One Song Away

by Molli Moran

  One Song Away

  By Molli Moran

  Copyright 2014 Molli Moran

  All Rights Reserved

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please go to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover design by Marie Landry

  Also by Molli Moran

  As You Turn Away (The Walker Boys #1)

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dedication

  For every girl who didn’t belong, but learned how to make her own place in the world.

  For all the rebel belles.

  Chapter One

  I’m waiting in line at the dry cleaner’s when the bell above the door announces a new entry, and I swear I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand. I ignore the shudder crawling over me and focus on my phone. One of the songwriters I follow online just shared the news that a song he wrote is going platinum. I’m thrilled he’s finding success, but it’s one more reminder of how far I am from the goals I set when I moved here.

  I wanted to be a well-known songwriter by the time I was twenty-two, not still embodying the definition of “starving artist” and sharing an apartment with the Wicked Witch of Music City.

  “Well, if it isn’t Miss Wright. Looking for your Mr. Right?” He chuckles at his quip as though it’s the funniest thing ever. Like he hasn’t made the same joke so often it stopped being funny.

  Turning slowly, I force myself to take a deep breath. I fight the impulse to stomp my stiletto on his foot as hard as I can. Or rip his hand off my shoulder. I’ll instantly lose the upper hand if I let myself unleash the machine-gun round of retorts I’ve saved, or hurt him physically the way he hurt me emotionally.

  Gideon Price’s expression is deceptively innocent. I wonder why he’s making this effort. His gray eyes are wide and warm, but his laughter dies as he catches sight of my face. I can’t see what I look like, but I can imagine. I’ve practiced the fierce expression enough times in the mirror, anticipating these sporadic run-ins with him. I keep hoping each one will be the time when seeing him doesn’t sting.

  “Gideon.” Taking his hand briefly, I drop it. “What are you doing?”

  I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks, so I mistakenly hoped he left for Hollywood as he keeps claiming he will. My ex thinks of himself as a “retail slave slash actor.” I think of him as an “asshole slash moron.” We obviously have vastly different opinions on the subject.

  “What, I can’t even talk to you now?” He ruffles his hair, sending the blond strands into disarray. “I thought we were past all the bullshit.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I would say he’s hurt. But Gideon, despite lack of luck in his chosen profession, is actually a talented actor. He can cold read a scene and make anyone believe he is the character. He commands any room he’s in, draws glances and smiles and loyalty. I’m outside his inner circle now, so it’s less inspiring and more terrifying how easily everyone loves him. How easily I loved him.

  “What bullshit, Gideon?” Making air quotes that will annoy him, I cross my arms over my chest. “Is the pain I feel over our break-up bull? Just because you didn’t feel anything real doesn’t mean it went both ways.”

  “I’ve told you I did care about you…”

  “Right.” I smirk. “You cared so much you waited two whole days after we ended things before you started dating someone new.”

  Gideon takes a step toward me. Before I can move out of his reach, he captures one of my hands in his. The feel of his skin against mine jolts me back four months, to nights when I stood by his side at play after-parties or dinners with friends, enjoying the secondhand high from being near him. I’ve never believed in the “love is a drug” mentality, but with Gideon, I got it. I understood how people who needed love as validation could think of it as a drug. I was too close to becoming one of those people, which is one of many reasons I’m glad we broke up when we did.

  “Sophie, I never said I was perfect.” He gives me a smile he’s definitely practiced. In another life he’d have been a con man, and the bastard would have made it seem legit. “Can’t we both admit we made some mistakes?”

  “You call cheating on me a mistake?” I let out a too-shrill laugh. “You’re right, it was. It was a mistake on your part, but it made me see who you really are.” I snatch my hand away from him again. “I’ll be the first one to own my mistakes, Gideon, but the only one I made with you was staying too long.”

  “Sophie, please…” His voice is the thinnest thread, spooling between us. The tone makes me remember wine-infused kisses, nights going over his lines, watching him transform into different people, and laughing at his horrible accents.

  I glance past him. His Prius is parked by the door, and a drop-dead gorgeous brunette is leaning against it. She winks when she sees me looking at her. I don’t want Gideon anymore, but I swear I can feel my blood boil.

  “It looks like you’ve got someone waiting on you,” I say from between clenched teeth.

  Freakin’ guys. I care less about the fact he’s dating someone else, and more about the fact I’m not. It’s not like I haven’t tried dating since our break up, but after several failed attempts, I’ve hit a wall. Seeing him with someone new is another reminder of one more goal I haven’t met. I’ve never thought I needed a significant other to feel whole, but I have always wanted the sort of all-encompassing love I’ve seen portrayed in films and books.

