by Erin Hahn
He sits up, tugging his phone out of his pocket and tapping in his pass code. “Told Fitz I’d crash in his room tonight.”
I slink forward, holding his gaze before reaching out at the last second and stealing his phone. He watches me, his expression curious but open. With three swipes, I’ve pulled up his texts. I type out a quick message and hit Send before I lose my nerve, and pass it back to him.
He reads it before his eyes jump to mine, shining.
“I just got you back,” I explain shyly. “And we never got to just be us on tour. Spend the weekend with me? Please? We can order takeout and turn off our phones and play guitar and—”
“Make out on your couch?”
“I mean, I certainly wouldn’t turn you down, if it’s on the table.”
His smile is blinding. “I don’t have a change of clothes or anything. I left it all at the hotel.”
“I don’t know if you know this, but I’m actually sort of famous. I’ll have some delivered.”
He laughs, tugging me so I’m lying across him, and he tilts my chin down, his eyes caressing my lips before his mouth follows suit.
“I may never leave,” he warns in between kisses.
“Fine by me.”
30
Annie
april 12
las vegas, nevada
country music awards
I haven’t seen Jefferson yet, and everyone is acting like that’s perfectly normal.
Our flights didn’t line up, so we never got to rehearse together. Like, that’s insane, right? I always assumed major award shows were meticulous in their planning. It’s a live show. Why wouldn’t they insist on a dress rehearsal? Instead, Connie shrugs and says, “You’re a professional performer, Annie. Why should this be any different from playing in front of thousands in a concert? Just as live.”
Which is perfectly true. Minus the teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy fact of me not seeing him in weeks. True, in comparison to never, that’s barely a glitch, but it’s like they’ve completely disregarded my need for regular exposure. FaceTime barely manages a dent in my anxiety.
Jesus H., I will die. That’s it. I’ll have a stroke right there onstage in front of millions of viewers.
Why is this not obvious to anyone else?
I’ve been the consummate professional all along. Willows is up for Best New Artist, which there’s absolutely zero chance of us winning, but it’s thrilling all the same. We’re up against two country rock duos, a pop princess who’s looking to cross genres, and a diva whose caravan parked over the top of my allotted bus space.
We relocated. It’s cool. I get it. We’re only nominated because of my mom. Legacy winners make for good press.
Of course, young traditionalists do occasionally win. Jefferson won last year against all odds.
I rip a spaghetti strap clear off the fabric tugging it over my shoulder, and let out a growl of frustration.
Kacey rushes in, horrified. “Annie, your gown! We leave in thirty!”
“Scissors, please,” I mutter. She passes me shears, and I unzip my dress, making quick work of the other three fastenings holding the useless straps to my gown. I zip it back up and turn to face my cousin. “Can you tell?”
She motions for me to spin. “Actually, not at all. Will it fall?”
I hop up and down a few times. “I’m good.”
“Where are your shoes?”
“I wasn’t planning on bothering. You can’t even see my feet.”
Kacey looks scandalized and shrieks, “But they will on the red carpet! You can’t not wear shoes, Annie. This is the freaking CMAs.”
I pull out a pair of glittery, overpriced slippers. “Calm down. I’m not a barbarian.”
“Our wardrobe changes are already at the auditorium,” she says, fixing her hair in my mirror. “Jason’s on his way over.”
“Where’s Fitz?” I ask idly.
She smirks at her reflection, proving my nonchalance wasn’t nonchalant. “I imagine at the auditorium already. No wardrobe malfunctions there.”
Jason comes in. “Car’s downstairs. Ready for this?”
I release a slow breath. “Go ahead. I need a minute alone, okay?”
They nod, Kacey grabbing my clutch and phone and closing the door behind her. I sink onto the bed, careful to not wrinkle my slinky magenta gown. I wipe sweaty hands on the down comforter before clutching them together in my lap.
