by Pratt, Lulu
“WHAT DID YOUR boss want?” my mom asked.
“Huh?” I asked, still flustered from speaking with Wyatt. Even over the phone he had a way of making me nervous, but in a good way.
“You said that was your boss, right?”
“Yeah, that was him.”
I hadn’t told my mom much about my new gig, except that I was really excited about the opportunity. Thankfully, she wasn’t very impressed or interested, so she didn’t ask much about it. My mom had a way of making even my largest accomplishments feel shallow, so I tried to keep things to myself as long as possible.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, he just had some new ideas and wanted to run them by me,” I said, making myself seem more important than I was. I hated when I tried to impress her, a feat I’d accepted I would never achieve.
“I see.” She looked at me for a second before switching topics. “I found these two for you. We need to get you out of this ‘starving artist fashion.’”
Each hand held a hanger with a dress. My mom had a classic and feminine style. Since childhood, everything she picked for me was some shade of pink or purple. Today was about busy prints, another of her favorites.
“They look nice,” I said, ignoring her dig.
My mother hated the way I dressed, pairing dresses with sneakers and avoiding high heels as I liked having my feet planted firmly on the ground. If it was up to her, I’d always be dressed as if I was heading to a cocktail party.
“I know you’re not dating anyone, sweetie. And from the look of these tennis shoes you insist on wearing daily,” she spoke smugly while glancing at my Chuck Taylors and adding, “I understand why.”
“Mom, would you really want me dating a man who only cared about how I dressed?” I asked, accepting both of the dresses.
Many people might hear my conversations with my mother and feel sorry for me. But I’d had a lifetime to get used to her and understand the way she operated. My mom never meant any harm. She was just extremely blunt and unapologetic about sharing her opinions, solicited or not.
“Of course not, sweetheart. But you need to show a little honey if you’re ever going to attract a bear,” she said with a flash of a smile.
“I think you’ve misunderstood me. I’m not really into bears,” I said with a straight face, annoying my mom. It was my way of dealing with her, a little humor to combat her constant nagging.
Every mother and daughter relationship was different, but this was ours, and it worked for us. When my mom wanted to see me, she made a shopping day of it. Nashville wasn’t really her scene, so I often drove to Franklin to meet her at the mall. We ate at a chain restaurant, usually Chili’s or Olive Garden, and shopped in the department stores and then I’d drag her to a second-hand shop where I would manage to find a couple of things that I did want using her charge cards.
She poked fun at some of my life choices, casually scolding me for decisions she didn’t agree with, and I found clever ways to turn them into jokes. At times it was exhausting, but now that I lived away from her, I’d grown to miss it.
“Make light of this all you want, Sadie. You’re getting older, and trust me when I tell you the years are going to fly by. This is when you want to find your husband, because the older you get, the worse the pickings.” She spoke while thumbing through a rack of dresses, sliding the hangers one by one.
“When you were my age, you weren’t thinking about men, Mom,” I reminded her.
“You’re right. When I was twenty-two, I was in medical school. I could barely find time to shower.” She flashed her smile that made her look a decade younger.
My mother was so serious most of the time, seeing her smile was always a rare treat. Making her laugh could brighten even my worst days. That was why I never turned down one of her invitations for a girls’ day out.
“Then why do you have such high expectations of me?” I quizzed, taking a red dress from her and placing it back on the rack. “You know I hate bold colors.”
“Sadie, you have to pick one thing that you’re focused on and spend your twenties striving to achieve it. You’re young, and you have the time to commit. This is the time to go for it,” she urged, taking the red dress off the rack again, shoving it in my hand as though this was the big goal I needed to achieve.
“I might not have mentioned this,” I took the dress from her, “but I’ve kind of got an interest in music. I even learned to play the piano and the mandolin. It’s getting kind of serious,” I teased.
“What is it about making music that keeps you interested?” she asked, in the tone I knew too well.
“I’m able to express myself more freely in my music.”
“I see,” she nodded, continuing to move through the racks. “Are there issues in your life you feel comfortable sharing in music, but have difficulty sharing in regular day-to-day life?”
I sighed, preparing myself for another back and forth in the same dance we’d been doing since I was in the third grade. “No, I usually discuss the topics in my songs before recording them.”
It wasn’t completely true. There were a lot of things I sang about that I would never tell a soul. When asked about it, I’d say I was inspired by friends, like Wyatt had said about his love songs. I still couldn’t believe he hadn’t been in a serious relationship.
One of the songs on his debut album, named “Disaster,” was about a breakup. The lyrics were powerful, and he sang the words like the pain was still fresh, like it had happened the day before. While I could buy that he hadn’t been in love, it seemed impossible that he hadn’t been in a relationship before.
“When I see you perform, Sadie, you embody a confidence I’m not used to seeing from you. Does the stage allow you to be a truer version of yourself? Perhaps a version you’re not able to be in your regular life?”
“Mom, please don’t psychoanalyze me.” I rolled my eyes, hating how right she always was about me.