  I know I’ll never find it by sitting passively on the sidelines and hoping Mr. Right stumbles across me. I’m not still clinging to the hope of Gideon shaping up and wanting me back, but I also haven’t found anyone new. I’m not afraid of being alone, but I am lonely.

  Despite how much I love Nashville, it feels less welcoming lately, and more like the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I’m growing so disheartened of rejections.

  Gideon’s shoulders slump. “She’s just…”

  “Just what?”

  “A distraction.” His voice is so quiet that I almost miss his words. I study the way the light clings to his eyelashes. He hasn’t met my gaze again, and I wonder if maybe…

  “Sophie Wright?”

  The moment ends. Turning, I face the counter. The clerk has my dress ready, so I pay her and take my garment bag. Once we’re done, I step out of the way so Gideon can move forward in line. I carefully fold the bag over my arm, too aware there’s so m
uch I would say if things were different. As it is, I can’t fall under his spell again. I can’t go back now.

  “I’ll see you around, Gideon.”

  I’m headed toward the mall before I let a huge sigh escape. I know I just dodged a bullet, because I was tempted to believe my ex, which would have been a huge mistake. Even if he did care about me in some way, I still got burned. Being alone is hard, but my self-respect is worth it.

  ___ ___ ___

  Changing positions, I dare another glance in the mirror, but my reflection is as stubborn as I am. Nothing changes. They aren’t flattering at all. Wrinkling my nose, I watch my mirror image do the same, nose ring glinting in the overhead lights. I sigh, because I can contort until I’m a pretzel, but these jeans won’t fit any better than they already do. Dammit. I love my body, especially my curves, but I wanted these pants. After seeing my ex, I decided on some retail therapy, but it’s been a big flop.

  “Soph?” The voice floating out of my phone is a jolt back to reality.

  I scoop my phone from the bench in the fitting room, resuming the staring contest I’m having with myself. “I’m still here.” I pinch the tag between two fingers and blow out a breath that ruffles my side bangs. Between the fact I don’t need these pants and the fact they don’t fit how the sales clerk claimed they would, I won’t be buying them. I growl under my breath.

  “Was that a grumble?” My best friend’s voice is amused, even through spotty cell reception. At least one of us is.

  “No…yes. Maybe.” I let go of the price tag reluctantly. “The clerk went on and on about how amazing these jeans would look on me, but the sad truth is the cuteness of clothes decreases in direct proportion to the size increasing.” With a shake of my head, I peel myself out of my new second skin. “Why can’t I find adorable clothes like you’re always wearing?”

  “Hmmm… Maybe because you’ve got curves like whoa and an ass I’d die to have?” Sloane laughs.

  “Says the girl who probably hasn’t ever weighed over a buck twenty soaking wet,” I say, but I’m grinning. I wriggle into my pants again. They may be a size bigger than what I just tried on and a Goodwill special, but they fit comfortably. “I didn’t know you were so envious of my ass. I always thought you were my friend because of our shared love of bad romantic comedies.” I let out a purposefully melodramatic sigh. “Was it all a lie?”

  Sloane tries to speak through her giggles, but she lets a snort slip out, and it takes her a few more seconds to regain control. “I miss you, Wright. And your butt.”

  “I miss you, too. Thanks for suffering through me trying on clothes.” Grabbing everything, I exit the dressing room, jeans dangling from a hanger in my hands. The sales clerk must have been waiting outside the fitting rooms, because she’s on me as soon as I step into the main part of the boutique.

  “How did everything fit?”

  I wince. “They were too tight.” When I hand her my things, her lips round into a pout. I shrug as I head toward the door. I can put money I didn’t spend here toward other things, like gas, food, and if I’m very lucky, a bottle of wine this weekend. Something tells me I’ll need it after the last few days, especially after today’s Gideon encounter. They always leave me worn out and frustrated.

  “You just crushed that girl’s hopes.” There’s music in the background so I know she must be stretching after her run. As long as I’ve known her, Sloane Delgado has run several miles each day. I ran a mile. Once.

  “That’s me, Sophie-Claire Wright, crusher of dreams.” I tuck my hair behind my ears, but taming it is a constant losing battle. Ever since my “cleansing” a few months ago (which was just an excuse to chop layers into the long hair my ex claimed he loved, and burn all our pictures in a tequila-fueled rage), my hair has a mind of its own.

  Sloane chuckles. “On that slightly power-hungry note, I’ll let you go.” I can picture what she looks like right now, dark eyes shining, mouth open in a messy, real laugh, tan skin flushed. It makes me wish I were with her. “I love you, and I hope you can visit soon.”

  “I love you too, bitch.”

  “Jerk.” But her tone is like bright sunshine on the first warm day after a long winter.

