroma of the meat so tender it melted in your mouth.
“Look, it’s already got one thousand likes,” Billie said, staring at her phone.
“I’ve got a new song I want you to hear,” I started. It was the reason I’d agreed to go with my sister to lunch. We were in Nashville to work on our album, but after two weeks, we had yet to have one studio session together. When she wasn’t attached to Brad at the hip, Billie was obsessed with her online presence.
Billie’s social media profile now had a life of its own, with her sharing everything from her fashion pics to every meal she ate. Even now, she had yet to take a bite of her food, still focused on getting the ideal angle of the peach cobbler. Kneeling, and then standing, she hovered her phone over the dish with an intense stare as she snapped photos.
“Did you hear me?” I asked after she didn’t respond.
“I hear you, Wyatt. But, you know, there’s so much more than work to talk about.”
“Is there?” I huffed, lifting what was left of my sandwich to my mouth.
Sometimes I feared she would never take her music career seriously. To her, I think the music was a phase, something that presented itself and she decided to run with it. But it wasn’t a passion, and definitely not a calling.
“That’s the problem with you,” she continued after typing away on her phone. She sat down across from me, finally satisfied with her ‘content,’ as she called it. “All you think about is work, but there’s love, and food, and travel, and so much more than being locked away in a studio.”
“I like travel and food too,” I assured her. “I like to go places to find inspiration, and then I write about it and put it in a song.”
“You forgot one.”
“What?” I looked up from the baked beans. Like the sauce, they were a bit tangy. I was used to the brown sugar sweetness the way our mom made them growing up in Memphis. But again, I couldn’t deny how delicious they were. Of course, I didn’t mention it to Billie. I couldn’t let her know Brad’s recommendation was a hit.
“I said there’s more to life – love, food, and travel. And you said you like food and travel. You missed one, and that’s your problem.”
“Here you go with this again,” I rolled my eyes. Reaching across the table, I scooped up a bit of her cornbread and brisket with my plastic spoon.
“You need to stop messing with these…” she looked around before leaning close and whispering, “groupies!”
I laughed lightly. “What are you talking about, Billie? When have you ever seen me with a fan?”
“I didn’t say fan, did I? I’m talking about these girls who throw themselves at you. They’re obsessed with you! They do anything for a night with the famous Wyatt Hart, and that’s all you give them.”
“I haven’t gotten any complaints,” I grinned, reaching for another spoonful of her lunch.
“And you haven’t gotten any love, either,” she shot back.
Chapter 3
SADIE
WHEN I LEFT home years ago, I’d been so proud to give my mother the new address of my first place in Nashville. After leaving Franklin with nothing more than a duffle bag and a heart full of dreams, I was eager for the adventure of making it on my own. Although it was only a thirty-minute drive from home, Nashville felt like big city living, as opposed to the suburban lifestyle I was accustomed to.
“What is this place?” My mother had called in response to my text message with the address. She was old-fashioned and replied to texts with telephone calls.
“It’s my new place.”
“You’ve rented a house?” she had asked in disbelief. I’d refused any handouts from her and my father, so she had known as well as me I couldn’t afford to rent the house.
“No, Mom.” I had rolled my eyes since she couldn’t see me.
“Then how is it your address, Sadie?” She had spoken in that professionally calm tone she used with her patients.
“I’m renting a room,” I had barely let the words roll off my tongue.
“You’re what?”
“I couldn’t afford an apartment, so I rented a room,” I had reasoned, closing my eyes, trying to keep my cool.
“Your father and I are on the way,” she had said tightly.
> “No, Mom. I don’t–” I had tried to argue my case, but she had ended the call before I could explain.
My friends had gone off to college, posting photos of their dorm rooms that looked more like a prison cell than my bedroom. While I was never interested in college, I had wanted that same experience of stripping myself of the comfort zone I knew was hindering me.
