by Erin Hahn
“I was sort of hoping you’d bring that Annie Mathers back around with you. She’s a delight,” Lindy teases.
The image of sitting around this dilapidated patio with Annie by my side, visiting, is so appealing, my chest constricts.
“I don’t think Annie will be coming back anytime soon,” I say.
Lindy’s expression is far too understanding, and I squirm.
“I know you and I aren’t close, Clay, but I do know what it’s like to love a Coolidge man, so I hope you’ll hear me out.”
Fitz settles back in his chair comfortably, crossing his boots. I clamp down on any words of argument, feeling my jaw clench. I don’t want to hear the words Annie and love in the same sentence. I owe Lindy her say, though.
“You don’t make it easy. You’ve been left a lot in your lives and prefer to do the leaving. Look at Danny.” She waves a hand, taking a sip of her tea and swallowing before continuing. “Oh, I know he was military, so of course he had a noble reason to leave, and I don’t mean to belittle his sacrifice. I’m proud as hell of him and will love him for it until the day I die. But he left. Always. If he’d lived, he’d still be leaving. I don’t know the particulars of this visit, but I’ll bet the roof over my head, you’re leaving.”
I don’t disagree, and she continues.
“At some point, Clay, you’re gonna have to be the one who stays put.”
“My life’s on the road,” I say. I don’t bother to tell her I’m thinking of quitting.
“You know that’s not what I mean. Annie’s been left behind, too. When you guys came to Taps, she defended you up and down. Convinced me maybe you weren’t as selfish as you seemed. Said people grieve in different ways and you were grieving in yours. That girl spoke from the heart because she’s been there.”
“I’m not good enough for her,” I say.
Lindy’s lips spread into a blinding smile, and she taps the table with two fingers. “That’s the best thing you could’ve said. Never forget it. If she chooses to love you anyway, don’t you dare let her go.”
26
Annie
sunday, august 18
chicago, illinois
wrigley field
A few weeks later, it’s the last night of our summer tour, and I’m equal parts sad and relieved. I love to perform more than anything. I was meant for this. This summer has proved it to me. I love touring with Clay Coolidge. Jefferson and Fitz have become our family. Dysfunctional as we may well be.
More than that, even, I love to sing with Jefferson. Things are strained. His whatever-it-was with the pills scared the hell out of me. His visit at my grandparents intrigued me. His jump into the pond moved me.
But it’s the end. Already the label is planning into the holidays, months in the distance. They are releasing our album in weeks. They’ve scheduled appearances on several late-night television shows and Saturday Night Live as the musical guest. I’ve even heard whispers about the Grand Ole Opry.
In all of this, I haven’t heard a peep about Clay Coolidge. The morning we arrived in Minneapolis, Trina intercepted Fitz at the door of our hotel. We left them in a hushed argument, but not before I heard her hiss something about Clay being MIA. Regardless, he showed up on time for sound check and looked bright and ready as ever. If anything, he seemed relaxed.
Which is good. Perfect, even. That’s what the weeklong break was about.
Jason, Kacey, and I are slurping Thai noodles while sitting on tall black cases of stage equipment, watching Jefferson warm up. Fitz finally saunters over, and Kacey passes him her container.
He takes several distracted bites, watching his bandmate with an appraising eye.
“I think he’s done,” he says finally.
“Trina can’t fire him,” I say soothingly.
Fitz shakes his head. “No, she would never drop her cash cow. I mean, I think he is done.”
“But he looks fine,” says Kacey.
“He does. Better, actually, than I’ve seen him in a few years. Something’s changed, though.”
“Has he said anything to you about it?” I ask once I’ve found my voice. I can’t say I’m surprised by this news, but it still pains me.
Fitz turns his penetrating gaze on me. “Music is in Clay’s blood. Always has been, since he was a boy in his granddad’s shop. He sent an email to all of us putting a stay on his contract negotiations. He was only given a one-album contract at signing, but we all thought they’d extend it in a heartbeat. He’s supposed to meet with the label after Chicago, but he canceled the meeting. Said it was until further notice.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kacey asks Fitz, rubbing his arm.
