by Erin Hahn
I grunt as I clamber to my feet, using the stone to steady myself. “Did you drive?”
Fitz shakes his head. “Kacey dropped me off. I figured I’d hitch a ride.”
Or he’d assumed I wouldn’t be able to drive myself home. This isn’t our first rodeo. I don’t ask, just toss him my keys and turn for the long walk to my truck, giving him privacy. I lost my brother, but in all honesty, Fitz and Danny were closer than we were.
A few minutes later, Fitz circles the truck to the driver’s seat, red eyes hidden behind frames. He throws my old clunker Ford into drive and kicks up gravel as he pulls away from the side of the cemetery gates.
We’re silent the entire drive back to my grandpa’s farm. He left it to both Danny and me in his will, but really Danny took care of it. He sold off the decent farming soil and kept the house and the woodshed for me. He kept the truck for himself.
But in the end, it all came to me anyway. I could barely drive. When the news came that a roadside bomb had attacked Danny’s unit, I’d only had my license a week. That day, it was raining in icy sheets. Fitz found me in Danny’s truck, shivering and soaked to the bone. I hadn’t bothered to roll up the windows—just sat there, unfeeling and practically comatose. Fitz tells me I didn’t speak for three days afterward. I threw out all of Danny’s things in a fit of rage. I got into my grandfather’s liquor cabinet and drank my way through until Fitz showed up and started pouring it all down the drain.
I never cried. I’d grown used to being alone, so Danny’s death was just one more.
In the end, everyone leaves.
Fitz pulls up the drive, and I see his newer-model F-150 parked in front of the barn.
“You told her where I live?”
Fitz sighs impatiently in response and slams his door.
I follow him out, taking a split-second to let the light-headed feeling pass. “You had no right. This is my home.”
Kacey swings open the door and steps out onto the porch with a glass of tea in her hand like la-di-da. Fitz grabs hold of my arm in a painful squeeze. “Don’t you dare take it out on her. It was this or they were gonna wait at the cemetery. I figured you didn’t need an audience.”
“They?” I sputter. It’s only then I realize Annie has been sitting in the swing the entire time. I meet her eyes as something like pity passes over her face. And something more. It’s the pity that grates, though. A frustrated growl starts in my chest. Fitz’s hold tightens.
“Clay’s just gonna get cleaned up for the party at Taps. I’ll be right out to drive you ladies back to your hotel so you can get freshened up to join us.”
“Oh, we don’t—”
Fitz does an about-face, jabbing a finger at Annie. In mock sternness, he says, “You don’t want to finish that. This is our town, Annie. Let us take you out and show you around our home field. I expect the same treatment when we hit Michigan next month.”
Annie looks like she wants to protest, but Kacey takes a cue from her boyfriend and grabs her hand, dragging her up from the swing. Annie shakes off her hold and steps to the doorway, blocking our entrance. She glares at Fitz, who huffs and mutters, “Stubborn Yank,” and releases my arm, heading inside with a slam of the screen door. Ten to one he’s listening right out of sight to make sure I behave.
It rankles something awful. Apparently, his pep talk with Danny included a renewal of his taking over my care.
“That’s my grandma’s swing. No one’s sat in it since she passed,” I say bluntly.
Annie turns bright red and starts to stutter an apology.
I cut her off. “Christ. It’s fine. You didn’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter. No one else around but me to care.”
I hear the truck door slam and know Kacey is giving us privacy. Annie scratches at her arm, distracted. I follow her fingertips. She’s wearing her customary tank top, but this one’s more casual. Not stage casual, but real-life casual.
“Guess you know the whole sorry truth now,” I say. “Poor Clay Coolidge, brother of a fallen soldier,” I say mockingly.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Jefferson.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“I mean it. I had no idea your brother was a soldier killed in the line of duty.”
“Yeah, well. I prefer it that way. He doesn’t need his sloppy kid brother dishonoring his sacrifice.”
Annie’s blue eyes grow wide. “Is that really what you think?”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
Annie just nods in her quiet way. Thinking. She’s always thinking. She looks out over my farm, taking it in.