Living in my parents’ house was too easy. Franklin was such a small town. Everyone knew everyone, and there weren’t many places I could showcase my talents. In Nashville, there was an open mic night every night at one bar or another. I had wanted to find my way in a new scene, without the help of my parents.
No matter my desires, my parents would hear nothing of it. As promised, they had arrived in Nashville within the hour, moving me into a hotel room connected to theirs for three nights. Together, we had shopped for houses that weekend, finally deciding on the small ranch-style home I now called home.
“It’s an investment,” my mom had explained after we finished shopping for what my mother described as ‘eclectic’ furniture. “Nashville has a good real estate market. Whenever you’re done with this music thing, we’ll sell it for a nice profit.”
Now, years later, my stomach still tensed remembering the tone of her voice – dismissive at best, doubtful at worst. My mom was what she described as a realist, but in my eyes, she was constantly pessimistic. A psychiatrist by day, my mother found it difficult to switch between her profession and parenting. Often, I felt as though I was sitting in a chaise lounge in her office, instead of sitting at the breakfast table, being analyzed for every decision I even considered.
Much like my father, my mom was dedicated to her career. While she focused on the mental aspect of her patients, my dad was a general practice physician.
For as long as I could remember, they were constantly working, leaving me to my own devices during their long hours at the office. To make up for their absence, they filled my life with activities and material items. Whenever I looked at something twice, it was mine. So, when my father noticed my interest in music during the second grade, he cleared out the family room to make room for a grand piano. By the end of my first year receiving lessons, the room was filled with a handful of instruments I’d dabbled with. I stuck with the piano and the mandolin.
Unlike the clichéd story, I never grew to resent my parents for their dedication to their work. On the contrary, I admired their passion and intense work ethic. I applied it to my music without ever noticing my parents thought of it as nothing more than a hobby.
My phone vibrated against the wooden coffee table I’d spray-painted bright pink. Quickly dismissing the reminder, I reached for my work bag, slinging it over my shoulder as I made my way out the door. So lost in my thoughts, I’d almost forgotten about the audition Gayle had arranged for me the day before.
With the top down on my third-hand Volkswagen Beetle, the wind blew through my long blonde hair as I followed the voice of my GPS. There weren’t many parts of Nashville that were still unfamiliar, after living in the city I loved for two years. I was confused when the directions led me away from downtown, and instead to a residential neighborhood with some of the largest homes I’d ever seen.
Glancing out the window, I felt like a kid in a candy store gawking at the architectural dreams lining the street. When the GPS announced I had arrived, I turned down the long driveway that led to what could only be described as an estate. The lawn was immaculate, with small rose bushes lining the way. White columns reached to the second story, and the porch was larger than my kitchen, with a door that must have been at least eight feet tall. Parking beside a row of luxury vehicles, my Beetle looked out of place and in need of a wash.
“You must be Sadie. Please, come in,” an older man in a suit called to me as I got out of the car.
“Hi,” I smoothed down my hair and my floral sundress, feeling underdressed. Gayle hadn’t mentioned what type of music I would be playing, because she said they insisted on only revealing the act to the person hired.
“I’m Mitchell Young.” He extended his right hand, and I shook it quickly. “Did you have trouble finding the place?”
“No, not at all. Am I late?” I worried, reaching in my purse for my phone.
“No, you’re right on time,” he smiled just as I saw the time, which showed I was ten minutes early. “I trust I don’t need to tell you that taking any photos, and especially of the artists, would be wildly inappropriate.”
“Oh, I would never. I only wanted to see the time,” I explained, turning the phone off and shoving it back into my purse. “I actually don’t wear a watch when I am playing music.”
“Good, I figured you knew as much.”
He spoke with a level of confidence that could easily be confused with arrogance. I was slightly relieved when he remained silent as he led the way through the beautiful home. The living area was as large as my whole house, with a kitchen that made the wannabe chef in me scream. Through the French doors at the back, I could see a swimming pool and at least six empty loungers along the side.