He blinks. “Definitely.” And he sounds it. “Don’t get me wrong; I love my job, but I love Clay more. It’s been like watching a car crash in slow motion this summer—maybe even this year. I have no doubt he’s meant to sing, but I wonder if it all happened too soon. Too early for him? Too close to Danny’s death? He never had a chance to deal, and the open road gives a guy way too much freedom at eighteen.”
I swallow hard, and Fitz narrows his eyes at me. “I’m not talking about you, Annie. You’re different. Even Clay has said so. You aren’t sidetracked by your grief. You transform it into genius. Clay can do that, too, someday, maybe. But he needs to face it first. If that means taking time off…”
“But will the label wait?” Jason asks.
Fitz grimaces. “That’s Trina’s argument. She’s not sure they will. All things considered this summer, it’s a risk. By the time Clay decides he’s ready, a new guy might’ve come along and stolen his spot. Fame is a fickle fucker.”
“What do you mean by ‘all things considered this summer’?”
Kacey and Fitz exchange a loaded look. Kacey lifts a shoulder, and Fitz turns to me. “I suppose it won’t hurt, now that he’s calling it. When I followed Clay back to Indy, I learned that before she left, Lora told him some rumors about you switching to Southern Belle. She seemed to think if you left, he’d be done.”
“But that’s ridiculous. This tour’s been raking in money all summer long.”
“That’s not how they see it. They see it as you’ve raked in the money, and Clay’s still a liability. If you left, he’d lose his contract.”
“What?”
“Calm down, Annie. It doesn’t matter. Like I said, Clay’s done.”
“But it does matter! I could’ve said something!”
“And that’s exactly what he wouldn’t want. Come on, girl. Think about it. He doesn’t want to be the weight on your line, dragging.”
It hits me suddenly, how convoluted all of this has gotten: me thinking I can’t love Clay without hurting him and him thinking he’s not good enough for me.
We turn back to Clay as he holds a long, gravelly note that sends goose bumps up and down my arms. Fame might be fickle, but I don’t agree with Trina. There’s no one alive who could steal Clay’s spot. If he took ten years off, even, it would only serve to deepen his lyrics and age his tenor. Jefferson will only improve with age.
Take your time, boy. Get your feet under you. I’ll be right here.
* * *
“The label wants you to play ‘You’d Be Mine’ to close out the tour.”
My eyes meet Trina’s over Kacey’s shoulders as she’s smoothing out my curls. My tour stylist had to return to school, but it’s fine. Kacey’s been shaping my mop for years.
“Not happening,” I say.
“It wasn’t really a request,” Connie says, backing up Trina from the doorway.
“Which label is asking?” I snip.
Connie rolls her eyes. “Don’t get sassy. You know which label. After the way you shut it down with Southern Belle, I doubt any label will work with you again.”
I sink back into my chair. “He shouldn’t have brought up my daddy. Clearly, it would be a sore subject.”
“He was offering you the moon.”
We’ve been through this a dozen times,
and anyway, Connie’s just blowing smoke. I flat-out told her I wouldn’t sit for the man trashing my dad, even if he was a selfish piece of work in his time. Only one person can talk shit about my parents and that’s me.
“He could’ve offered me Mars and I still would’ve dumped his stupid mimosa down his overpriced shirt. What’re you all sore about, anyway? SunCoast was more than happy to match his offer and then some.”
“Speaking of,” Trina butts in, preening in the mirror. “Tonight. ‘You’d Be Mine.’ It’s happening.”
“It’s not ready for a live performance, and no one knows it. It’ll kill the vibe we have going to introduce something unfamiliar so late in the game.” I’m using every possible excuse in my arsenal. I could go all night.
Trina smooths her glossy lips with her fingertip in her reflection. “So replace ‘Jolene.’ You don’t need to hide behind covers anymore, Annie.”
“I’m bringing back the classics. It’s an education.”
This makes Trina pause in her grooming. She levels a look at me and then raises her heavily lined eyes up at Kacey. “As I said, it’s not a request. Makes sure Jason knows.” She walks out with a clatter of her heels, and Connie follows. So much for having my best interests. I slump.
