You'd Be Mine

by Erin Hahn

  I sputter at her offhand tone. “But they are like this epic love story! They’re legendary. That’s complete sacrilege.”

  “Easy, Mathers, it’s not like we’re dressing you up like your parents. That was tossed around, you know.”

  I whip to face her. “What?”

  “Don’t get all offended. I talked them out of it.”

  I swallow hard past the lump growing in my throat. Day one, jumping right in, I guess. “Double-suicide is hardly something to emulate in a publicity shoot.”

  “Exactly my point. Which is why we are going with Johnny and June.” Beth speaks slowly, and I want to smack her upside the head with her stupid clipboard.

  Christian places a hand on my shoulder. “Jesus H., Beth.”

  I shake my head, quickly, and set my jaw. “No, it’s fine. Really. Just do the bouffant.”

  “Good girl. The label is all about image management right now. Clay is country’s leading bad boy, and your sweet face is his redemption.” She holds up a hand at my protests. “At least that’s how they want to sell it. Maria, that means cat eyes and matte red on the lips. There’s a mod black frock in the corner that is all you, sweet pea.”

  With that, Beth slams the door with a loud bang that echoes through the room.

  I exhale slowly, my body drooping.

  Christian tsks, gathering my hair off my face, and meets my eyes in the mirror. “Welcome to Nashville, Annie.”

  “Welcome to the Opry, Anna Banana,” my dad says in his trademark low growl. He softly propels me forward as we head down the aisles to the very front row. Several times, my father stops to shakes hands and pat backs. I quit paying attention after the first few and instead stare at the high, arched ceilings, completely taken with the grand architecture and lost in the low murmur of voices. Moments later, my father catches up and settles down next to me on the cushioned bench. The lights flicker a warning that things are about to begin, and I fidget with my dress. It’s ruffles upon ruffles. My mom picked it out. “I’ll never understand why Stella allows her girls to dress like they’re sixteen,” she’d said about her publicist, passing me the gown earlier today. “My momma dressed me in ruffles until I was in the ninth grade. Says it’s what kept me from getting knocked up before I got my learner’s permit.” I don’t know what a learner’s permit is, but as I smooth down the pretty lace flounces on my skirt, I grin. This is a twirling dress, if ever I saw one, and I can’t wait to try it out.

  A hush falls over the audience as the lights dim, and for the first time, I turn behind me to have a look around. Row upon row of benches are filled all the way up and around a looming balcony. I snap back to the front, my stomach flipping in sudden alarm. I’ve seen my parents perform more times than I can say, but this feels different.

  My patent leather shoes don’t quite hit the floor and instead kick out uselessly. My dad places a large, warm hand on my knee to calm me.

  “You always get nervous like this when your momma sings?”

  I shrug, pinching my lips together. “Sometimes.”

  “You’re so much like her. I bet she’s seconds from puking just behind that curtain there.” He points to one side, and the corner of my mouth lifts at the comparison.

  “Should I say a prayer for her?” I ask.

  My dad chuckles low. His face is whiskered and handsome. He has a string tie at his neck and a hat the color of night pulled back on his head. “Sure, Banana. If you think it’ll help.”

  I close my eyes and whisper until I hear the soft rush of heavy curtains sailing open. My breath catches in my throat. A single beam of light illuminates my mother a few feet in front of me. Her dress falls clear to the floor in heavy sparkles. Her hair floats, soft around her shoulders, and she lowers her gaze to catch my eye and winks once before mouthing “I love you” to my dad.

  She lifts her mic and holds the entire building rapt with her sweet soprano. Sometimes I sing along, spinning in my skirt and clapping my hands. During my favorite song, my mom reaches down to pull me up with her. A burly man dressed in blue offers to help, but before he can reach, my father’s hands wrap around my waist and lift me. We sing together, and she twirls me around the stage. The crowd cheers, but I only see the faces of my mom and my dad in the hot lights. I’ve never felt this way before. As though my entire body were made of glitter and sunlight.

