by Paige North
I want to freeze this moment and remember it forever, the way we lock into place, the way it feels just right, like we’ve always known each other. Like we’ve loved each other for years, and this is how it’s supposed to be.
Jesus Christ, I’m in love with Jayce Owens.
And I’m pretty sure he’s in love with me.
We don’t fuck tonight. We make love. Even if he denies it later, I’ll know it in my heart—he’s making love to me right now, carefully, hinged on how I feel, making sure I’m happy, making sure he’s the one providing my pleasure.
I come quickly and easily when he rubs me right, when he pumps right through my orgasm and makes me come again. Without fear of the unknown, scared of what he’ll do next, scared of whether he’ll pull out ropes or make me drop my pants in public, I know what to expect.
Some might call it ordinary sex, but it’s not. It’s the most perfect position of all, and when his body drops over my chest, and he continues to thrust in and out of me, slowly, steadily, like a steam engine taking its time to pull out of the station, I hear myself tell him how much I love him, how much I missed him, words I’m sure I’ll regret later. But for this moment in time, I can’t deny it.
He breathes out my name, drinks in my neck and breasts, sucks out the nourishment to replace the fake one he’s been filling his mind and body with.
“I’m what you need,” I whisper by his ear. “And don’t you forget it. It’s me you can trust. Me you can come to, Jayce. I heal you, that’s how it works.” And that’s all it takes too, for him to cry out and come hard into me, thrusting and groaning and stretching it as far as it’ll take him.
This better not be the last time. I know he thinks he’s no good for me, but we can figure this out. We can talk about it and slash our demons. We can. We can do it, even though it won’t be easy.
He drops his face over my shoulder and catches his breath against my neck. My soul fills with peace knowing I gave him solace. Even if it’s for just this once, I gave him a harbor to come home to.
Yes, that makes me happy and I allow myself that.
Falling asleep never happened so easily. We sleep hard, always keeping some part of our bodies touching throughout the night. Hand on hand, legs wrapped, fingers in hair. The most he’s ever touched me.
And in the morning, when the light filters through the blinds, and my eyes open with trepidation, I allow zero shock to paralyze my mind when I discover that Jayce Owens has left me yet again.
15
Jayce
Nothing more pathetic than sitting in your own backyard, staring at a crystal-clear, blue-lit pool with nobody in it, shrouded in the darkness of your own heart. I could’ve stayed with her, but I didn’t. I could’ve told her how sorry I was for disappearing on her, but I didn’t. I could’ve told her I was willing to figure this shit out inside my head, but I didn’t.
And this is why, the big fucking newsflash: because I don’t deserve her.
I swig back more whiskey straight from the bottle without bothering to pour it over ice. Why? No one’s watching. Because no one cares. I have a family five hours away as fucked up as I am. I have a bunch of fake friends I never invite over, because they’re fucking fake. I have a contacts app filled with booty calls I don’t feel like calling. Don’t feel like dealing with bullshit. The only one I want to spend my time with is Elena, but I can’t as long as I’m a fuck-up, and I’ll always be a fuck up.
You can take the boy out of hicksville but not hicksville out of the boy.
And I’m as Tennessee Hills poor as it gets. No amount of money can ever take that out of me. My daddy was a drunk, half my brothers are drunks, and I’ve been drinking since my mama dipped my binky in liquor to get me to shut the fuck up. We’re as low class as it gets. Ain’t no way I can ever be the man Elena needs.
To make matters worse, I feel like I’ve betrayed my family by leaving again. I couldn’t visit Mama. Yeah, I blamed the media, but that’s not why I did it. I think I know why now. I’m just scared to say it.
I’m scared that if I see my mother, broken and battered, that I’ll do the worst. I’ll find him. I’ll kill him. And it’ll be the end of my career, the only thing that’s worked out for me. How could he hurt her? Even in my most drunken state, I could never hurt Elena. Emotionally, yes. For being a dick, yes. But I could never lay a hand on her the way my dad did to my mama.