Whether I was on the piano, singing, or even playing the mandolin or the yangqin, when I was performing I lost all my inhibitions. Lost to the music, I was the best version of myself. There was nothing I couldn’t do on stage, nothing I couldn’t say in my songs. I got to be exactly who I wanted, when I wanted.
“I’m just trying to understand you, darling. Is that so wrong?” she asked, taking the dresses from my hand. “Come on, let’s get these and go get lunch.”
I followed, ready to finish our date to get to Wyatt’s. I wasn’t sure whether it would be a recording session or just to drop off the notebook. I’d never been so excited to see someone’s house before. Knowing I would be seeing Wyatt soon made even my mother’s continuous questions bearable.
Chapter 16
WYATT
I WAS READING A music magazine, lounging on the sofa in the living room when the doorbell rang. Peeking at a mirror on my way to the door, I ran my fingers through my hair before letting Sadie in. She was dressed casually, in a tight white tank top and skinny jeans that hugged her hips perfectly.
“Should I take my shoes off?” she asked, looking down at her scuffed Chuck Taylor sneakers. I loved that she was always so dressed down, relaxed and comfortable, which in turn made me feel the same.
“No, don’t worry about it.” I waved her in, leading the way to the living room.
“Sorry it took so long. I was out with my mom, and she has no concept of me having my own life,” she smiled softly, brushing her blonde hair behind her ears.
“Don’t worry. I’m just glad you could bring it. I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember that song from the last session.”
Sadie turned, reaching in her bag before revealing a red leather notebook. “Oh, it’s fine. You actually don’t live far from me.”
“I noticed that when I came by the other day. I’m not used to living so close to downtown,” I admitted, accepting the notebook from her. Sadie had already marked the page with a piece of ribbon. “I can’t believe I forgot this.”
&nbs
p; The notes were more about what she had told me, to pull from personal experience. But I’d also jotted down a few lyrics that brought the song back instantly. Opening the book wide, I folded the two pages I’d used back and forth, hoping to loosen them from the bind.
“No! What are you doing?” Sadie grabbed my wrist. Her touch was hot, instantly raising my temperature. “You can’t tear out any pages, it’s bad luck.”
She released my wrist, but I could still feel her touch. My skin tingled where her fingers had pressed against the skin. “Bad luck?” I asked, hoping the desire wasn’t clearly written on my face.
“Yeah, the notebook has to stay intact. You can copy the notes to another notebook,” she said, her blue eyes serious.
I smiled, impressed by her resolve. “The notebook has to stay intact, huh?” I repeated to myself on the way to the kitchen. Looking through a few drawers, I couldn’t find any paper, so I went back to my bedroom. It took me a while to find the notebook I usually use, which was eventually found behind the bar.
When I returned to the living room, Sadie was in an adjoining sitting room I found redundant in the layout of the house. She was eyeing a glass shelf filled with awards I’d collected over the course of my career.
“This is incredible,” she whispered. I thought she was talking to herself until she looked over at me. “I didn’t know you had so many awards.”
“I would’ve never brought them here. Mitchell insisted, hoping it would be inspirational in the process of making the album. It’s been more like a burden,” I sighed, pushing my fingers through my hair.
A constant reminder of what I was up against had been having an adverse effect on my process lately. That was what made debut albums so magical. There was no pressure. No one expected much from you, and you had the freedom to be creative without expectations. The sophomore slump wasn’t just for TV shows and students.
The success of my previous releases meant anything less than that would be a failure. The trophies were a benchmark, of the type of accolades and recognition my new project needed to achieve. Mitchell knew exactly what he was doing – making sure I didn’t forget what the label was hoping to get out of me, their investment.
There were high hopes for my and Billie’s next album. And to prove their optimism, we’d been granted the largest budget yet. A staff of a dozen employees worked around the clock mapping out everything from our album release party to the press tour that would follow.
We’d been scheduled to appear on several late night shows, but mostly we would make appearances closer to home. The plan was extensive, and a clear indication of how seriously they took our next album. Some artists barely got a budget for production, and others were only allotted money to make music, but little to promote it.
We were granted both, a clear indication that we’d reached new heights in our career. We’d reached the level most artists wished for, but with it came immense pressure. The trophies were a constant reminder, which was the reason I’d arranged them in the room I used least in the house.
“It seems more like a dream,” she said breathlessly, still looking at the awards.
“Trust me, there’s a lot to it,” I said, meeting her in front of the shelf.
“Like this house?” she motioned around. “This place is incredible. I can’t believe you were complimenting my tiny cottage. It looks like a doll house compared to this… mansion.”
“Well, I’m renting. I like your place. It’s a real home,” I told her, and I meant it. Sadie’s house reminded me of my childhood home, cozy and familiar. You could tell that whoever lived there loved the space and had gone above and beyond to make it their own.
“Yeah, right,” she smiled with rosy cheeks.
“I’m serious. I’ve never had a real home of my own. I went from living in my parents’ basement to a tour bus. I did finally get a place of my own, outside Memphis. But I’ve never spent more than two months there, and I can’t remember the last time I was there for more than two weeks. It’s bare, nothing like your place. I’m usually in hotels and vacation homes for shows. Even this place isn’t mine. It’s rented by the studio while we record the new album. These aren’t my things. It’s all model furniture.”
