by Paige North
“Zo, we haven’t rehearsed anything, which could be bad for both of us. Why don’t we work on a song this weekend, then present the idea to Mr. Logan next week? Right now, I have to get up there before all hell breaks loose. You understand, right?”
It’s fair. At least I think it’s fair. If we get up there to sing something we haven’t practiced, we could both come out looking like amateurs.
“Yeah, sure. No problem.” Zoe whirls and heads back to the service door. I hope she’s not too upset. I mean, she did just pitch a spontaneous, ill-calculated idea at me.
I lug my gig bag over my shoulder and enter the kitchen, taking out my guitar and propping my foot up on an empty chair to tune it. Sitting in the heat all day has messed up the strings. Once I have the thing in tune, I run through a quick version of my song, making sure everything sounds right.
“Wallace?” Mr. Logan bursts into the kitchen. “Wallace!”
“Right here, Mr. Logan. I’m ready.”
The man looks relieved.
I can’t let him down.
This could lead to more nightly gigs, at the very least.
He swings a dirty rag at my shoulder. “Alright, get out there. Break a leg.”
“Thank you, sir.” On my way to the small stage, I pause in front of a small mirror in the hallway to pull my hair out of my ponytail holder and fluff it up. Ugh, shouldn’t have done that. I look a little unkempt and wild now. “Oh, well. Just go, go, go…” I whisper to myself.
Walking onstage to a bar full of drunk people has got to be the scariest thing I’ve ever done. It’s one thing to sing your heart out in a soundproof recording studio and another to interact with live, judgmental people. There’s no one to introduce me, so I take a seat at the stool and pull the mic closer to me, tapping it to make sure it’s live.
“Evening, y’all,” I say in my peppiest voice. “My name’s Elena Wallace, and I’ll be performing a few songs for you tonight.” I don’t have more than one song planned, but I’ll pull something classic out for the other two.
No one claps or cares. Some watch me, but most people are talking, laughing, or telling stories at the bar. Hanging out by the kitchen door is Zoe against the wall, arms crossed. I start playing in G, running through the opening chords, imagining the moment exactly the way I want it to go. And then I start singing.
My voice is shaky, and I’m not breathing right, but I push through it.
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 really come true?
The audience has given me the courtesy of quieting down a bit, but there’s no energy. It’s like I’m playing to middle school kids who just want the bell to ring.
What’s the point of telling me you need me through the night?
What’s the point of arguing? You only prove me right.
I trusted you.
I gave you all of me.
Baby, baby, come set me free.
Someone in the back corner laughs, someone next to Zoe. It’s one of our hosts, Damien. I see their heads together, whispering as they watch me. I know they’re talking about me. God only knows what she’s saying. Probably how I was secretly fucking Jayce Owens until he dumped me, and now I’m back to playing honkey-tonks.
No, stay focused. Close your eyes, Elena.
I close my eyes and feel the lyrics my heart crafted all by itself. Words about my life, about my own pain. No one can take that away from me, not even Zoe.
What’s the point of inviting me into your life?
What’s the point of asking opinions if two wrongs don’t make a right?
What’s the point of knocking drunken at my door?
What’s the point of letting you hurt me anymore?
“What’s the point of this song?” a man murmurs right near the stage. He doesn’t look drunk. It breaks my focus, but I don’t look right at him. My blood begins to boil. How rude can people be to talk during a performance? I hate him. And for a moment, I hate all of them.
Someone else coughs real loud.
Someone else stands to take a group pic of their friends who all laugh.
Someone tosses a piece of ice from their drink onstage, and I watch it melt under the lights as I play.
The song feels like it takes forever, like I’m slogging through it just so it’ll be over. A few people in the back get up to leave. Why? Because I’m crashing and burning. It prompts me to throw more energy into the song, like draining my soul, and the words and chords together remind me of those lonely nights, and by the end of the last line, I’m literally choking.
I can’t get the last words out, they hurt so much, thinking about that first meeting and the honey whiskey across my lips. Why did he come into my life that way then leave? What were we about anyway?
The song falls flat, and I know it. A couple people clap, but most go on with their night of drama, stories, and debauchery. I’ve totally failed at capturing anyone’s attention. I sincerely hope, for my sake, that there was no one important in the audience. Sometimes there’s no magic, no matter how great your set of pipes are, and tonight, the people of Hammerhill’s weren’t feeling it.
Or maybe it was me. Maybe Jayce was right, and some things you just learn by performing. Some things can’t be learned in the classroom. I thank the crowd, step off the stage, and get the fuck out of there as quickly as I can.
What’s the point of setting myself up for failure? What’s the point in chasing a dream that only comes true for a lucky few? I was stupid to come out here, stupid to believe I could make it in this industry. If I can’t even hold the attention of a small bar, how will I rock a whole stadium? I know the truth, though I’m scared to consider it, but here it is—maybe it’s time to pack up my dreams and go home.
19
Jayce
“Jayce?”
“Yeah, Mama.” I pore over the music sheets in front of me.
“Did you want grilled cheese or burgers? Or chicken. I can make some of your granddad’s fried chicken. Which one do you want?”