I sway slightly.
“I can see why you might. But someone once told me if I didn’t want to end up a certain way, to just don’t.”
“Just don’t,” I repeat.
Her gaze flickers back to me, studying my face. “Yes, Jefferson. If I don’t want to be like my parents, I just need to not be like my parents. If you don’t want to dishonor your brother’s sacrifice, then don’t. I’ll admit, it’s a work in progress, but perhaps you ought to give it a shot.” I stare at her, and she clears her throat, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your brother. I didn’t know where Fitz was going this afternoon when I offered to come along. I only wanted to see around town. I … we never meant to impose on your personal life.”
I crack a smile at her awkwardness. Just like that, she’s managed to disarm me. It’s like some Annie voodoo. I forget my misery, always—even if only for a minute—around this girl.
“You’d be the very first.”
“First what?”
“The first to not want to impose on my personal life.”
She grins sheepishly. “Even so, I’m sorry.”
I move to lean against the doorjamb and miss. I recover in time to catch her half grin.
“I should get going. We’re apparently meeting you guys at some bar tonight?”
“Taps,” I say with a salute.
“Right. That one.”
She hops down the porch steps, and my eyes follow her to the truck. She turns to face me once more, gives me a weak wave, and gets in. Fitz opens the screen door.
“All right, Jefferson,” he says with a knowing smirk. “Let’s get you in the shower before you sober up and realize what an idiot you’ve made of yourself.”
“You say idiot; I call it charm,” I say, following him up the creaky old stairs and managing to miss the first step.
Fitz snickers under his breath. “It doesn’t matter what you call it, friend; it matters what she’d call it.”
I grin to myself in the mirror, closing the bathroom door on Fitz. “Then definitely charm.”
17
Annie
saturday, july 13
indianapolis, indiana
We’re late, mostly because our driver takes us the long way down Meridian.
Taps is nowhere near the touristy bar scene. Taps is barely within the city limits. Once you run out of stoplights, all you see are cornfields and wind turbines in every direction. Then, seemingly in the middle of one of those endless fields, a few short miles from the dusty dirt road Jefferson calls home, is Taps. Which is just as well, as none of us is legal and I’m not interested in hitting up any location TMZ might stake out with the right tip-off.
There’s no cover, but they are taking a donation at the door on behalf of the Wounded Warrior Project, and all three of us dig into our pockets to contribute. A burly bouncer barely gives us a glance as we pass through the dark, propped-open doorway. Through the haze of cigarette smoke, I make out a large wooden plank dance floor where multiple couples, young and old, stomp around in circles. There is a neon-lit bar with two bustling bartenders and a few worn pool tables behind them. When we walk in, things feel hushed at once. I take a step back, but Kacey pulls me along, leading me straight to the bar. I try not to cast my eyes around too much, despite the clear fact we’re not locals. Jason comes up behind me and leans over the bar holding
out a bill. One of the bartenders floats over, and he flashes her a winning smile.
“Six shots of your best Cuervo, señorita.”
I roll my eyes so hard, I probably pull a muscle.
Jason catches it and shrugs impishly. “What? The ladies love when I charm them with my español.”
“Puh-lease,” I say. “Kindergartners know more Spanish than you. You were better off carrying around your drumsticks in your back pocket.”
The bartender pushes the shot glasses toward us. I hold out a hand. “None for me, thanks.”
Jason raises a brow and pulls them all toward him. “Obviously, I wasn’t ordering for you. Especially if you’re going to make fun of my muy bueno skills.”
“Grandma Angelica is rolling in her grave.” The bartender turns to me, expectant. “Just a ginger ale,” I say.
Kacey lets out a squeal. Fitz has found us. He’s followed by a curvy woman who looks to be in her forties.
“Maggie, this is our friend—”
She cuts him off in exasperation. “I know who Annie Mathers is, Fitz.” She holds out a hand, and I shake it. She looks me up and down with a knowing grin. “So you’re the one changing Clay’s religion.”
Jason spews tequila all over us like one of those fire breathers. A glance at the bartender and she tosses me a rag, which I immediately apply to the floorboards.