  When my dad pulls me down after the songs ends, I whisper in his ear, breathless, “I wanna do this forever, Daddy.” He smacks a sandpapery kiss on my cheek and says, “You will, darlin’. You will.”

  * * *

  I step out of the dressing room two hours later, my makeup an inch thick and my hair smoothed and shellacked into a style my grandmother would be proud of. I like the dress, at least—a slim-fitting bodice and classy A-line skirt swirling around my knees. Ten years later and I still get a kick out of a twirling dress. Of course, this version is all black to match—

  “Clay.” His name slips past my lips in an inaudible whisper. It’s a damn shame how well this boy fills out a black suit. His brown waves are darkened and slicked off his forehead but for a few artful strands, already escaping to drape across his eyes. Reckless and handsome. As June Carter would say, “A long-legged, guitar-pickin’ man.” He’s got a guitar strap slung over his shoulder and is in a deep discussion as Christian propels me with a gentle shove. I skitter on my ridiculous heels, and Clay turns toward the racket.

  I’m happy to report his jaw drops—

  —for a split half of a half second. I would have straight-up missed it if I hadn’t been studying him so intently.

  His jaw tightens, and he whirls his guitar around to his front, almost as though it’s a barrier to hide behind. I recognize this tactic because my fingers are itching for my own barrier.

  “Where’s my guitar?” I ask.

  “Right here.” Trina holds it out. “Kacey sent it along. I planned to give you a prop, but your cousin seemed to think you’d like this better.”

  I grin my thanks and slip the strap over my shoulder until it settles in its home over my heart. Wall in place, I inhale sharply in an effort to fortify. Yesterday, I was sitting at my grandma’s table shelling peas. Now I’m dressed like a legend, standing in front of arguably the biggest country star of the moment, pretending for a camera I’m in love.

  5

  Clay

  Jesus Christ, the set is an old train car.

  Do you ever feel like you’re hurtling across the continent on one of those high-speed trains?

  Next to me, Annie swears under her breath.

  I arch a brow down at her. “How’s that for irony?”

  She shakes her head, walking forward on unsteady heels. She stops and turns to the production assistant, a stuffed shirt named Beth, with her little fists on her hips. Her guitar is slung across her back, and I hide a smile at the picture she makes. I hear the rapid click of a camera behind me. Clearly, I’m not the only one.

  “How accurately are we holding to this Johnny-and-June farce?”

  Beth looks up from her clipboard. “Why?”

  Annie slides her feet out of her pumps and loses at least five inches of height.

  More clicking behind me. Beth sighs, long suffering, but doesn’t argue.

  I move forward, placing a hand on the small of Annie’s back and ushering her toward the train car. “That’s settled. We have a long afternoon of this, so let’s move along.”

  First, they set us up opposite each other: me leaning casually against one door, her sitting against the other, single bare foot swinging, neither of us looking at each other. Then they had me playing to her, her playing to me, the two of us back to back singing to the heavens. All of it is awkward. We take a break and move over to the food cart so the photographer can rearrange his lighting, and Annie perches on a stool, sipping some kind of green smoothie through a twisty straw. The bottoms of her feet are black, and I can’t help but smirk.

  My name is called, and the caterer passes me a sandwic
h on a Styrofoam plate with one of those pickles on a spear. There’re no other unoccupied stools, so I stand, balancing the plate in one hand, trying to eat as carefully as possible, but dripping mayo and mustard all over.

  Beth claps her hands. “Five more minutes, people.”

  I chew faster.

  “Super-glamorous, right?” Annie says with a wry smile. “I remember my momma running out the door in her curlers more than once when she was late for a shoot. This is the stuff they don’t show the enamored masses—dirty feet and mustard in your stubble.”

  I swipe at my chin with my napkin, but Annie’s already hopping down, neatly. She grabs the napkin from my hand and moves in so close I can feel the rustle of her skirt against my knees. She reaches up, still chatting.

  “I suppose if they did see it, though, we’d lose our appeal, wouldn’t we? Who wants the man behind the curtain when they can have the Wizard?”

  She finishes rubbing, lowers her hand, but is still so close. Her eyes find mine, and her lips are parted. Even though they have way too much red lipstick smeared on them, my mouth waters.