I cringe in the studio and remember it’s only temporary. We’re going to find her her own place real soon. Coming back to Nashville after the fight with my dad, you’d think her presence would liven up my place. She’s been cool, tidying up and cooking, but she’s fighting depression and needs serious therapy. We agreed to find her a house nearby soon. That way, I can keep an eye on her and take her to doctors’ appointments.
“Surprise me.” I have exactly one night to write the hit song Rick’s demanding. It’s overdue, and at this point, he almost doesn’t give a shit what it sounds like as long as it’s catchy enough for crossover play on pop radio. Mama could make bacon-bourbon-blue cheeseburgers, and it wouldn’t matter, because I probably won’t eat.
The pressure is on.
I got nothing. I scour through drafts of other songs I’ve started over the last few months, trying to work them into something usable, but they all sound like shit. After a while, it takes a toll and you start thinking you’re a talentless one-trick pony.
If Elena were here, we’d be a vortex of creativity. We’d be writing into the night, making love, and singing our hearts out. I pause and stare around the studio, recalling the ghosts of those days.
If home is where your heart is, then why does this big ol’ house feel so empty?
My fingers itch to text her, to ask her to come over and work with me. We can make something beautiful happen, I know we can. In fact, we have many times. Turning my laptop around, I dig into the archives from two months ago and search for the songs Elena and I worked on. I adjust my headphones, as the smell of grilled cheese wafts in through the A/C vent.
Song after song after song of pure joy. Everything from bluegrass to contemporary to honkey tonk. I have to hand it to her—the girl is talented. She deserves all the success she wants and more. If she wants love, she deserves a man without issues, too—a good man who’ll give her a go
od life and won’t create drama.
If home is where your heart is, why does this big ol’ house feel so empty?
I write the words down and weave them into the song we came up with using the melody she fought hard to keep. It works. Blends right in. Well, I’ll be damned.
I add another line: If home is my castle, then where is my queen? What is my queen doing right now at this moment? I know I don’t deserve her, but flashbacks of Shortcake’s laughter, golden hair, and goofiness fill my mind anyway. Images of her naked body stretched out in my bed, of her smooth skin glowing in the feeble morning light invade my mind.
Suddenly, I feel my mom standing next to me, and I jump, sliding my headphones off. “Scared me. What’d you say?” I ask. Her lips had been moving when I looked up.
She pushes the plate of grilled cheese along the table at me. “I said, your queen is right here.” She laughs that funny Mama cackle . “Seriously, that song is pretty. You wrote it?”
“Yeah, I—” I can’t take full credit for it. “My girlfriend and I wrote it together.”
“Girlfriend? You didn’t tell me about no girlfriend. Is she pretty?” she asks. I give Mama a sharp look. “Alright, alright, I’ll quit being nosy.”
“She’s beautiful. She was, anyway.”
“Oh,” she says bluntly. “I see.”
And gorgeous, and sexy, and stunning in every way, and… “I let her go like a fucking idiot.” I had everything—a gorgeous woman, a talented musician, the girl next door and a real partner, and I treated her like a second-class citizen. She was onto something with these melodies, and I stupidly “humored” her then filed the songs away as “experiments.”
“Then maybe you should find this lost queen and bring her home.” She kisses the top of my head and walks out, humming the tune down the hall.
It isn’t until I hear the dishes clanking in the kitchen do I realize I’d said those words out loud. I let her go like a fucking idiot.
“Where you going, baby?” Mama’s voice patters like a summer rain in the kitchen. Melancholy but comforting. But it’s Elena’s voice I miss, Elena’s voice I need in my life. Maybe I don’t deserve her, but I can try my damn hardest to earn her back.
Pulling the Stingray into Elena’s student-based apartment complex feels awkward. The stares I get remind me again that I need another car, a basic one for riding around like a normal person. Guess I’ve forgotten that I’m an average Joe.
I called Elena on the drive over to make sure she’s home, but her phone’s been disconnected. Not good—she probably hasn’t paid her phone bill since I made her stop working at the honkey tonk. I add “huge guilt” to the already long list of emotions running through my mind tonight.
I don’t see Elena’s car, but I’ll knock anyway. I grab the baseball cap in the passenger seat and pull it tight over my face, then step out of the car. If anyone recognizes me, they don’t play like they do. I take slow steps up the stairs, thinking about what I’m going to say when I see her. Thinking about all the ways I want to make her life better if she’ll let me.
I’ve missed you so much, I’ll tell her. I was stupid and should’ve listened better.
Knocking on the door, I ignore the looks from kids down the hall, sitting around drinking beer, looking at me like they know me. I tug on the cap’s visor and avert my face. For a while, nobody answers. I knock on the front window. Maybe she’s at work.
I’m about to give up when I hear the shuffling of feet heading to the door. Hands in pockets, I get ready to smile. Not a big cocky one but a happy-to-see-you one. An apologetic one, because I need all the help I can get.
A chain slides, and the door opens. She’s blond, and she’s got that redness in her eyes that tells me she’s been smoking pot. She’s in the middle of a laugh, which tells me she’s got friends over. She sees me, her hand punching her hip. “Well, I’ll be damned. I was wondering how long it’d take for you to come.”