“Well … shit.”
Kacey presses her lips together around a mouthful of bobby pins, her fingers still gathered in my curls.
I shake my head, waving her off. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s fine. Who’s to say he’ll even hear it? Besides, for all anyone knows, I wrote that song long before this tour.”
She fusses with the pins, placing them all carefully in silence. Then, “If he doesn’t know, he’s a fucking idiot.”
This startles me so much, I giggle until I’m clutching my belly and laughing, tense tears pouring from my eyes and ruining my makeup. Kacey joins in. Jason knocks on the door while walking in, not bothering to wait for the invite.
“I just ran into Trina in the hall—”
“We know,” Kacey sputters between giggles.
Jason rolls his eyes. “So … we’re okay with this, then?”
I wipe at my cheeks, fanning my face. “It’s an order from the top.”
“But what about Clay?”
I sigh, finally composing myself. “It’s the last show; maybe he’ll miss it.”
Jason taps out a rhythm on his thigh. I groan.
“Now what?”
“Yeah, so I was actually talking to Clay and Fitz when Trina told me. They heard you had a mystery song and were all over it. They wouldn’t miss it.”
“Of course not.”
“They’re huge fans,” Kacey says apologetically.
“Maybe Jefferson won’t read into it.”
At this, Jason snorts. “Right. Because you never, ever base your songs on real life.”
“Maybe he’ll think it’s about you.”
“Maybe you’re delusional.”
I slam my hand down, and Kacey jumps. “Damn it, Jason! You’re supposed to be supportive.”
He raises a dark brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is me supporting you. I told you he doesn’t deserve you. When he OD’d on pain pills and started rambling about being in love with you, I punched him in the mouth. What the fuck else do you want from me, Annie? I’m not your therapist.”
Kacey winces at his slip, and my entire body flushes. “What did you say?” I ask slowly, each word being dragged from my lips.
“Okay, so I am your friend. I don’t mean to be an asshole—”
I shake my head. “No, not that. I don’t care about that. Did you just say he said he loved me?”
Jason’s face pales. “I…”
“He said he loves me?”
“He was barely coherent, Annie. He’s a mess.”
“I know that,” I snap. “Don’t you think I know that? But he said he was falling in love with me and no one told me?”
Kacey releases a slow breath. Her tone is soothing, and I despise it. “No one wanted to get your hopes up. Fitz actually wanted to tell you. He has a thing about you two, but he’s got blinders when it comes to Clay. He’s his brother. He can’t see how he could hurt someone like you.”
“Someone like me? What does that mean?”
“Oh, don’t get pissy with me, Annie May,” Kacey says. “Yeah. Someone like you. Someone whose mom and dad are country music’s biggest tragedy.”
I close my mouth and slump back in my chair. I don’t say anything else, just fix my makeup as Jason and Annie argue about something unimportant. Once I’m ready, I stand up, grabbing my guitar.
“We’ll play it for the encore.”
“But that’s when—”
I silence them both with a raised chin. I’m not running from this. He’ll hear it, and that’s that. Either it’s tonight at the show or its next month on the radio. I wrote it for him. I’d be a coward if I couldn’t own up to that.
* * *
“Chicago, you’ve been the best audience a girl could ask for to end her summer! Whoever said Yanks couldn’t party? Not me!” I wink and watch as the giant screens behind me amplify my movements all over the giant outdoor stadium. The crowd roars. “Who’s ready for Clay Coolidge?” More roaring. I grin. “All right, all right, y’all. One more song from us and we’ll get out of your way.”
Booing. I smirk mischievously and wave my hand down, shrugging them off. “No hard feelings; those Coolidge band members have stolen our hearts for sure!”
I turn to face Kacey and Jason and release a calming breath. They’re waiting for my cue. I glance off to the wings, and there he is. Ball cap, jeans, gray V-neck. He gives me a happy grin.