  After Sloane and I hang up, I linger by my car, watching the world rush around me. Everyone but me is going somewhere. I could stand here for hours and never see the same person. On any given day, I see people from all walks of life. I have friends here from various other parts of the world, friends who speak other languages, whose lives are totally different from mine. I love the diversity.

  I love living here. Nothing could make me leave. I love the food, the sights, the atmosphere. In a few more hours the tableau will change to nightlife: twangy cover bands, restaurants, endless drinks, and tall neon signs.

  But after talking with my best friend, I can’t stop thinking about home. Martinville is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town where old men in overalls still gather at country stores in the mornings to drink their morning coffee and gossip about their lives. It’s the sort of place where everyone from your hairdresser to your waitress knows you, your family, and your business. It’s the kind of place where you die famous even if your biggest feat was stealing the neighboring town’s mascot on Homecoming night. (Not something I’d know anything about…)

  I don’t regret leaving, because leaving brought me here. But sometimes home feels too far away, especially lately, so I drag a corner of it into my world.

  Sighing, I head home. I don’t live far away, so it’s a quick drive. When I get there, I let myself in, and I’m wondering about dinner when I spot a note on the kitchen table. My name is written on it in Mara’s flowing handwriting. I drop into a chair, exhaling slowly. Mara never leaves me notes. She prefers to bitch at me in person.

  Sophie-Claire,

  I didn’t want to do this in person, so here it is: I have someone else who wants to move into the apartment, so I need you to be out in the next week. We’ve never really gotten along anyway, so I’m sure you’re no sadder than I am about this. Best of luck with the songwriting.

  Mara

  I read the note again before it really sinks in: I’m being kicked out of my home. Living here isn’t always easy, but it’s the only place I can afford. Without the security of a place to live, I can only think of one option.

  Sloane might be seeing me sooner than she thinks.

  Chapter Two

  The back seat of my car is packed with boxes of various shapes and depths. If someone had told me before today I’d be able to fit my life into such a small space for the second time in four years, I’d have laughed. Vodka and determination fueled my packing, and the ass chewing I unleashed on Mara, when I came to the conclusion I couldn’t afford to stay.

  Leaving feels surreal. Not even turning in my notice at work made it feel real. Sure, there were times I considered it after hellish week–times when I was broke or discouraged. Times when I chased after a contact, hoping for an audition. I always convinced myself to stay a little longer. Told myself the dream would happen for me.

  So going home because my roommate kicked me out and I couldn’t find anywhere else to stay feels less like a dream and more like a nightmare. Like giving up deliberately. Being here always felt like I was where I was supposed to be, even when I missed Martinville the most. Even when the bills coming in my name felt overwhelming.

  I grit my teeth as I swing into the drive-through at a Starbucks. My mood is plummeting faster than a Billy Ray Cyrus comeback attempt, and if I want to be in one piece when I get home, I need caffeine. I order a venti caramel macchiato and a cinnamon swirl coffee cake. If coffee and cake can’t salvage my mood, I’m a lost cause.

  Drink in hand, I merge onto the interstate. Despite the relatively short distance between Martinville and Nashville, I’ve always felt like I left one world for another when I moved. I went from knowing everyone to working to make connections and friendships. I earned my small successes while living in Nashville, and leaving all
that behind feels wrong.

  The truth is, Nashville was a gamble. I moved at eighteen, and even though there have been times recently when I still wasn’t sure I was ready, I always thought I’d roll a winner one day.

  I tune the radio to my favorite station. I’ve made this drive a dozen times in the last few years, but this feels different. I feel as if I’m running away, but I also know my options were limited. I blew my savings on rent, gas, working songwriter circles, and my Starbucks addiction. I don’t have the income for anything better than the apartment Mara and I shared, and I don’t have the energy to fight her. I was never on the lease, so she’s within her rights to ask me to leave. I just never thought she would.

  At least Mama was truly sad for me when we talked. Mara practically held the door wide open. She invited her new roommate over while I packed, apparently feeling the need to add insult to injury. I usually give people the benefit of the doubt, but I won’t miss Mara. I looked forward to my period more than I ever anticipated seeing her.

  I sigh, worrying at my bottom lip. I always thought living with her would be temporary, but here I am years later, no better off in some ways than when I first moved. Close calls, missed opportunities, chances taken, mistakes…all of it equals my current situation. I’ll never know what I could have done differently, or not at all, so there’s no use dwelling.

  My odometer ticks away the miles as I go along with the jet-stream-traffic. Going back isn’t the worst thing that could happen. There’s no Mara there, and no Gideon. I’ve been gone for long enough that hopefully living there will be a fresh start. Martinville is a different way of life than Nashville, but it holds more good memories than bad for me. And right now, maybe that’s what I need. A safe place to land.

  I press harder on the gas. I need to put Nashville behind me while I still have the strength.