by Erin Hahn
“You still see their bodies, Anne? I didn’t know that.”
“Every single night.”
“It’s easy to forget all that when you watch you two onstage,” Kacey says quietly.
A harsh chuckle erupts in the back of my throat. “Don’t I know it.”
“Do you think you might already be in love with him?”
The word chokes in my throat, so instead, I nod once, slowly.
Kacey wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me in. “Well, hell.”
I tilt my head onto her shoulder. Hell about sums it up.
* * *
That night, we perform at Fenway under the lights. It’s the quintessential summer concert experience. I heard last weekend Sir Paul McCartney filled this stadium, and it gives me the worst case of jitters I’ve had all summer. Boston is stifling. Midnineties at dusk and only the barest tease of a breeze off the coast. We’re inland quite a way, though, so it feels more like a vacuum onstage. I’ve talked wardrobe into letting me wear a loose-fitting, white cotton sundress with my dark brown Tony Lamas, which I promptly kick off once onstage.
I throw my carefully styled curls up in a topknot as I greet the crowd. As has been typical most of the summer, the seats are filled, even for us. Or maybe not just even. I suppose at this point, I can confidently say these people aren’t here by accident. This crowd came early for us.
“Whew!” I start. “Y’all, it’s hot out here! You folks don’t mind my bare toes, right?” I point down to my painted toenails and the crowd cheers. “We’re all friends here. You just go right ahead and take off yours if you want. I won’t tell a soul,” I promise, making a little cross over my heart.
This time, when we play the opening chords to “Coattails,” the crowd goes wild, and every female under the age of seventy breaks out in a dance with Kacey and me. When I sing “Should’ve Been You,” the crowd sings the chorus on their own.
It’s like watching all of my dreams play out in front of me, and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude toward the fans, Kacey and Jason, Jefferson and Fitz; toward God above. I’m so blessed. My heart still aches and my memories bruise, but I’m a lucky girl because I get to do what I love.
The crowd chants, “Cash! Cash! Cash!” and I’m so grateful for Trina’s unerring instincts. After my live performance with Clay, she secured the rights to “It Ain’t Me, Babe” from the label, knowing people would come out in droves to see us perform it for themselves.
“All right, all right, y’all wore me down. Let me just check in the back here…,” I say as I jog lightly offstage and pull a “resistant” Clay Coolidge onstage with me.
I snort at his theatrics. “Don’t let Clay fool you. He’s been dying to jump in on my stage all night. He knows I have the best crowd!”
This garners more cheers, and Clay gives a good-natured shrug as he accepts a mic from a stagehand. Fitz lines up next to Kacey, this time holding a couple of silly-looking egg shakers.
I start to strum the opening chords as Clay pretends to flip up his collar and slick back his hair. He approaches the mic stand as Jason taps out the beat. The females are all screaming a little louder for those two tonight. The fact that they were underage drinking seems to have been lost in the whole “fistfight in defense of his dead brother” thing. Not that I blame them. After hearing Jason’s side, I was ready to hunt down the punk and punch him all over again.
Point is, the fans don’t seem fazed. The label, on the other hand …
This song was written by Bob Dylan, who was a big fan of Johnny. They used to cover each other’s work, so it’s no surprise Cash chose to record his version with June Carter Cash. As with most of their songs, it’s one making an almost mockery of their devotion. Onstage, Johnny and June had this very harried Southern charm about them.
The irony is the lyrics are absolutely spot-on for Jefferson and me, no performance necessary. Talk about mockery—the joke is clearly on us. To our credit, though, we are professionals, so he waggles his eyebrows and I roll my eyes and pout my lips, and we pretend it’s cute even as it’s breaking my heart.
I wonder if it’s breaking his.
The song ends, and we take our bow as Clay and Fitz wave at the crowd and I retake center stage. I paste a smile on my face, knowing damn well I chose this. I chose singing over me and him. Whether he would have chosen the same or if it was ever even on the table for him doesn’t matter. I. Chose. This.