I don’t know what’s right or wrong anymore.
I’m so lost, I couldn’t find my way with a glow-in-the-dark compass.
Work keeps me sane, so I show up at Bluebird Studios several days straight. After I give the production team a fake story about my mom having a bad case of the flu, and how my brothers, father, and I all took turns nursing her, everyone gives their requisite “aww”s and then we settle in to a meeting about the album. Thank God.
“We still need that one hit with a great hook, Jayce,” Rick says, tapping his pencil. “I hate to keep sounding like a broken record, but it’s important, or we may as well not release.”
Pierce looks frustrated as all fuck. I don’t blame him. “Maybe we need to bring in that ballad you and Elena were working on.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I growl. How do I explain that I’ve changed my tune? That I can’t provide the song Elena and I had been working on, because I can’t see her anymore?
My leg bounces, and I avoid Pierce’s stares. I know they’re all wondering if me and Shortcake are still hooking up in secret.
“I think we have six, seven good songs on the album,” I say. “We’ve worked hard. The tracks sound amazing, and like you said, we don’t need a ballad.”
“I can’t believe it.” Rick’s big, sly smile makes me want to slap it off his face. “Someone’s changed his tune, hasn’t he, Pierce?” He guffaws so big, he chokes on his own spit and has to down a glass of water before recovering.
My fists ball up, but I’m good. In control.
“You know how productions go,” Pierce tries to smooth things over. “One day you think the album needs blue, the next day you think it needs red. I thought the ballad sounded great. What I feel, though, is that it didn’t match the style of the rest of the album, which has a more earthy, gritty feel. So, maybe we should just wrap this up, call it a day.”
“Yeah.” I nod and give Pierce a thank-you smile. “I agree.” Thank goodness for great managers. When you need them on your side, they’ll fight for you.
“I don’t know.” Rick shakes his head and glances around at all the other engineers, as though they’ve all talked about this before the meeting. “We want one more, Jayce. One more something big. Pull it out of your ass if you have to. My name’s going to be on this mess, so take the rest of the week off and come up with something. Album drops in three weeks. Bring Elena back on if you have to.”
End of meeting, and I’ve had my ass handed to me.
Bring back Shortcake. As though I can just do that after all I’ve done to her. Wasn’t I the one who said we can mix business and pleasure no problem?
Everyone stands and filters out in a hubbub of talk. I stay behind, pissed as hell in my chair.
Pierce stares at me. “I don’t know what’s happening, Jayce, but you better get your shit together. We’ve only got this crew for one more week, and then they’re on to produce Trisha Yearwood. If this album fails, you’ll be yesterday’s news just like that. Don’t think country stars rise to the top then fizzle out of existence quicker than you can blink? Think again, son. Think again.”
When I pull the Stingray into my driveway and open the garage door, trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to deliver another hit when the one person I need to help me finish the ballad is the one person I’ve sworn to stay away from, I’m shocked to find another car inside the garage.
When I open the door to my hosue, a blend of kitchen scents hit my nose, and my brother, Ethan, is sitting at my kitchen counter, tossing back a beer from my fridge.
“Help
yourself, I guess,” I say.
“What, your own brother ain’t welcome in your big, fancy mansion?”
“How’d you get past the security alarm?”
“Why are you still using Mama’s birthday for your PIN? Don’t you know how easy that is to figure out?” He shakes his head. “Shit, thank God I ain’t a crazed fan who’s looked up everything about you.”
Fucking wish he’d go away. Tossing my keys on the counter and grabbing a beer myself, I settle into another kitchen stool. “A crazed fan would never know anything about Mama. I’ve fought tooth and nail to make sure no info is that accessible.”
“Yeah, I noticed. What you got against your family, Jayce?”
“Nothin’.”
“Then why are you acting like it?”
