by Erin Hahn
I think back to the afternoon in June when I’d overhead Jefferson playing in his trailer. I nod. “I can do that.”
We’re at the back stairs now that lead to the stage. Trina releases my arm, and I shuffle up the steps alone. Someone holds out my guitar for me, but I wave them off. I won’t need it for this. I see Kacey and Jason in the wings and come up behind them. Fitz shimmies over to us.
“Ready?”
“Totally,” I say. I see Jefferson circle back to take a swig from his water bottle. “But I have a request…”
* * *
Fitz meets Jefferson in the middle of the stage, passing on my idea. Jefferson’s face brightens as his eyes find mine in the wings. He nods once, easily, and I release a slow breath. Good. This is good.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jefferson begins. “As with most nights on our summer tour, I’m about to bring out some very special guests to share a song with us. They’ve been our opening band, our lovely eye candy, and by now our very close friends and family … Jason, Kacey, and Annie from Under the Willows!” Another roar of cheering rings out into the navy sky beyond the bright lights of Wrigley. Kacey and Jason run out first, and I follow a little slower, taking it all in. The lights, the sheer massive number of fans, the balmy late-summer air. The scent of spilled beer and fried food. Jefferson glances down at my bare feet and grins, passing me a mic. I shrug before leaning over, as I do, taking in every detail of him as well. This is probably the last time I will ever share the stage with this man.
I swallow thickly before saying, “Are you sure you’re up for one more Johnny and June?”
He wraps a strong arm around me, squeezing my shoulders. “I’d be honored.” He reaches behind himself to pick up an older-model guitar with a slightly unraveled embroidered strap and secures it over his shoulder. “I don’t know if word of our Johnny-and-June duets have reached you all out here in Chi-town, but we thought it’d be an appropriate end to our partnership, so Miss Mathers suggested a little song called ‘Long-Legged Guitar Pickin’ Man.’”
The stadium erupts, and we share a laugh. Either kids have been shoring up their Johnny Cash knowledge or our reputation has preceded us. Either way, this song is really more for Jefferson than them anyhow.
He starts to pick out the opening chords, and I pick up my heels and twist on bare toes, kicking out my feet and waving my hands around my hips in an old-fashioned twist. He takes a long look at me before stepping up to his mic and belting out the first lyrics in his gravelly tenor. I bite my lip. Lord, he’s all charm.
I raise my own mic to respond in like, not stopping my dancing. Kacey and Fitz are plucking away on their fiddles, and Jason is back on the shaker, probably paying more attention to the ladies in the front row than his performance.
But for me, it’s all about the clear-eyed, handsome man in front of me.
There’s an interlude, and as he artfully plucks at his strings, I twirl and clap with the beat. His eyes are crinkled at the edges, and I can tell I’ve made the right choice with this song. It’s like watching someone in the comfort of their own home. He’s genuinely at ease here. This style suits him, and my only regret is that the song is so short. We battle good-naturedly for another refrain before the song wraps.
But before I can manage to step off the stage, Jefferson is transitioning into another familiar melody. Not a duet. Chills roll up and down my bare limbs as he positions himself in front of the mic again. The stadium is absent of sound as though everyone is holding their breath. He sings “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.”
Hot tears spring to my eyes, blurring everything around the edges. I’m frozen in place. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking I should move to a mic. I should harmonize. I should sway. I should grab that stupid egg shaker from Jason, but I can’t.
I can’t move. I can’t think straight. I can’t look away from his beautiful face. He closes his eyes as though he can’t stand to look at me, and the pain of it threatens to overwhelm me in front of all these people.
It was pretend. It was supposed to be this act professionals do for laughs. For profit. For whatever it was until it no longer was any of those things for the two people that mattered: me and him.
It became so much more, and yet it doesn’t matter because he’s going home and I’m going up the charts. There is no what-if in this scenario. A gorgeous public offering is all we have. I said my piece, and now he’s said his. When the song closes, Jefferson drops to his knees in front of me and takes my hands, kissing them. Tears pour down my cheeks, and I know my makeup must be running like crazy on the big screens, but I don’t care. I laugh through my tears and tug him up before wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him on the mouth. Only once. Quick and soft and lonely.
The tour has come to an end.
28
Clay
six months later
indianapolis, indiana
It’s a packed house again tonight. Third Thirsty Thursday in a row that I’ve managed to fill every seat, and Petey looks about ready to kiss my boots. I don’t mention in another life I filled stadiums twenty times this size. He might start charging me for my root beers, then.
It’s not Wrigley Field, under the lights in August, but I get to wear my ball cap, sleep in my own bed, and sing whatever the hell I feel like. Tonight, I feel like a little Garth Brooks. I also tossed in a few newly written originals in between and no one’s booed me out, so that’s a good sign. There have even been a few women at the bar giving me eyes. They’re not my type, but I bet Jason’d make a killing.