“Lord,” I whisper. “I wish I didn’t want this so much. Help me to not make a fool of myself when I lose. Please don’t let me cry. Please don’t let me forget the words to my songs. And … tell Cora and Robbie I said hi and make sure they watch.”
I’m up for two awards tonight. Best New Artist, obviously, but also Country Single of the Year for writing “You’d Be Mine.” No one’s talking about that one. Don’t want to jinx it, Kacey says.
But that’s the one eating at me. I want it so badly I can taste it. I want to prove myself a songwriter. It’s something neither of my parents ever accomplished. The nomination should be enough. The recognition in such a prestigious field at my age so early in my career. Yeah, I should be content with that. It feels, I don’t know, bratty to want more than a nomination.
But I do. Holy hell, I do. All my life I’ve been in my parents’ shadow. The daughter of legends. The product of a tragic upbringing. I need the validation I’m more than just that—that I belong in my own right. I inhale and exhale a few more times before getting to my feet and walking to the door.
I completely understand why Jefferson wants to leave Clay behind tonight, to publicly cut ties with his old brand. After all, it isn’t only about how you see yourself. It’s about how the world sees how you see yourself that matters.
* * *
I’m taken aback at how many reporters snag us on the carpet. I expected to walk past without notice, except for maybe CMT. Not only do E! and TMZ stop us, but the networks do as well. Kacey graciously answers all the fashion questions and fields comments on her fitness regime and how she came to have such killer arms. Jason oozes charisma, playing the part of the bad-boy drummer with aplomb. I fare well enough, for lucky happenstance has the pop diva crashing my TMZ interview to say she’s played my single on loop and was a huge fan of my mom. My summer “romance” with Clay only came up once, right at the end with CMT. I laugh them off and give them my signature wink. We’re being ushered inside, but not before I hear the reporter comment they would all be looking forward to the Clay and Annie reunion this evening live onstage.
“Is that what they’re calling it?” I whisper to Kacey, feeling frantic. “The Clay and Annie reunion?”
Kacey grips my hand and squeezes tight as we walk into the decked-out auditorium. It’s gleaming and golden and well-lit with glittering chandeliers strung high on arched ceilings. The royal-blue carpet is plush under my slippers, and I try not to think of all the famous people who’ve tread these very aisles before I have, including my own parents decades before. If I actually take the time to look around at everyone here, all the famous, ridiculous, and legendary musicians in this one giant room, I could easily pass out. I can’t take it all in. My brain can’t compute. It’s too much.
Instead, I focus on the buttoned-up usher in front of me. I focus on the feel of Kacey’s hand in mine. Just like when we were kids on my gran’s farm. My eyes trace the broad shoulders of my best friend in his tux. When the hell did Jason grow up?
I press my lips together to keep from crying, but this time, it’s happy tears. We did this. Together. Forget my parents; three kids from a farm town did this. We traipse across the middle aisle and then down a long slope toward the stage. We keep inching closer, and I’m shocked when the usher stops three rows from the front. He gestures to three seats right on the end. I stare at Kacey, wide-eyed, and she giggles. “Holy shit, Mathers, we’re in the hot-girl seats!”
I laugh, pulling her with me and sitting in the middle. I have this insane image of the three of us in a movie theater fo
r the Saturday-afternoon matinees in junior high. Except my gown costs more than a car, and oh my god, Dolly Parton is sitting across the aisle. I wave at her weakly and sink back into my seat with a shaky breath. Man, am I glad I didn’t plan to sing “Jolene” tonight.
Within minutes, the show gets under way. Kacey keeps turning around in her seat and fidgeting, and when I follow her line of sight, I realize with a start Jefferson and Fitz are sitting a few rows behind us. I drink up the image of him, at ease in his fitted suit coat and jeans. His face is smooth, but his hair is still the longer style he’s been sporting since his “retirement,” curling slightly over his ears. My fingers stretch of their own volition as if to reach for the wavy strands.
He winks at me, and I turn back around in my seat, feeling caught.
