ME: I can take care of myself.
RYAN: You always say that.
ME: Let it go, Ryan.
RYAN: Fine. I will for now. Hope you feel better.
ME: Thanks. I’m just going to sleep for a while.
We weren’t together. Not really. Not anymore. But we had remained friends. At least, I had remained friends. Ryan still had hope, I think, and refused to let go. Maybe in my own way, I wasn’t letting go either. But I had at least stopped the benefits part of our friendship a few months ago. That had been a terrible idea after the break-up.
Walking over to the window, I looked at the same yard and the same road that had been my comforting view since I’d moved in at the beginning of my sophomore year of college. The houses on the other side of the street were a mix of long-term, older residents like me and the annual rotation of college students.
I didn’t mind living in the mix. Anyone who decided to make a life in this small college town couldn’t really avoid the tie to the school. And honestly, I liked seeing the new batch of students each year, so young and full of hope as they came and went—so carefree.
Colt headed toward his truck, placing the ladder in the bed. He looked back in my direction and gave a friendly wave. I lifted my hand, giving one back. Climbing in the Ford F-350, he drove away.
I stood there awhile, thinking about what Colt said earlier about Lucky. He thought we should talk. I honestly wasn’t sure how I felt about the idea. Over the last few years, it’s not like I had banished him away into the oblivion of my mind. I thought about the guy. I actually kept tabs on him too. More than I would admit if questioned. But it didn’t take much. He was famous. And on television and practically every time I turned on the radio.
I went over to the record player sitting on the side table in the living room. I owned all of his albums—all of them on vinyl, just the way he would have wanted me to hear his music. Looking through the stack of records, I found the one called “Dark Horse.”
The cover had stormy clouds with Lucky on a motorcycle wearing a pair of aviators. His hair was short and slicked back with gel. This was the album that had made him famous. Every song carved out an image that was so different than the guy I once knew.
Placing the record in the player, I turned up the volume before walking over to the couch. I winced as I lay down on the cushions. Closing my eyes, I waited for the deep sound of his voice to fill the room. I didn’t cry anymore when I listened to this song. But the first time I heard those words, my heart crumbled into dust. I’d worried and lost sleep over the possible truth to his lyrics.
Sometimes I need to clear my head,
And get back on the road.
Coffee and cocaine.
It gets me out of bed,
And on to the next show.
After a long night of drinkin’,
Tryin’ to block her memory.
’Cause I can’t dull the achin’ pain,
Without a bottle of dark whiskey.
Back on the road again,
I live to ride another day.
The towns pass by the window,
But my heart still feels the same.
I strap on my guitar,
And I play another show.
I smile at the screaming crowd,
But I know how this will go.
I toss back a cold one,
Pretendin’ I’m okay.
But I’m dyin’ on the inside,
And tonight only ends one way.
I’ll drink until her face blurs,
And the memories fade away.
I’ll drink until I can’t feel,
Knowin’ tomorrow there’ll be hell to pay.
Come mornin’ I’ll be hungover,
Out on the road all alone.
The cycle will start again,
’Cause there’s no reason to go back home.
Sometimes I need to clear my head,
And get back on the road.
Coffee and cocaine.
It gets me out of bed,
And on to the next show.
We pull into another town,
Ain’t nothin’ left to lose.
The days are darker than the nights,
And I can’t face the truth.
So I keep on drinkin’ whiskey,
And pretendin’ to have a good time.
Singin’ under the stage lights,
While her face forever haunts mine.
The song finished and the player moved to the next painful tune—a dark, edgy cover of You Are My Sunshine that contained not even a trace of light. I hated how beautiful he sounded. How beautiful and broken—beautifully broken.
The smell of popcorn filled my kitchen. Uncorking the bottle of wine, I poured a crystal glass half full of deep crimson Shiraz. My beautiful glazed bowl was just the perfect size to hold an entire microwave bag, which wasn’t by coincidence. I had designed it for that very purpose.
I sat down on my couch, turning on the television. I wanted to see the red carpet entrance for the awards show. As always, I never missed a single televised broadcast that had Lucky scheduled for attendance—presenting or performing.
I realized this wasn’t healthy. Actually, it might be considered downright maddening.
Most people just thought I really liked country music—most people like Hannah and Ryan. I think he had always known something wasn’t quite right about my obsession. But Ryan’s mind had been blinded by his heart.
Yet, I think even the most observant boyfriend would have never thought his teacher girlfriend had a past with the guy on the cover of the tabloids she bought at the grocery store.
I heard the door open. Turning around, I saw the freckled smile of my part-time roommate. “Has it already started?”
“Nah, just the red carpet.”
Peyton sat down next to me, putting her black beaded Louboutins on my mahogany coffee table. I shot her a glance, and she rolled her eyes. “You know those cost more than the table, right?”
I laughed, feeling the lingering pain in my ribs. “You scratch it, and I’ll put those shoes on eBay to fix it.”