“I’m not actin’ like anything.”
“Pfft. Could’ve fooled me.”
I don’t look at him for the first half of the beer, then glance at him for a split second only. “Why do you care?”
“Why do I care?” Ethan shakes his head slowly then slides the beer bottle across the counter ‘til it falls in the sink with a crack. “Man, you lost your damn mind. Why do I care… You know what? You need to quit being a crybaby prima donna.”
“And you need to mind your own damned business.”
“Your business is my business, little brother. In case you forgot, we’re family. Look at you…” He gestures to the house around us, walls and plaster and rock and paint. “You have the big dream, everything you could ever want. You even have your own damn recording studio in your house! And still, you find a way to fuck up.”
“Is that what you came to tell me? Thanks, bro. You can walk your ass out of here now.”
“Oh, my words hurt your fragile little feelings? I’m so sorry. Tell you what, why don’t you give me your fucking career. Why don’t you put me in your place? I’ll do it right. I’d find a way to see Mama, hang with my brothers, fill my house with friends, and who knows…I might even start a family once I’m financially secure. But you…you throw it all away. All this for nothin’. What a fucking waste.”
His words unnerve the living shit out of me, but I have to ask why I’m so rattled. Is he right? Have I been living to work instead of working to live? Is it time to let loved ones into my home…and heart? “You don’t have the pressures I have.”
“Boo fucking hoo. Time to man up, Jayce. I don’t know a single person who wouldn’t give it all up to be in your shoes. Life’s what you make it, and right now, you’re all about you.” He laughs, like there’s something funny about what he said then grabs his keys. “I just thought I’d come by, say hello. You know, the way family does.”
I watch him grab his wallet and head for the garage. Just before he reaches it, he turns and taps the wall. “Oh. Made you a pot of coffee, and there’s lasagna in the oven. Later, bro.”
16
Elena
They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.
Whoever said that can take a steak knife, sharpen it against another steak knife, and shove both steak knives up their ass. Twist both knives until they recognize the error of their faulty ways. I won’t say I hate Jayce, because I don’t. I love him.
But he’s flawed, not that I’m perfect. I shouldn’t have let him in the other night, and I definitely should’ve fought against my feelings for him, but I’m weak and long for love. I’m a romantic fool and hoped that Jayce could change. I believe if two people really want something badly enough, they’ll find a way. Love always finds a way.
And therein lies my mistake.
Some things aren’t meant to be, and the sooner I start accepting that, the happier I’ll be. He’s too protective of his feelings, and I’m too forgiving. Too independent to let a man like him control me. We would have to both drastically change ourselves for it to work. It’s better this way.
On my way into work, I park outside Hammerhill’s and answer a call from Bluebird Studios. My heart races. It wouldn’t be him calling from the studios, would it? Can’t be. It’s probably about my check and whether I want to come pick it up and have it mailed to me.
“Hello?” I answer.
A familiar deep voice clears his throat. “Miss Wallace, Rick Santos.”
“Oh, hey, Mr. Santos,” I say, hoping he can’t tell how disappointed I am. “How’ve you been? How’s the album coming along?”
“We’re almost done,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just calling to see if you can come in tonight or tomorrow, give us some backup vocals on one last song.”
“Is it…” I want to ask about the song Jayce and I wrote together, the one we kept butting heads on. Dying to know which version he ended up using, if either.
“The one you dueted on?” He reads my mind. “No, afraid not. We won’t be including it, since it’s not done. No offense to you. Was a great song. Just not right for this set. Maybe use it on your own album one day.” I hear a smile in his voice.
“Sure. I’ll be happy to come in tomorrow. I have to work tonight.” At my waitressing job. At a honkey-tonk. Not writing music, not living my dream. I nearly break into tears thinking about how close I came.