  Click click click. Annie stutters backward, and I breathe again. Her eyes are wide, and her cheeks are a high pink.

  “S-sorry,” she says. She’s patting down her dress as if looking for something.

  “Don’t be,” the photographer says behind me.

  I roll my eyes. “Back at it, then?”

  “Change of plans,” he says sharply. “Stand together in the middle of the door. Someone get me a backlight! We’re going to do some silhouette work.”

  The rest of the shots are face-to-face, our bodies entwined and draped together, the picture of iconic love.

  The entire crew is cooing over a particular backlit favorite where I have my guitar strapped to my back and I pick up Annie. Her face is inches from my own, and we look moments from a kiss. In reality, my arms are shaking because this is the tenth time I’ve lifted her and she’s breathless from being squeezed so tightly. Any awkwardness we might have felt at the start of today is nothing. I’ve learned every inch of this girl’s shape in the last two hours. It’s like some sort of cruel trust exercise. My restraint has been tested beyond belief, and I’m wrung out and exhausted.

  Suddenly it’s become very clear to me I didn’t have the first damn clue what I was signing up for this summer when I went to Michigan and got her signature.

  may

  atlanta, georgia

  A few mornings later, Fitz bangs on my hotel room door bright and early, and he’s not alone.

  “Summer Tour Day of Bonding!” he shouts, shoving through the door. I’ve been awake for a while, making use of the fitness center’s weight machines. Even still. I haven’t made it through my coffee yet.

  Dark-haired Kacey perches on my unmade bed as if she owns the place. She wrinkles her nose. “He needs to shower.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say. “And you’re here because?”

  She grins. “Summer Tour Day of Bonding.”

  “I heard that part.” I turn to Fitz, who’s commandeered my Mac. “What does that even mean?”

  He doesn’t move his eyes from the screen. “Means I got us off the hook from Trina, and we’re gonna spend the day getting to know Under the Willows.”

  “Like zip lines and shit?” I ask. I grab my toothbrush from my case and load it up with toothpaste.

  “It’s not a corporate retreat, man. It’s supposed to be fun.”

  “I, for one, think zip lines sound amazing,” Kacey says.

  “Yeah, well, another time. We’re going to an amusement park.”

  “Actually, I haven’t been on a roller coaster in years. I’m in.”

  “Of course you are,” Fitz says. “And I just bought us Flash Passes, so it’s too late to turn back now.”

  “Isn’t the closest Six Flags, like, over two hours away?”

  Kacey pops up. “More like thirty minutes. I’d better go wake Sleeping Beauty.”

  “You planned this without asking her?”

  Kacey shrugs, walking to the door. “If she wanted input, she needed to wake her ass up earlier.”

  I shake my head, closing the bathroom door. “No love for the headliners, apparently. No big deal. We only pay you.”

  “I heard that!” Fitz yells through the door.

  “Quit listening at the bathroom door, you ingrate!” I yell back before stepping in the steaming water.

  Hours later, a sleek black SUV is dropping us off at the entrance. We step out, blearily blinking at the hot sun. Annie shades her eyes while taking in the roller coaster closest to the entrance.

  “You don’t look excited,” I observe in a low tone next to her. After our intense “getting to know you” photo shoot the other day, I’ve wondered if things would be uncomfortable.

  “I’m not,” she says, equally quiet. “I get sick on the Tilt-a-Whirl, and escalators make me dizzy. This place is gonna kill me.”

  I freeze for a second before shaking my head at her. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Oh, Kacey knows, but she’s all moony over Fitz in the Jeans, so…”

  I snicker. “Fitz in the Jeans?”

  Annie’s cheeks take on color. She lowers her hand and looks at me sheepishly. “Yeah, so if you could forget I said that…”

  “Not a chance.”

  She sighs, her small bare shoulders hunching in her simple tank. “Figured not.” She winces. “Look, you guys have to know the blue jeans situation in your band is ridiculous.”