“Did I tell you that my landlord’s a real bitch?”
“But you love her anyway.” I grinned.
“Sometimes. When she makes me spaghetti.” She stood up stretching her arms above her head. “But right now, I need some wine. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.”
I watched her disappear into the kitchen before turning back to the fifty-five-inch television, which was actually the only piece of furniture that wasn’t mine.
Peyton had lived with me twice over the last eight years. The first came immediately after Lucky and I had broken up—after we had lost the baby. I had been a mess. Those were some dark summer days. And the fall had been even worse.
I had never felt that level of heartache in my life. And I’m pretty sure I would never feel that way in the future, unless of course, it happened again.
Even though she never truly understood my pain, Peyton did what best friends—what sisters—do in a crisis. She made me go on, dragging me out of bed, dragging me out of the house—until I could finally do it on my own.
She never went back to Bedford. Never taught a day of school either. Thank goodness. At first, she was a waitress at Applebee’s just to have a job. Then she moved over to the new high-end steak restaurant. She became friends with a girl named Emily who was saving up for flight attendant school.
The idea put stars in Peyton’s eyes. She could see the world. She could be free and wild. And her dreams spun into exotic places with exotic men.
When Emily left, so did Peyton.
After she graduated as a flight attendant, my house became her home base. She traveled and loved every minute of it. Sometimes I was envious of her spirit. If I had possessed just a small ounce of her freewill, then maybe the end to my story with Lucky would have been different.
But people are different for a reason. A world full of the s
ame cookie-cutter beautiful people would be boring—at least that’s what I always told myself. It made the broken pieces inside of me not feel so sharp.
Peyton had gotten married not long after she started working for the airline. She met a guy named Geoff on a connector flight routed back through Chicago. I knew it was doomed from the beginning and maybe she did too. But that didn’t stop her from saying I do in an expensive and lavish wedding—paid for by him.
A divorce and closet full of designer shoes later, Peyton moved back in with me for a second time. That was two years ago—and just a couple of months before Ryan had proposed to me.
“Okay. Much better.” She sat down next to me in her pajamas this time with an entire glass of wine. I held my breath, waiting for it to slosh onto the couch as she took a long drink. “So are we hating him tonight or cheering?”
“You know I always want him to win.”
“Yeah, well, that’s before you saw him in person this week. I thought maybe you were going for ‘maimed by falling laser beam tonight.’ Or at least maybe Luck would fall going up the stairs to the stage to accept one of his many fabulous awards.” She laughed, reaching a hand into my popcorn bowl.
“Get your own.”
“Why? If I let you eat the whole bag, then you are going to be pissed and blame me again for letting you gain five pounds.”
“I’ve already gained those five pounds back this week,” I mumbled as my eyes caught the first glimpse of him in a black tuxedo and cowboy boots. The camera panned to Lucky, making the large screen fill with just his image.
The scruff was gone. His face was clean-shaven. And his hair was slicked back with gel. He usually wore it semi-short these days. I used to think I loved the messy long pieces, but he looked good either way.
As Lucky talked to the red carpet host, I listened to his words. His voice.
It felt safe in my living room. To hear him. To see him from hundreds of miles away. He had no idea I was taking in every inch of him.
I was a spy. Incognito.
The hospital room had been something unexpected, and I still couldn’t shake the feeling. But now? It felt okay to see him.
I continued to eat popcorn, washing it down with wine as the show opened. Lucky was up for several nominations and scheduled to perform.
Over the next hour, I saw his face a few times. He won single of the year for Another Crazy Night in a Small Town. Thanked his mama, his manager, and several others I didn’t know.
He won album of the year, but lost male vocalist.
Brad Paisley came out on stage and announced Lucky as the next performer. I assumed he was going to sing the song that was currently burning up the radio. It was more rock than country. Most of them were these days. The women liked to see him dance.
But as the camera panned to the stage, I saw him sitting on a lone stool with just his guitar. He had changed into a pair of dark jeans that molded to his thighs and a black T-shirt that clung tight to his chest.
The back of the stage held the image of a star-filled night with a full moon shining bright. No band. No laser beams. Just him and the fog as he played the first few notes on his guitar.
“Shit,” I whispered.
The sound hit me in the stomach. I gripped the wine glass, and Peyton took it out of my fingers before the stem crushed in my hands, leaving a bloody Shiraz mess on the couch.
If the days feel lonely and the nights get tough.
Just know that I’m thinkin’ of you.
Even when I’m gone,
And the days get rough.
I’ll come back to you.
A promise I will always keep.
So close your eyes,
And think of me as you fall asleep.
’Cause nothin’ has ever felt this right.
Good night, my darlin’. Good night.
And as my head touches the pillow,
Sometimes I have to remember.
Tonight’s not the end. Tomorrow will come.
And it starts all over again.
I’ll never stop tryin’ until your heart is mine.
’Cause nothin’ has ever felt this right.
Good night, my darlin’. Good night.