I wrap with one of our new hits, “Never Mind,” that’s gaining traction these past few weeks and finish off with the crowd favorite of “Jolene.” When the lights dim, I feel myself slump in exhaustion. Whether it’s the heat or the emotional breakdown in the studio earlier, or playing Cash, I’m beat. The lights come on once more, and I hitch a beaming grin back on my face, waving wildly at a crowd growing by the minute. I blow double kisses and take a bow before exiting stage left and accepting a giant bottle of Evian.
“I’m pooped,” I say to Trina. “I’m gonna hit some air-conditioning.”
“Of course,” she says, stashing her phone in her pocket and giving me a hard look. “You want me to tell Clay he’s on his own tonight?” I must look more terrible than I’d realized for her to offer.
I consider it. It would be easy to go and hide in my bus for the rest of the night, begging off with a headache. But I don’t. I’m not hiding from my own choices.
“Nah. Just send someone for me once his set starts. We’re doing ‘One of the Guys’?”
She gives me a brief nod as I take a sip. “Is that okay?”
I flash another smile, one I know doesn’t meet my eyes, but I did tell her I was tired. “Yup. I’ll be there. Let Kacey and Jason know where I am?”
“Of course.” She’s already pulling her phone back out of her pocket before I’m past her. Busy little paper wasp that she is.
I make it to my bus and close the door behind me, sitting in the cool semidarkness. I place the bottle on the back of my neck and close my eyes. My phone vibrates, and I grab it out of my pocket. Three missed texts.
NICE JOB THIS MORNING. THE NEW CUT IS GORGEOUS. DEF MADE ALBUM. I’LL SEND A CAR FOR YOU AROUND 8:15 FOR SB MTG IN AM. BRING K&J.
I sigh in exasperation. I love Connie, I do, but she is really pushing this Southern Belle deal. I already explained my aversion to Stanton, but she’s insisting on a meeting as a “professional courtesy.”
ANNIE, THIS IS SUSANNA DE LA GARZA, PROFESSIONAL ASST TO ROY STANTON. JUST TOUCHING BASE. WANTED TO GIVE YOU A HEADS-UP ABOUT THE VENUE AND MENU TOMORROW FOR YOUR 8:30 MTG. LINK ATTACHED.
I close without bothering to click on the link. Cora liked swanky. If I had to guess, jeans and flip-flops will not be appropriate attire at this so-called professional meeting. Which probably means Jason’s out, which maybe’d be best, all things considered.
I crack open the water bottle with a flick and sip slowly. Forty-five minutes still until I need to be onstage. I tap on the last message from Patrick.
HEY ANNA BANANA! CONNIE TOLD ME THE BIG NEWS! SB IS A GREAT LABEL. DON’T LET HISTORY DEFINE YOUR CHOICES. WE’RE ALL HERE FOR YOU WHATEVER YOU DECIDE!
I tap my phone off and toss it on the bench across from me. The thing is, I know I shouldn’t let history dictate my life like Patrick says. I know. I’m a grown woman with my own career, and I need to make my own way. I cut my album with SunCoast because that’s who I’m contractually obligated to right now, and you don’t turn down a record deal when you’re making the numbers I am. That’s just smart business. Southern Belle swooping in after the tour and the money and the album are all complete just to cash in on the profits? That seems shady to me.
It just does. Yeah, I know the music business isn’t clean, but …
So it’s not just about Roy and my mom. That’s a factor, though. A real one. I mean, it’s gross. Super icky. And the fact that my parents killed themselves …
That makes this a gray area. In fact, my entire life is a gray area right now.
There’s a tap on the door, and I stand up with a groan. “Come in!” I say, even though I’m already on my feet. I pull open the door with a snap and see Lora Bradley standing at the bottom of my steps. Her eyes widen as she jumps back.
“Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought this was Clay’s trailer.”
“Nope, mine. Clay’s probably about to get onstage.”
“Oh. Right. I’m early.”
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling a throb building in the back of my skull. “You can probably get backstage and watch from the wings.”
“Of course. Maybe I’ll just surprise him.”
“He doesn’t know you’re here?” I ask, hating myself for the slight note of hope in my voice. I don’t get to care about this.