  “So, am I Clay in the Jeans, then?” I ask, trying not to laugh at how uncomfortable she looks. It’s such a change from her self-assured stage persona. She glares. It’s not very effective.

  “I refuse to answer any further questions. You’re obviously feeding your ego, and at this point, a bigger head might kill you dead.”

  “We’re in!” Fitz yells. He’s waving a bunch of neon bracelets in his hand and starts to pass them out.

  “Mathers doesn’t need hers. She’s afraid of fun,” I say.

  “Lord give me strength,” she mutters, rolling her eyes heavenward. She holds a wrist out to Jason, who obliges with a snort.

  “I forgot about that. Remember that one time when you puked up all your cotton candy on the Shaker?” He turns to the rest of us. “Neon-blue vomit everywhere.”

  Kacey frowns. “I thought that was because you were her date and you doused yourself in Axe beforehand.”

  “It certainly didn’t help,” Annie says drolly. “Let’s get this over with.”

  We walk through the gates, hitting every roller coaster at least three times with our quick passes, while Annie watches from the ground. She keeps us fed and offers to wait in the lines for food, which our bracelets do nothing to speed up. At some point, she winds up with a stuffed tiger the size of a small child.

  “You pick up a date?” I ask, taking the hot dog she’s offering.

  She nods. “It’s how I like ’em,” she says. “Cuddly and silent.”

  “I want one!” says Kacey. “Let’s play some games for a bit. My lunch needs to settle.”

  We make our way over to an alley of various gaming carts decorated with lurid stuffed animals. Kacey sees the tigers, and we follow. There’s a pit in front, filled with baseballs and three impossibly small targets set up in a row along the back wall. Fitz steps up, hands the vendor a five, and grabs a ball. He hits on the first try, but the target doesn’t budge.

  “Needs a little more oomph,” Annie instructs him.

  Fitz throws the next two wild.

  Jason steps up and taps two, missing the third.

  Kacey shakes her head. “I’m afraid of the ball,” she offers.

  Fitz looks to me with a smirk, and I wave them off. “Naw, it’s a waste of money.”

  “You’re rich,” Fitz says. “Besides, Annie did it.” I want to slug him. Maybe it won’t be so bad. I take out a five-dollar bill and pass it to the vendor while picking up a ball. I try to hold i
t the way I saw the others do, but it’s no use. It feels completely foreign in my hands.

  I toss the first. It’s short. I chuck the second, refusing to look at the others.

  Too much oomph. I nearly decapitate the vendor—who is nowhere near the bull’s-eyes—or the game, really.

  Annie sidles up beside me. “So, Clay in the Jeans was a band geek.”

  “Oh, I ran track, too,” I say, still not looking at her. She takes the ball from my hand, winds up, and pitches it perfectly at the center of the final bull’s-eye, punching it to the back of the tent with such force it spins in a circle.

  “Winner winner chicken dinner,” intones the bored vendor, and he hands her another tiger. She smirks. “All-State Softball Champs three years running. Michigan Pitcher of the Year, both junior and senior year.”

  I grunt. “So, she sings like an angel, plays like the devil, pitches championships, and slays amusement park games. Is there anything you can’t do?”

  She passes the tiger to a squealing Kacey. “Yeah. I can’t hold my cotton candy.”

  “We’re going to hit a few more rides before dark,” Fitz says.

  Kacey’s looped her arm through his, and they look for all the world like they’ve been together for their entire lives.

  “I’m good for a few more,” Jason says around a mouthful of hot dog.

  “I think I’ll sit the next few out.” I look to Annie, who gives me a half smile.

  “What about the Ferris wheel?”

  I follow her line of sight to the biggest Ferris wheel I’ve ever seen. It’s one of those ginormous deals that only goes around once because it takes so long.

  I shrug. “That sounds okay. Nice and slow.”

  She grins full on now. “Exactly.” We agree to meet back in an hour or so and weave through the vendors and crowds to the Ferris wheel. When we finally make it to the entrance, we both stare straight up.

  “No fear of heights?” I check.

  “Well … I don’t actually know. I didn’t think so … but now…”

  I grab her hand. “Come on. Don’t overthink it.”