As the notes continued to pour from his guitar, my heart felt stuck in my throat. This was a pointed choice. One pointed right at me. Good Night, Darlin’ had been on his first official album. I’d never let it bother me.
But tonight.
This song was different. I wasn’t a spy from hundreds of miles away. He knew. Lucky played that song like he knew I would be watching the show. Damn him. I felt the magnitude of the gesture right in my stomach. It was his first move.
As his eyes closed, that familiar deep voice picked back up on a verse I’d never heard. I clutched the blanket in anticipation and dread.
You’ve been gone for a while now.
But time never changed the way that I feel.
Just made the pain hurt deeper,
And the love more real.
You’ll always be in my heart.
You’ll be there ’til I die.
When I want to remember you,
I just close my eyes,
And think of those nights.
Good night, my darlin’. Good night.
The lights dimmed on the stage, leaving just the picture in the background with the moon shining bright. The crowd cheered. The show went on.
But I didn’t.
I stared at the television through the dishwasher detergent commercial and the one for a car dealership.
“Katie?”
“I’m fine.” But I wasn’t. Colt had said Lucky was determined. I hadn’t believed him. But now I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what he was trying to do.
As the commercial break came to an end, the screen filled with Lana Presley wearing a white strapless dress decorated with crystal jewels that showed her mile-long legs.
“You see those shoes? I would give a kidney for those shoes.” Peyton leaned in closer. “I bet those are at least five inches.”
“Shh.”
Lana held an envelope in her fingers as she went through the list of nominees for entertainer of the year. And then the camera panned backstage. Lucky was still in those tight jeans and T-shirt as they announced his name as the winner.
He made his way to the center of the stage. I caught a glimpse of the tattoo on the inside of his right arm, tiny inked words in the middle of an elaborate design. He had gotten it a few years ago, but I had never been able to read the letters.
“Thank y’all. A long time ago, I was a crazy kid who fell in love with a guitar. And tonight I want to thank the late great Wally Knox who thought I was worth teaching. I wish he could see this. Here’s to you, Wally.” Lucky pointed up to the sky. “I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for you.”
I felt a tear slip down my cheek. Shit. I cursed silently to myself. I shouldn’t be crying. But I still felt this emotional high when he won an award. Every. Single. Damn. Time.
I got ready for bed, still thinking about his performance. I just needed to calm down. This wasn’t a big deal. He played my song. It wasn’t the only one he’d ever written about me. There were several. This was no different. The whole stage had been set up. Those words didn’t come out spontaneously. Maybe his label thought it was time for him to play something that wasn’t stadium rock.
I crawled under the covers, willing myself to go to sleep. I had to get up early for school. After teaching my first year in Gibbs, I had wanted a fresh start. I got a job in one of the local elementary schools in Stillwater. I liked my room—the same room with the same view as my students came and went through the same door every year.
I heard a ding from my phone. Reaching to my side table, I picked it up, reading the screen. The message wasn’t from a current contact. I stared at the unknown number, knowing exactly who sent those words.
You feeling okay? I’ve been worried.
The adrenaline was rolling
through me. After all this time, why was he doing this? Why now?
After we broke up, I had gotten a few texts. Most of them said: Are you doing okay? Do you need anything?
I always replied, “I’m fine.”
And then one day, Lucky sent a text that said Jack Harlow’s record label had signed him. I had sent him one last congratulations message—and then changed my number. It was time to finally let him go.
It wasn’t long afterward that I saw the big press announcement. Keith Urban had asked the guys to join his Guitar Explosion Tour. That had been his big break. Everything changed for Lucky once he went on the road with Keith.
I rubbed my eyes, contemplating the text he sent tonight. Eight years was a long time. I was a different person. So was he. I may have watched him from a distance, but that was Landon Evans. The guy I once loved was nothing but a stranger to me now.
I finally just set my phone back on the dresser. I stared at the ceiling. I stared out the window. Then I sat up, grabbing my phone, storing the strange number in my contacts as Lucky.
My fingers gripped the marker as I wrote this week’s spelling words in precise letters across the board. In all my days of dreaming to be a teacher, I’d never planned on working with third graders.
But that’s the thing about plans. I made so many of them through the years, yet very few ever went in the direction outlined in my mind. I think both of the Roberts got it right with roads and mice. Frost went on a different path while Burns proved foresight was a waste of time.
The ideal image of my first year of teaching turned into an improbable mess. And the teachers knew why I was a mess, which made the mess burn more vividly in my mind. I hated when they felt the need to pat me on the back. I hated their pity stares and little comments of encouragement. None of that helped me heal or move on. None of it made me feel better. And none of it made me a better teacher.
I was constantly distracted, fighting tears and blatant depression more often than I would acknowledge to anyone. I just wanted to leave. I wanted to make it all stop. I wanted to blend into the background again without people reminding me that I was the kindergarten teacher who left with “that country singer” and lost her baby.
My Lucky Days: A Novel Page 24