Who could possibly live like this? I wondered to myself as I followed Mitchell to a back staircase. The wall leading to the lower level was decorated with platinum and gold plaques from different recording artists. Butterflies began to flutter in my stomach, realizing this was the big break I had been praying for. I’d always heard that it only took one gig to kickstart your career, and I felt like I was walking into mine.
“I’d like to hear something in C major, please,” Mitchell announced as we entered the cream-colored room with warm burgundy accents. It was a state-of-the-art studio, equipped with two recording booths, space for a full band, and a large mirror.
In the center of the room was a piano. And maybe I imagined it, but it felt like a spotlight shined right on the white lid. My legs felt unsteady as I walked to the bench, forcing my shoulders back, hoping to hide my uncertainty. A musician needed to be confident. That much I knew, but as I stretched my fingers, all I could feel was doubt.
That was until my fingertips touched the keys. There was something about music that transformed me into a person I barely recognized. My eyes closed and my fingers moved without guidance, free from the fear and doubt I’d felt just seconds earlier. Music was my confidence, and through song, I was able to become the woman I dreamed of being.
Chapter 4
WYATT
THE DAYS ALWAYS felt longer when I was tasked with administrative bullshit that anyone could do. After our regular pianist broke his arm while biking off-road, the album production had come to a screeching halt, as ballads were more frequent on the new project.
Knowing we couldn’t move forward without hiring a replacement, our producer had lined up every available artist in the city. Sitting in a soundproof room across from the piano, I crossed my arms as the woman nervously walked to the bench. She looked too young to be any good, so I was less than interested. The blonde was average height, wearing a sundress and Chuck Taylor sneakers, although she was very attractive with her long blonde hair and sexy curves.
We’d already watched four auditions, and the schedule called for four more. I was exhausted and ready to get back to work. “I don’t even know how she made the cut,” I said more to myself.
Billie glanced up from her phone, looking at the blonde for a moment. The blonde rotated her wrists and quickly scanned around the room before playing a note. My sister returned her attention to her smartphone, typing away at record speed. Billie had told me about the sponsorship post she’d done earlier, advertising a clothing company. Apparently, the contract required her to engage with her readers for a set amount of time.
Before I could complain about how Billie refused to take our music career seriously, my ears perked at the sound coming through the speakers. With her eyes closed, the woman behind the piano looked so peaceful, her body swaying as her fingers moved with a relaxed precision.
What had started as a simple rendition of “Tin
y Dancer” had launched into a playful yet soulful freestyle that brought me to my feet. Either she was older than she looked, or this young girl had been practicing for half her life to embody the type of confidence and range she’d displayed in less than a minute.
“Do you see this? I think she could be the one,” I whispered.
The ceasing of my sister’s long nails tapping against the screen of her smartphone let me know she had finally paid attention. I turned to see a slight smirk on Billie’s face.
“You want to bang her?”
“What? Why must you be so… no,” I frowned, turning back to the one-way mirror that separated us from the audition.
Billie returned to her phone, and I tried not to play into her trap to infuriate me. She knew me better than anyone. I’d never mix business with pleasure or jeopardize my career by sleeping with an employee. Whoever would replace our pianist was vital to our success, and I knew how women got attached to me.
It was a gift and a curse the way they fawned over me. It made attracting them easier than ever, but getting rid of them a task not worth the trouble. I would never add that type of stress to a work relationship, and Billie knew it. She was only pushing my buttons, but thankfully, I was more focused on the audition.
The woman had drifted into another melody flawlessly, with a pace that sent lyrics dancing through my mind in a way they hadn’t in weeks. She was the inspiration I had been missing. Through the dark glass, I watched her lose herself to the music, trying hard to deny the effect she was having on my body.
As wrong as Billie was, she had always known the type of girls who caught my attention. Since grade school, she had been able to pick the one girl in class I had a crush on before I even knew it. People thought twins shared thoughts, but with my sister, they were stolen against my will.
“What do you think? I think she’s the one,” I said again over my shoulder.