“Oh, he does. I didn’t think I’d make it early enough to see him sing. Caught an earlier flight.”
“Sure. Well, his bus is the next one.” I start to close the door.
“Wait! Annie!”
I bite back a sigh, holding the door. “Yep.”
“I saw a bit of your show. You’re really great, you know? I’d love to sing together sometime. I was a huge fan of your mom’s. I looked up to her so much as a kid.”
She’s only being nice. I know this. She’s actually a sweet person. But she’s going to sleep with Clay tonight. He called her the second I made myself unavailable. And I’m just … done. Done with Connie. Done with Roy Stanton. Done with Lora. Done with Jefferson, Clay who-the-hell-ever.
“Well, you shouldn’t have. She was a terrible role model, shooting up with her daughter in the other room. I’m sorry. I have a headache and have to be back onstage in thirty minutes, and you’re making it worse.”
I slam the door in her face and promptly start crying.
20
Clay
saturday, july 27
pittsburgh, pennsylvania
Only a few weeks left of the tour, and I don’t know. It feels like the end. It’s like the last time I saw my brother alive. I woke up early to have coffee with him before he flew out. We sat in the dark kitchen, with only the stove light on, his giant green duffel at the door. He was antsy, like he always was before he had to fly. The guy faced down enemy fire for a living, but he always puked before, during, and after getting on a plane. It was the one thing I had on him. I’ve always been just as comfortable in the air as on the ground.
I can still see his long, camo-clad legs stretched out from my grandpa’s old wooden chair. I remember checking the clock, counting down the minutes until I could go back to sleep. He didn’t say anything wise or heavy. Just asked me to make sure I changed the oil in his truck and kept an eye on Lindy for him. A couple of the guys around Taps liked to close in whenever Danny was out of town. It was my job to be the Coolidge presence, even if I was only sixteen. I used to wash dishes for Maggie on the weekends to make extra money. I’d hang around the bar, hoping there would be a no-show and I’d get a chance to play. Danny knew, encouraged it. That morning, he asked me to send him any new songs. He liked to play them for his guys, he said. Lifted morale to hear songs that reminded them of being young and back at home.
I don’t know what it was about that morning. Of course, in his line of work, there was always the possibility he wouldn’t come back, but to be honest, Danny was different. He always seemed invincible to me, but I stayed with him until his ride came. When he stood to leave, I embraced him. We weren’t huggers, and he laughed in my ear.
“Whoa there, Jefferson. You going soft on me?”
I didn’t even defend myself, just shrugged. “It’s only the two of us now.”
Danny’s lips lifted in a sad smile. “I love you, little brother. Keep an eye on Fitz and Lindy for me, okay?”
I remember my throat closing. Like it wouldn’t work. As if the words had been strangled and I couldn’t say anything back.
He left, and I never went back to sleep. Instead, I wrote a song and sent it to him. They found it in his pack when he died and sent it back to me with his body. I’ve never sung it at any of my shows or on any of my records. It died with him.
That day, when my brother walked out, I felt like it was for forever. I knew it in my gut. He wasn’t coming back. He wouldn’t ever know if I checked his oil. He wouldn’t see the guys come around to hit on his girl. He’d never meet his daughter.
That’s the feeling I have now. Things are ending. Not only the tour but everything.
* * *
“What was that?”
I look up from my guitar and paper. Lora stands shadowed in the doorway. She’d gone down to the bar with Fitz and Trina earlier, and I hadn’t realized she was back already.
“Just something I’m working on.”
Something like forced patience flickers across Lora’s face. I put down my guitar.
“It sounds pretty … rustic?”
“It’s a first draft.”
“I meant the tune of it. It’s not your usual flash.” I wonder how long Lora had stood there before she’d bothered announcing herself. How much she’d heard.
“I thought I’d try something different.”
She comes over to me, sitting on the couch, putting the guitar gently on the ground and straddling my hips. I can smell the alcohol on her breath. She leans forward, pressing herself against me and kissing me deeply. My mind is still in my lyrics, though, and I can’t flip that switch off, so I don’t kiss her back. She leans back, her expression annoyed.