“Hey!” Jason protests, and so I toss it in his face.
“I’m not worried about you, ya ingrate.” I turn back to Maggie. “I’m so sorry about that.”
Maggie waves me off. “I’ve raised three boys of my own; I’ve grown used to dirty floors.”
“Wow, three? I never had a brother.” I feel my cheeks heat when she nods, grinning. Of course she knows. Everyone knows. Ignoring the twinge, I jab a thumb over my shoulder at Jason. “This one’s as close as I get.”
Maggie laughs. “I have a daughter, too.” She points at one of the bartenders, the petite auburn-haired, younger woman who passes me my ginger ale. I smile wide in greeting.
She wipes her hands on a fresh rag and offers one. “Lindy Parsons. I’m a huge fan, Ms. Mathers. Of both your mom and you.”
Maggie smiles fondly. “It’s true. She’s been a fan since the womb. I used to plug in headphones to my Discman and play Cora’s greatest hits over my belly.”
Usually talk of my parents makes me uneasy, but it’s impossible to feel uncomfortable around Maggie. She has this maternal vibe that makes you want her to brush your hair while you talk about your crushes.
“Well, we should probably be friends, then, because that’s how I became a fan as well,” I say to Lindy.
A slow song comes over the jukebox, and Fitz leads a giddy Kacey in a twirl of her peasant skirt around the floor. Jason starts chatting with a couple of young women in matching straw hats at the bar, and I hop on a stool with my ginger ale. Things pick up behind the bar, and Maggie jumps back to help. Soon it’s surpassing even her.
“Is it usually this busy?” I ask as Lindy refills my soda.
She nods her topknot toward a banner off to the side I hadn’t noticed. It reads, Thank you for your sacrifice, Sgt. Daniel Coolidge, underneath the words, We’ll never forget. Semper Fi.
My stomach drops, and without meaning to, my eyes seek out Jefferson, who’s been conspicuously absent since I’d arrived. I finally spot him in a dark corner, surrounded by a group of girls, double-fisting longnecks.
Lindy blows her bangs out of her eyes. “They’ve had him cornered for the past hour at least.”
I shrug. “Same story, different town.”
Lindy tips her head, deftly pouring three shots with one hand. “I thought I heard a rumor things might be heating up with you two on tour.”
I take a dainty sip from my straw, playing for time. “That’s show business for you. Those rumors are highly exaggerated, and Jefferson is complicated.”
She raises a brow. “Since when? I’ve known Clay since diapers. He’s always seemed pretty cut and dry to me.”
“Maybe since his brother died? I’m not sure.” Sometimes I feel like I know nothing about Jefferson. Others, I wonder if I’m the only one who knows anything.
Lindy freezes. “I wasn’t under the impression Clay was too bothered about Danny being gone. He sure as hell didn’t stick around to mourn.”
“Wasn’t he, like, sixteen? I don’t know,” I say, poking at the ice with my straw. I’m defensive—on Jefferson’s behalf and my own. “My parents died when I was thirteen, and I haven’t visited their graves once.”
“Well, aren’t you two a well-adjusted pair.”
My shoulders tense, but I force them back down. “Maybe. I own a closet full of high-end boots I won’t ever wear. Jefferson spent the afternoon getting drunk in a cemetery.”
Lindy presses her lips together, her eyes suspiciously shiny. She swipes under her eye quickly. “Shit,” she murmurs. She rips a taped-up paper from under the bar and places it in front of me. It’s one of those department store portrait shots of a little girl with sandy curls and blue eyes. “I’ve been bitter. This is my girl, Layla. She’s mine and Danny’s, so Clay’s niece. Danny died before he even met her, and I tried to force Clay to be her family. I’ve been pushing it for years. He can hardly stand to be around her for an entire afternoon without running.”
My stomach clenches at her pronouncement. For all of them. For the effed-up situation. Yesterday, Jefferson was just a boozehound. Today has been an abundance of complicated layers peeling back, flipping all my assumptions on their heads. Yesterday, I savored memories of all his kisses, hoping for more, more, more.