Kacey squeezes my hand again, and I remember to laugh along with the opening monologue just as a giant camera slides in front of my face, catching my reaction.
Whoa, is this stressful. Focus, Annie. It’s only a wink. Basically, an overexaggerated eye twitch. My lady parts disagree, however.
Another usher comes to my seat during a commercial break. “Time to head backstage for your performance, Willows.” I hop up, Jason and Kacey following behind. Dolly mouths, “Good luck, sweet girl,” and I swoon.
“Dolly Parton just wished me luck,” I say under my breath.
“I think Dolly Parton just pinched my butt,” Jason whispers back.
I snort. “You win.”
We’re behind the wings when I finally see him. I don’t think about my cousin or Jason or any of the stagehands or backstage reporters. All I see is him. I walk right up and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him tight and inhaling deeply, taking in his Jefferson smell. He holds me in return, not releasing me a full minute.
“I’ve missed your face,” I say simply.
He grins warmly. “Likewise, Mathers. You ready for this?”
“Born ready,” I say. My nerves are gone. Jefferson is magic.
“Good. I have to get out there, but I’ll see you soon.” He starts to go but then rushes back. “No matter what this says,” he says, waving the Best New Artist card, addressing all of us at once, “you were my favorite new artists, hands down.”
He spins on his heel, gliding effortlessly onto the enormous stage from the wings. I creep closer to watch. He reads off the teleprompter, something anecdotal about winning last year and how much his life has changed, and then it’s time for him to announce the nominees. They play a tiny clip of all our biggest hits this year, and hearing them all together, I honestly feel like any of us could win. We’re so different.
But in the end, it’s not just anyone.
“And the winner for Best New Artist is not only Country Music’s favorite trio, but mine as well … Under the Willows!”
For a half second, I’m frozen in place, disbelief grounding my slippers to the floor, but then Kacey’s bouncing and Jason’s dragging me forward. Jefferson looks directly at me, and it’s like magic all over again, and my feet move and I’m drawn toward him and his stupid-happy grin. He pulls me into a hug, swinging me around once before releasing me and letting me have the mic.
“Whew,” I say, fanning my face. “Holy hell—oh! Sorry, Gram!—I just didn’t think we would win!”
“I did!” Jason shouts from behind me to laughter. Kacey’s got tears streaming. Useless girl. I squeeze her hand.
“I guess I’m talking, and I don’t have a speech prepared because I’m not very good at planning, and I really didn’t think we’d win, so I’ll just wing it real quick. Thank you to my bandmates and best friends, Kacey Rosewood and Jason Diaz, who are standing beside me. Always. I wouldn’t be here without them. Thank you to Clay Coolidge for letting us tag along on your tour and to all the fans that came out this summer to cheer us on. We fell in love with you all, and you’ve changed our lives. Oh! Thank you to our families back in Michigan, especially Gram and Pops for letting a bunch of kids out in the world to make a ruckus! Thank you, Jesus, for this gift. We promise we won’t take it for granted.”
We’re ushered offstage as the orchestra plays us out, and we’re rushed behind a screen to do a wardrobe change during the commercial break. It takes all of thirty seconds and more hands than I could possibly recognize to transform me into something totally different before I’m shoved back onstage to a little x marking my spot in the middle. I don’t see Jefferson, but I don’t have time to panic. I practiced my half of the mash-up, so I should trust he did his. We’ll follow the cues, and it will be fine. I release a cleansing breath.
The host introduces us, including the fact that—squee!—we’ve just won the New Artist of the Year and Clay and Willows toured together this summer. “The country got a glimpse of real sorcery this summer when these two young people toured the nation, charming the pants off country music fans, and tonight they’ve reunited to give the rest of the world a glimpse of their legendary chemistry. Welcome to the stage, Annie Mathers and Jefferson Clay Coolidge!”