“I’m tired of catering to the label and singing whatever radio-friendly song comes along.”
“But you’re good at it.”
“You used to think I was good at songwriting, too.”
She moves off my lap to stand, putting blessed space between us. “You used to be a barely out-of-high-school kid with a dream. We both were. Face it, Clay, some people are songwriters and some are singers. You have the face of a singer. There’s nothing wrong with that. People would kill for the measure of success you’ve landed.”
I bite back an irritated growl. “I’m more than just some singing face, Lora.”
“Sure you are, baby. I know that, but no one wants to listen to a sad sap song from the hills.”
“Lots of people—”
She cuts me off. “Sung by you, I mean.”
I close my mouth, and Lora softens her expression slightly as if to cushion a blow.
“I don’t get you, Clay. Why the change of heart? You were fine being the record label’s lackey last summer. Had the time of your life, touring on their dime. What changed?”
I know what’s changed, but I don’t feel like telling Lora about it. My brother died. I mean, he died before any of this, but it’s only hitting me just now. Booze doesn’t fix things anymore. I don’t like singing about hookups anymore. I don’t like me anymore. Maybe I never really did. Or maybe I was okay with the old me because I didn’t know any better. I’ve had a glimpse of better, and now I can’t go back.
And then there’s Annie. Annie who won’t even look at me unless we’re onstage together.
“What’s wrong with wanting more, Lora?”
“Why change what’s not broken, Clay?”
“Christ,” I mutter, standing. “It’s just a song.”
Lora levels me with a look. “It’s not just a song. It’s consuming you. You’ve been fiddling with it all weekend. Hours that could have been spent with me. Or at the very least, spent focusing on your performance. Annie Mathers is breathing down your neck, Clay. Word is she’s about to drop her album, and you’re going to be a has-been by this time next month if you don’t salvage the rest of your tour.”
I drop my hands. “What are you talking about? This is my tour.”
“Clay. Be serious. It hasn’t been your tour since Daytona.”
I’m irritated at her tone. Everyone, lately, is either talking to me like I’m an idiot or a head case, and I’m about done. “Get the hell out of here, Lora. I was here before Annie came around, and I’ll be here after she’s gone.
”
“Don’t be so sure about that.”
“What do you know?”
“I know you haven’t signed your contract yet.”
I shrug and pick up my guitar, strumming it loudly, avoiding her gaze. “That’s not a secret. It’s tied up in legal.”
“And I know that a certain Miss Tragic Miracle is being heavily courted by Southern Belle.”
I huff. “That’s old news. Annie told us Roy had tried to talk to her, but she wasn’t interested. Something about some dark family history with Cora and Roy.”
Lora moves to the couch and scoots closer to me. My grip tightens on my guitar pick.
“Well, that’s not what I heard. I heard he’s being very persistent and backing it up with some major coin.”
“Annie doesn’t care about money.”
Lora lifts her tanned shoulder and leans back, crossing her long legs slowly. “Maybe not, but Roy’s a hard man to resist, and I’m sure she’d love to get out of Nashville and away from her past.”
That part does sound like Annie. Still, though. “So what if she does? Tour wraps in a few weeks. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“So, while Annie’s been cutting albums and courting label execs and growing a fan base, you’ve been drinking beer, getting arrested, acting sullen, and writing sappy songs. That’s what.”
I blink.
Lora’s smile is far too understanding. “You got a shit deal, Clay. We were all crazy jealous when we heard you scored Mathers this summer, but I’ve got to tell you I feel like I dodged a bullet. I doubt even her legendary mama could have survived sharing her stage.”
I wish she would just leave already. “What the hell do you even care?”
“Someone should care about you. Is it so hard to believe I would?” Her smile is self-deprecating, but the sadness in her eyes is a punch to the gut. She really does care. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t care about the right version of me—she cares. “Anyway, I have something for you. Maybe it will help you get out of your funk.” She stands and walks across the room to where she’s left her purse. “I’ve been carrying these around for a bit. After your text asking me to come early, I thought maybe you needed something. It’s from my personal stash, but I have a contact if you need more.”