Today? Today is bad. Today is what happens when your sweet little sandbox is revealed to have been filled with quicksand. Today has should have known better written all over it.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”
She gives me a watery, sad sort of smile. She pulls the photo back, taking a long look at it before tucking it away. “It never occurred to me he was grieving. What with the tours and appearances and everything.”
“We all have our secrets.” Oh, just how. “Maybe he’s not coming home because it’s hard for him to be somewhere Danny isn’t. I secretly sold my parents’ home the moment I turned eighteen. Didn’t even bother to have a look around with the Realtor. Just sent my wishes via my manager, Connie, and washed my hands of the entire business. That Jefferson hasn’t done the same is a good thing. Maybe someday he’ll be able to be there for you and Layla.”
“You’re awful nice, Annie Mathers.” Lindy dries a row of glasses, one after another, laying them out. “And very real.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“It was definitely a compliment. I hope you come back here after your tour. You’re good for him.”
“I’m not much good for anyone these days,” I hedge. “But I’d love to visit again.”
Lindy passes me a fresh ginger ale, this one with a bunch of maraschino cherries floating in the ice. I dig one out and tug it off the stem with my teeth.
Lindy shakes her head. “I feel terrible I never knew how hard Clay was taking it.”
I take my time chewing another cherry, letting the sweetness coat my tongue before swallowing. “I don’t know that Jefferson even realizes it, to be honest, so don’t beat yourself up.”
“Jefferson realizes what?”
I spin on my stool, sloshing my drink over the bar. Jefferson leans on the bar from behind me, his body pressing against my side. He smells way too good. A mix of laundry detergent and beer that shouldn’t be as appealing as it is. His hair flops forward on his forehead, his ball cap tucked into his back pocket. He’s wearing a western-style plaid shirt, but the sleeves are rolled up to reveal the dusting of blond hair on his tanned forearms.
I narrow my eyes at his unfortunate handsomeness. “Realizes there are other people in this bar who came out to see the hometown boy besides those three cute chickadees in the corner.”
Jefferson is unfazed, flashin
g a toothy grin. “You jealous, Mathers?”
I snort into my drink, picking out another cherry.
He watches me pop it in my mouth, his eyes darkening, and I feel my breath hitch.
“What’s that you’re drinking? No shots?”
My cheeks heat. “Nope. Not tonight.”
The sound of bagpipes plays over the jukebox, and Lindy shakes her head, cleaning a glass. “That’s for you, Coolidge.”
We glance over at the dance floor. Fitz is in the middle of a mob, stamping his boots and waving at us.
Jefferson throws back the last of his beer, slamming it on the bar. “My people await.”
Lindy leans forward. “Girls were like moth to the flame when Fitz and the Coolidge boys would get on the line for ‘Copperhead Road.’ It’s how that little miracle came about.” She points at the photo again, smiling fondly. I suddenly wish I had gotten to meet this Sergeant Daniel Coolidge.
“Really?” I turn in my seat to get a clearer view. “I haven’t seen a proper line dance in ages, but I don’t remember thinking much of it as a kid.”
“That’s because you never saw it like this.”
Dancing would’ve been okay. I could have survived a dancing cowboy. I could have even survived a stomping Clay Coolidge, country singer.
But holy Hannah, I won’t survive Jefferson Coolidge, farm boy.
Even under the dimmed lights, I can spot him clearly, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops. Clay doesn’t usually wear the stereotypical cowboy boots offstage; in fact, he usually wears something sturdier like Doc Martens. But tonight, his high-end black boots are polished beneath his tailored jeans. It’s all a bunch of tapping and stomping and hopping, but I can’t look away. His hips swing sinuously. His ball cap drawing my attention to his backside.
I’m taken.
I’m a cliché.
I don’t even care.
Suddenly Jefferson is sauntering over to me, and I put down my drink so as not to spill it. He holds out a hand, and I hop down like an obedient puppy. He raises my hand high in the air. “Annie Mathers, everyone!” A few people crane to see me in the crowd, curious. Even here, in the middle of nowhere, my dad’s name carries recognition.