I ignore the pang in my chest at the thought of my friends. I’m able to compartmentalize Before and Now pretty well, even when performing, but occasionally the memories worm their way in. Like that one time last week when someone shouted out a request for Cash.
I won’t play Cash. Not without her.
A rush of fresh air wafts its way up to the small stage. I squint through the cheap, bright lights as a familiar form saunters up toward the stage and takes a seat at a table in the front, never mind that there’s been a party there all night. I smile to myself as he makes himself at home. Fitz is back in town.
Good. It’s been too quiet around here. Of course, that’ll last a week or so and I’ll be texting his girlfriend to come get him again.
I lead the bar in the chorus of “The Thunder Rolls.” I’ve considered playing one of my own hits, for old times’ sake, but I worry I’d be pushing it. I’ve changed my name, going by Jefferson Daniels now, but everyone has camera phones these days and I don’t need Trina to find me. I realize I can’t hold her off forever, but I can for a little longer at least. Singing music is different from, say, being in a movie or on a Netflix series. Off the main stage, few people recognize me as Clay. They might think we sound similar, but I basically look like every other nineteen-year-old guy on the planet.
“Y’all have been incredibly gracious this evening. I hope you’ll oblige me a little more before I take a break.” A couple of boos ring out, and I don’t bother to hide my grin. “Easy, there. A man’s got to eat. But before I do, this next one is brand new. Let me know what you think.”
I close my eyes, strumming gently on my granddad’s old guitar. The frayed strap is like an embrace.
Take me away to where the sawdust spirals
Where it smells like fresh-cut pine and white oak
And it sounds like a song from green wilds
And a time when you were alive
I’ve been all around this great land,
Over ancient mountains, blistered in the white sand
Seen everything there is to see and
Chasing a mirage I won’t ever catch this side of heaven
You were a kid, time transformed a hero
Dust in the desert sun, there could be no equal
Falling on some hard-luck times
When I remember how you and I
Dreamed every day about when we’d find
Out if we’d
become better men
I raise every last drop of this pint
In memory of all those times
When you and I still tried
To be better men
You took my words with you over there
In the early morning light
Told me you listened with your men
Made them think of home on those lonely nights
I’ll never play those words again
No point if you’re never gonna hear them
I play for everyone else in your stead
But not those words, not since you’re dead
Now I visit you under a stone
In the dirt, you lie alone, and I’ve—
Fallen on some hard-luck times
When I remember how you and I
Dreamed every day about when we’d find
Out if we’d become better men
I raise every last drop of this pint
In memory of all those times
When you and I still tried
To be better men
I tilt back from the mic, strumming an interlude while picturing Danny in my mind. Tall and strong and alive. Serious, not laughing. Because he knows what’s coming up isn’t funny. Dying at nineteen with a baby on the way isn’t funny. Leaving me behind isn’t funny. I press forward again.
I’m fighting mad at you and your noble cause
And I’ll never forgive you for leaving me behind
But when it comes down to it, we both know who you became
You self-sacrificing son of a bitch …
Were the better man
Falling on some hard-luck times
When I remember how you and I
Dreamed every day about when we’d find
Out if we’d become better men
I raise every last drop of this pint
In memory of all those times
When you and I still tried
To be better men
You were the better man
You were the best man
I still the strings and open my eyes slowly to dead silence. Then a chair scrapes along the plank floor, and Fitz surges to his feet. Beneath the brim of his cap, his eyes are wet. He starts clapping, and that seems to wake everyone else up from their trances. Soon chairs are scraping and phones are glowing and people are clapping and cheering, and damn if it’s not better than any standing ovation I’ve ever had before this.
Because this was my song. My heartache for my brother.
I wrap for a short break. There’s a jukebox in the back that starts to play some classics, and I step off the stage toward Fitz. A couple of the people at the table move to give us space, and Fitz passes me a beer. I wave him off, and he raises a brow.
“It’s just easier if I don’t have any at all. Once I start, it’s a lot harder to stop,” I say.
He pulls the bottle back and passes it to a random guy sitting next to him.
“Nice place you got here. Standing room only, not that I’m surprised.”
I accept a root beer from one of the waitstaff with thanks and then request a second for Fitz. “Yeah, I like it. All the wings I can eat, and it pays for laundry.”
Fitz raises one eyebrow. I take a swig of my drink. We both know I could pay for brand-new clothes every single day if I wanted. For everyone in this bar. For the rest of their lives.
“So listen, Trina—”
I hold up a hand. “How about ‘Hey, man. Nice to see you. You look good. How’s it been? I like your new song. Are you growing a beard?’”
Fitz picks at his label. “Hey, man, nice to see you. You look better. I’ve always been a fan of your work, and you made me cry like a baby.” He raises a rusty eyebrow. “Would we call that a beard?”
I scratch my hand against my whiskers. “It’s filling in.”
“If that’s what you have to tell yourself.”
Fine, I’ll play. “I told Trina no.”
“I know you did. I’m here to ask why.”