Sadie twisted her lips curiously. Her long eyebrows curved, framing her eyes beautifully. “So, what kind of furniture do you have at your house? The one in Memphis.”
Now her lips pressed together, trying to restrain a smile tugging at her flushed cheeks. She was adorable and sexy at once. “You look like you have an idea,” I said, watching the smile spread across her face.
“It’s just, when I was driving here, I had an idea of what your house would look like, and this…” she glanced around the living room disapprovingly. Her small nose scrunched as she shook her head left to right, swinging her blonde hair each way. “This isn’t it.”
The laughter fell from my lips before I recognized it. Sadie had always struck me as timid and soft spoken; at least, when she wasn’t playing the piano. Now, she spoke freely, and it caught me off guard in a hilarious way.
“What? You can’t think this space looks like you.” She was grinning now, her bright smile lighting up something deep in my chest.
“So, do you think your home looks like you?” I shot back, watching her begin to consider it.
“That’s a good question.” She bit her bottom lip. I felt myself harden watching her move, walking towards the back of the house. I followed excitedly, like an animal stalking prey, ready to corner her.
“My friend Gayle always says that my house is like Instagram headquarters. It’s an influencer’s dream,” she laughed. Sadie’s place was colorful from every angle.
“But you’re not on social media,” I said absentmindedly. Sadie turned on her heels, her eyes bright with amusement as she looked directly at me.
“You searched me?”
Her question sent me reeling, realizing how much I’d revealed about myself. Sadie bit her bottom lip again, but this time I felt more like the prey, caught in her web, at her mercy.
Chapter 17
SADIE
STARING AT ME as though I was a ghost, Wyatt had lost his cool allure after admitting to searching for my profile online. Honestly, I was flattered. There was no way I would admit how carefully I had scrolled through his profile, afraid I’d accidentally double tap and reveal myself.
“I did my due diligence,” Wyatt smiled, regaining his confidence, although it was clear he had been embarrassed, if only for a second.
“So, this was for my job?”
“Sort of.” He pulled out a bar stool from and took a seat. I joined him, pulling up to a tall bar at the back of the house. “I wanted to see if you had a boyfriend.”
“What?” I shrieked, feeling as though I’d misheard him. He was always so bold. I hated how attractive I found it.
“Not like that.” He flashed that smile that made my defenses relax, but at the same time I was a little disappointed. “I just wanted to know more about you. Every time I’m around you, I feel like I’m spilling my soul, and I don’t know a thing about you.”
“Spilling your soul?” I repeated, unsure that I would define our conversations the same way.
“You know, telling you about Billie and how crazy she drives me,” he said. “I don’t talk about my sister to anyone.”
“Is that against the twin code?” I teased, watching his smile grow.
“Do you usually talk about your siblings to people you barely know?”
“I’m an only child.”
“Ah,” he rose from the barstool. “Finally, I learn something about you. We need to celebrate this.”
“I do have one, you know,” I said. He frowned for a second. I quickly added, “A social media account, not a boyfriend.”
The relief on his face was evident, pouring over me. Not only had he been searching for me online, but the thought of me having a boyfriend brought on clear disappointment. My mind formed the unbelievable thought th
at he was interested in me.
This was Wyatt Hart – he could have any girl in the world. He couldn’t possibly be thinking there was something between us. It must have been a fear that I would be like his sister, with a conflicting schedule or battling priorities. At least, that was what I told myself. It was the only way I could make it all make sense.
The moment seemed to pass, and Wyatt moved around the bar, brushing his hands against his denim jeans, looking from one end of the bar to the other. “I was drinking bourbon earlier, but I think this deserves my world-famous cocktail.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” I perked up, pressing on my forearms to see over the bar.
“Do you drink?” he paused, sincerely searching my eyes.
“Yeah, but I think it’s sweet that you thought I might not.” I smiled, thinking of the other night with Gayle. We emptied two bottles of wine in as many hours. I wasn’t a party animal, but I loved a drink after a long day. And any day that included my mother was automatically deemed a long day.
“So, no siblings, and a drinker,” he announced proudly as he reached for two tumblers.
I laughed at his declaration, watching closely as he turned to open a small refrigerator, returning with a pitcher of dark liquid. “What’s in this cocktail of yours?”
“Just two simple ingredients,” he said. Opening the pitcher, he poured an equal amount in each glass. “Extra sweet tea and Jack Daniel’s.” He reached for the liquor and added to the glasses.
“Intriguing. How long did it take you to come up with this recipe?” I asked, accepting my glass.
“Many years of trial and error.” He smirked, raising his glass. I did the same, and we shared a smile as the heavy glasses collided gently. “Come on, let’s go out back.”
Wyatt turned and opened the back door before I responded, leading the way like he knew my answer. The porch overlooked a large garden with a pool, another feature I wouldn’t imagine Wyatt having at his house. He didn’t strike me as the type to entertain and throw parties that made having a pool a great amenity.