Jefferson smile, I think automatically. But better, maybe. My heart flips in my chest. I turn to face the audience. Somehow, it’s easier to reveal my gutted heart to thousands of people over just one.
“I hope y’all will hang with me here. Kacey, Jason, and I have had an amazing time on tour this summer. We want to keep it going and would honored if you all would come along with us. So we put together a little album that should be dropping in the next few weeks. This song is brand new. You’re the first ears to hear it. It’s called ‘You’d Be Mine.’”
The crowd erupts in cheers, and it blows me away, still. Them cheering for me and a song they’ve never even heard. “It’s a song about a boy,” I say and start strumming. I swear you could hear a pin drop. The light of cell phones glitters back at me in an enormous waving sea of motion.
I shut my eyes and sing my heart. I can feel his eyes on me. His ears perked. His full attention laser-focused sends goose bumps over my skin as the lyrics unfold and stretch over the crowd. When I come to the last verses, I can barely choke them out over the emotion swelling, threatening to strangle the air from my lungs.
And, God, I hate myself for
Wishing
And lyin’
And thinking that maybe
You’d want to be mine
The damage is done. It’s all been said. My heart’s been torn open and revealed. Everything in me wants to glance back at the wings—to see for myself how he took my confession—but I refuse. I can’t. If there’s even the tiniest chance in hell he didn’t hear or didn’t realize or … didn’t feel the same …
I can’t know it because then I can’t unknow it.
I raise a hand, my guitar pick still gripped between my sweat-slick fingers, and beam at the crowd as though my heart weren’t broken. They scream and stamp their feet, and it should be gratifying. It sort of is in a detached way, I suppose. “Thank y’all. You’ve been incredible. God bless and good night!”
The lights shut off, revealing only the dim glow of the backstage guides. I place my guitar back on its perch with more care than it requires and, in silence, turn at last to the wings.
Just in time to catch the stricken look on Jefferson’s face as he strides away from me.
27
Annie
I’m back in my traile
r when Trina comes knocking.
“You’re up in ten,” she says, letting the door flap shut again.
I rush to the door and swing it open. “Really?”
“Yes, really!” Trina yells over her shoulder.
“But I figured—”
Trina stalls midstride and whips to face me, her blond hair fanning out around her shoulders. “You figured wrong. Stop your pouting. You’re a professional, Annie Mathers, so act like it. Get back out there.”
I take the steps in one and jog to catch up to Trina’s strides. She’s muttering, “Goddamn teenagers. Making moon eyes at each other all summer just to go all duh-rah-ma onstage before the whole world.” She glances sideways at me. “Tell me, what did you hope to accomplish with that display tonight?”
“Me?” I sputter. “You’re the one who said I had to sing it!”
“Obviously I hadn’t realized who it was about, or I wouldn’t have.”
“I tried to tell you…”
Trina stops, placing her hand on my arm. “No, you didn’t. You gave every single excuse except the truth. I could have had him stay out of sight.”
“Is it so bad he saw it? Maybe he couldn’t tell,” I offer, knowing it’s bullshit.
Trina smiles humorlessly. “Oh, he knew. You’re lucky this is the last stop for you two. Tomorrow the headlines will be fraught with speculation, and while you’re riding high on your new album and your fame and Grammy nods or whatever, Clay’s just given his notice.”
“His what?”
“He’s officially out. He’s taking time off. Going back to Indy. Enrolling in college or some such nonsense.”
“College?” I ask faintly.
Trina releases a giant sigh and squeezes my shoulder in an almost affectionate manner. “Look, I’m not really upset with you or even him. Despite what you all think, I care more about you kids than my bankroll. I’ve known Clay needed help, and I’m happy he’s going to get it, and I knew when I heard your little low-budget clips on YouTube that you had your momma’s blinding star power. So do me a favor. Just once, tonight, this last show, let him see the real Annie onstage. He’s already decided to leave, and that’s fine, but more than anything, the kid’s been longing for something real. He’s got the chops. Give him one last taste of what country music is really about.” Her shoulders slither down, and she lowers her voice. “And if you do that, then maybe, just maybe, he’ll find his way back to us one day.”