“I’m without a contract, Fitz.”
He shrugs. “By your choice, and the CMAs don’t care about contracts. They care about viewership and audience numbers, and the fact of the matter is your tour brought in some of the biggest numbers last summer.”
“Because of Annie.”
“Only partially. Give yourself some credit. Besides, its tradition for the previous year’s winner to present the Best New Artist category. That’s you,” Fitz points out in a low voice.
I narrow my eyes. “Trina said something about performing, too.”
Fitz shrugs. “Maybe just a little something. I’m sure they’ll throw you in a montage. You know they always put the up-and-coming artists in the back.”
“I’m not comfortable being Clay Coolidge anymore.”
“So don’t be.” He holds up a cheap neon flyer advertising the bar’s stage schedule. “Be Jefferson Daniels.”
“They won’t be interested in Jefferson Daniels. He doesn’t bring in the crowds.”
Fitz looks pointedly around the bar, folks still pouring in even though it’s filled to the brim and my set is already half over.
I chuckle darkly. “This is nothing, and you know it.”
Fitz shifts his eyes, picking at the label again. I glance at my watch. Four and a half minutes to go.
“There’s a way they’d let you play as Jefferson Daniels. It’d be a boost to your career, even.”
I choke on a swallow of root beer, fizzing painfully in my sinuses. “Don’t even say it,” I sputter between hacking.
“Why? It was her idea. She cares. Loves your new stuff. You know she’s always been a fan of the classics.”
“You showed her my new stuff? Come on, Fitz. That was for you to learn, not to share.”
“And I learned it. I’m ready to go. She happened to come by once or twice while I was practicing.”
For some reason, knowing she’s heard my raw cuts makes me feel all exposed and vulnerable, and I don’t like it. Clay Coolidge was a tested-out persona. I was confident in his appeal. I’m far more unsure of myself now. Especially opposite Annie.
“It feels a lot like taking advantage.”
Fitz huffs and points to the stage behind us. “What you just played up there? ‘Better Man,’ was it? That was the best song I’ve ever heard. From anyone. Not just from Clay or Jefferson. Anyone.”
He glances down at his phone and smirks before turning it to me so I can read.
WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT
Trina.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Don’t even act like you’re mad. You know there were at least a dozen people live streaming that song tonight from the bar. I just happen to have a heavier social media following.”
His phone dings again.
I’M CRYING. ANNIE IS CRYING. JASON JUST “WENT TO PISS” BUT WE ALL KNOW HE’S WEEPING IN THE BATHROOM. GIVE CLAY OUR LOVE.
Kacey. I sigh heavily.
His phone keeps dinging, and I raise my hand before he shows me more.
“Later. I have a set to finish.”
“In two minutes,” he says. “So, CMAs? Duet with Mathers? Because she’s not going to leave me alone after this.”
“Is this before or after I hand her the award for Best New Artist?” I ask snarkily, ignoring the rush in my veins at the mere idea of singing with her again. I don’t care about the millions watching. I could sing in a gas station with her and my life would be made.
Fitz is unfazed. “Don’t be ridiculous; I don’t know the schedule. If they’re smart, though, right before.”
I groan. “Did you know this is literally the first week we haven’t been in the tabloids?”
“No, but I find it very telling that you do.”
I wave him off. “A duet would clinch the speculation forever.”
“Would that be so terrible?”
I narrow my eyes. It might be, just not for me. I feel different. Whole. Alive and happy. Secure. It seems too much to ho
pe I’m any better for her than I was this past summer, though. “You’re only looking to perform stadiums with your girlfriend again.”
He smirks. “I like hotel sex.”
I wince at the gleam in his eyes. “I need to get back to my set.”
“Does that mean you’re in?”
“That means I have to work and I’ll … think about it.”
Fitz settles back in his seat, taking a long draw from his root beer, looking satisfied. He has every right to. It has to be me who gives her that award, and if that means I have to play every Clay Coolidge song to do it—
Well, I would.
* * *
Three days later, I wake to barking at my front door.
I straighten, placing my bare feet on the worn rag rug my grandma made decades ago, and throw a T-shirt over my bare chest.
“Hush up, Brinks,” I mutter to the blue-gray pit bull yapping at the door. I slide the sheers aside and scowl before pulling my door wide. Grabbing ahold of Brinks’s collar, I let Jason Diaz in.
“What in the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s ten in the morning; why’re you still sleeping?” he asks instead.
“First of all, who are you to judge? And second, I work late. Fell asleep watching TV.”
Jason pushes past me, walking straight to the fridge and tugging it open with a clatter of condiments.
Ignoring his all-too-familiar lack of manners, I pull out my coffeepot and scoop in fresh grounds. “Want some?” I ask.
“Sure.”
He moves to my cabinets, opening and shutting them in turn. I finish with the water and sit down at the table, scratching behind Brinks’s ears before he flops on his side, exhausted from his early guard effort. He’ll probably nap all day after that.