Work is hard tonight. I can’t focus -- there’s a group of guys being assholes in the corner, and the singer onstage with his guitar has a style that reminds me too much of Jayce. I feel lost and don’t know where to go from here. Do I keep trying? Am I even good enough? I thought so when I first arrived in Nashville, when I was with Jayce, but now I’m not sure.
What hurts more than anything was how I put my love out there. Jayce once told me he needed me to trust in him, so I did. I gave him my love, put my heart out there, even took him back for a night when I shouldn’t have, and still I get my heart stomped on. You’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
What’s the point?
That night, sitting on my balcony with Zoe in the living room, entertaining all her high friends, I do what I haven’t done in a while. What comes naturally to me whenever my heart is broken.
Some people journal. Some people paint. Some people spend thousands of dollars on psychotherapy. Me, I pull out my guitar, whip up a notepad and pencil, and get to work.
The words “what’s the point?” slide in and out of my head. I play with a melody. Before I know it, I’ve figured out the first stanza of lyrics along with a simple chorus. It’s not much yet, but it will be. I trust in this process and know that, given enough time, it’ll become something:
What’s the point of loving you if you don’t love me too?
What’s the point of staying here if dreams don’t come true?
What’s the point of telling me you need me through the night?
What’s the point of arguing? You only prove me right.
For hours, I sit out there, smelling the jasmine in bloom, listening to parties all around the apartment complex. Listening to babies crying and lovers fighting, as I drink down my lemonade and blackberry vodka. Maybe I’m meant to be alone. Maybe the universe is telling me it’s not time yet. Maybe he’s gone, because I’m meant to rise and be my own person, get a song written and recorded.
I’ve saved up enough over the last two weeks of working overtime, I may have enough to buy a recording time at a way smaller studio than Bluebird. Tomorrow, I’ll look into it. For the first time in two months, I allow myself to feel excited about something. I have a good thing right here—a tune that’s simple and pure, the perfect debut song. Maybe Mr. Logan will even let me perform it at the bar?
Anything’s possible again in Nashville.
A week later, I pull the old Honda into the parking lot of Sunflower Recording Studios on the other side of town. Guitar in hand, I suck in a long breath and let it out slowly to calm my breathing. Now or never, baby.
Even though no one’s with me, I’m accompanied by the ghosts of everyone who ever got me here. Music teachers in grade school, middle school, high school, and college professors. My parents who encourage
d me to love music enough to study it. My friend, Liz, for telling me about the opportunity with Jayce’s band, though that fateful meeting had its drawbacks.
And yes, even Jayce, for making me work harder, showing me what real collaboration is like, telling me not to give up. I couldn’t have made it here without him either.
Inside the tiny building, a pleasant old receptionist takes my name and asks me to sit. Not sure why, since I can’t see any activity going on inside, and it’s not hard to see past the reception desk. The wooden door from the waiting room is propped open, and inside is a one-room recording suite outfitted with one microphone and an empty control room where a single plume of cigarette smoke rises into the overhead lights.
Well, if this place isn’t different.
I won’t let the dinkiness get to me. Many country musicians began with humble starts. Some didn’t have the chance to buy studio time. I’m going to make the most of this opportunity the universe has given me, and I’m going to rock it. Why? Because I have an amazing product to sell, an amazing piece of music that speaks to who I am, and more importantly, it came from my soul. I followed all the rules—didn’t try to write something trendy, didn’t try to copy anyone else’s style, just me and my guitar, baby!
So, here goes.
“Miss Wallace? Come in.” An older, balding man in a black shirt, jeans, and black socks inside sandals ushers me in without even shaking my hand. Don’t let it bother you. He’s just a busy man with a lot on his mind. I’m still going to have a good time.
The moment I’m set up inside the booth, I flash back to me as a little girl, wishing I could be onstage, performing with my guitar, singing my little heart out like all my idols before me. Imagining this very moment and thinking how I’d get there one day.
Here I am. It’s going to be great. “Ready whenever you are, sir,” I say and give a shaky smile.