“Who is it, Zo?” a girl’s voice chimes in from somewhere in the apartment.
“Excuse me?” I say. For a moment, I think she has me mistaken for someone else.
“Jayce Owens, you’re days late. Lucky you.”
“For what?”
“Elena’s gone. Went home to New Hampshire.”
What does she mean by lucky? Why would she go home? “You mean…to visit her family?”
The young woman cocks her head. “Didn’t she tell you? No, I guess not.”
“Do you have her number? Her phone’s disconnected.”
“Yeah, I would imagine she did that on purpose.”
“Answer me. Is she visiting family?” I insist, pushing the door open a bit to see if she’s lying and Elena’s inside, but she holds the door firmly.
“No, I mean for good. She got tired of Nashville. Didn’t do too well during a performance over at Hammerhill’s. Broke her spirit, I guess. Plus, she was mad at you. Hoo! Was she mad at you! I wouldn’t go looking for her if I were you. Like I said, you got lucky she’s not here.” She pulls back the door, revealing two other girls in their mid-20s, all beautiful, all hot as hell. “But we are. Care to come in?”
20
Elena
I can’t decide what’s worse—leaving my dreams in Nashville, or my parents turning my bedroom into a craft/sewing room.
“Really?” I stare at the table full of spools of colorful thread where my nightstand used to be. Where my bed used to be now sits a long table with sewing machine and boxes full of fabric scraps. “A fucking sewing room?”
My brother Austin claps me on the back with a sigh. “Welcome home, sis. Your bedroom set bought me a half semester at school. Thanks!”
“Shut up, jerk.” Seriously, I know it shouldn’t bother me. It’s not like I ever planned on living here again, but after losing miserably, it would’ve been comforting to come home and see my old stuff. “Since when did Mom get into sewing anyway?” I shake my head.
“She always wanted a sewing room ever since she handmade your pajamas as a kid, she said.”
Actually, those were my comfiest pajamas. “But where am I supposed to sleep?”
“Couch?” He chuckles and leaves, scratching his butt as he goes.
Setting my bags on the floor, I lean against the door frame and wonder if I should even stay or just find an apartment. I got my U-Haul outside waiting, and I can just as easily unload at a place of my own. I still have a little money leftover, thanks to Jayce’s reimbursement of my hours. Even though I hate, hate that I accepted that money, it’s kept me from falling into the red.
Thanks, Jayce. I guess.
I take my butt out to the living room couch and plop into the cushiness, looking around dejectedly. With nothing to do, nowhere to go, no job, I decide that taking a nap for the first time in eight months would be a good idea, especially since I drove all morning after stopping in Cleveland for the night. I deserve a mental break.
My parents are at work, thank God, so I haven’t had to deal with them, but the moment I arrived, my brother started interrogating me, and while I never told him I was seeing Jayce Owens, I did say that things didn’t work out with a “guy friend.”
“See? I knew you’d get wrapped up with some dude. I told you to stay focused,” he’d said not five minutes after I arrived. I hadn’t even taken off my shoes yet and already was getting lectured by my little brother.
“You don’t know shit,” I’d hissed at him very, very catlike. Who was he to tell me anything? He’d been attending a two-year college for four years now and had been hiding a near-pregnancy scare with his ex-girlfriend from our parents for six. “You had no way of knowing I’d get wrapped up with anybody.”
“It’s classic. Young woman goes off to find her dreams, gets detoured by an older, experienced guy. That’s why you can’t trust men. We’ll derail you every time.”
“Who said you were a man yet?”
“You hurt me, Elena.” He’d palmed his chest and acted offended. “What was his nam
e?”
I’d paused to consider how I should answer this. “Jayce.”
“Jayce? Like ‘Jayce Owens?’” He’d imitated Jayce’s baritone Southern drawl.
“Exactly.”
He’d shaken his head at how ridiculous it was, obviously thinking it was a joke.
Now, as I doze off, I try not to think about whether or not coming home was a good decision. It’s possible I let the unreceptive audience at Hammerhill’s get to me too much. Maybe I should’ve talked to someone, a friend, my mother, my brother…anybody. Maybe I gave up too quickly, like Jayce once accused me of doing. I could’ve just been stressed. Things might’ve sorted themselves out soon enough. Regardless, I’m home now.
I’ll probably never see Jayce again, or Nashville, for that matter.
Was it all a lie? Sure didn’t feel like one. My two months with Jayce felt more real than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. They also hurt the most, too. Guess you can’t have one without the other.
Days later, I’ve grown roots. Literally. I mean, I’ve gotten up to eat and pee, but then I lie back down again and either sleep or listen to music to drown out the shit storm in my head. Mom and Dad have been super supportive, sitting at my feet, saying parental-type things one would expect them to say.
Today, my father gets home from work and sits beside me. He runs his fingers through my hair. “Hey, honey, I spoke to a coworker today. He said his wife, the principal down at Carver Middle, is looking for a music teacher. I know your degree isn’t in teaching, but all you need is a four-year degree and a teaching certificate. You can start with a temporary then complete a few requirements for the permanent in the meantime.”