Soft white lights glitter on every surface, and I stand in the middle, in a gauzy white, floor-length gown. Kacey opens with a sweetly mournful melody on the strings, and I whisper my heart into the mic, singing “You’d Be Mine.” Jason does a little march on the drums, and I wonder where Jefferson is. If he’s watching me. If he’s standing behind me. I’m afraid to look, so I close my eyes as I launch into the chorus, but I can hear them. The audience is singing along—some of the most famous vocalists in the world—and it’s so powerful.
And then the song slows, Jason’s percussion stutters to a pause, and Kacey’s fiddle quiets, and I raise my mic to pick up the last, tragic verse, but before I can, Jefferson sings it instead, his sweet tenor striking a fissure into my heart as he does.
And, God, I hate myself for
Wishing
And lyin’
And thinking that maybe
You’d want to be mine
By the time he finishes the verse, he’s in front of me, and the crowd is cheering his arrival. My eyes blur, but no tears fall. Instead, I smile, grabbing for his hand as we sing the last chorus together.
My glittering dawn
My twilight con
My overflowing cup
Of whiskey and wrong
My sweet release
My most, my least
My aching everything
My forbidden retreat
But if I close my eyes
And wish it all away
Pretend I’m someone else,
Pretend I’m here to stay
Gave us half a chance,
Let my stupid heart decide
There’s no doubt in my mind,
You’d be mine
Before we can catch our breaths, we’re moving forward into his hit single “Some Guys Do,” and I’m relieved to lighten the atmosphere. This is what the crowd wants. Not moony eyes and declarations of longing. They want the sass we’re known for, and we give it to them. He struts, and I swoon. I shake out of my floor-length gown to reveal a white pair of high-waisted shorts and a crop top, which he appreciatively flaunts by spinning me around the stage to grand applause.
We close with a duet, at the request of the CMAs. This year, they are honoring decades of music icons, and they asked if we could do our sort-of-famous rendition of “It Ain’t Me, Babe.”
“I want everyone on their feet for this one tonight. This little number’s been on loan to us, and while we couldn’t possibly top the original, I like to think there’s a little of Johnny and June in all of us. Let’s give them our best effort, y’all!”
Jefferson grabs a guitar from a stagehand, and I lead the auditorium in a clap to feed the beat. I’ve kicked off my shoes and twist on my toes as Jefferson hunches over the mic and laughs at my dancing as if it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.
And I realize right then and there that I never want to be looked at as anything less for the rest of my life.
* * *
&nbs
p; I don’t have time to say anything to Jefferson. I’m behind the wardrobe screen, getting back into my original gown before I can spare him a glance. They’re announcing Country Song of the Year soon, and I must be in my seat before that blasted camera whirls in my direction. Funny, I remember watching awards shows as a kid and thinking they were so tediously long when I was waiting for my parents to be on-screen.
Ten minutes later, I’m back in my spot between Kacey and Jason. I sneak a peek behind me but don’t see Jefferson and vow to try to find him after. Kacey and Fitz probably have plans. I’ll just follow them.
Focus, Annie.
I’m able to (mostly) attend to the following awards. I even hop up on my feet with Kacey to dance to a country/hip-hop mash-up. I try to be as natural as possible and forget my uncoordinated square dance moves are being broadcast around the globe, live, and simply have a good time.
Before long, the final awards are being announced, starting with Country Song of the Year. This time, there’s no hiding in the wings when they announce my name and play the sound bite of “You’d Be Mine.” The crowd claps and cheers and I bite my lip, squeezing the life out of Kacey’s and Jason’s hands, all pretense at being cool gone out the window.
When they call my name, I promptly burst into tears.
Just make it up the steps, Annie. Eff it all. I didn’t plan a speech for this one either. Did I already thank everyone?
I get up to the mic and swipe at my tears. “Y’all, my face is melting off,” I say, and everyone laughs.
I inhale through my nose, trying to quickly regain my composure. “My parents never won this award. Maybe they didn’t write enough, or maybe they just didn’t live long enough, I don’t know. But to me, this is an incredible feeling because this,” I say, holding up the statue, “feels a lot like survival.”
