by Meghan March
I glance around the mostly empty bar. Only a few people are drinking this early, and most of the staff are still getting ready for the place to open.
“You mean like, ‘Testing, one, two’?” I ask her.
Hope grins. “I sure as hell don’t. You know exactly what I mean. It’s open-mic night. We need to make sure someone with surprising pipes doesn’t blow out our eardrums if there’s feedback.”
Bartenders who can sing are a dime a dozen in this town, so I know I’m nothing special, but even so, I never do it in public. When Gil Green gave me that pink kid’s guitar twenty years ago, I would stand onstage at the Fishbowl when Pop wasn’t around and belt out my favorite Patsy Cline and Reba songs. Mama would clap and yell for an encore, but once we heard any sound that indicated Pop was coming back, the guitar would get hidden away until it was safe again.
When Mama died, any aspirations my nine-year-old self had died with her. I still played the chords on that guitar, but I never stepped onstage and pretended to perform again. After the way the press dragged my family through the mud, I never wanted to be in the spotlight. And I’ve done a great job screwing that up lately.
But this one time . . . it can’t hurt anything. I might be a little rusty from only singing in the shower or my car, but why not? A thrill zips through me as I remember how much I loved playing and singing for Mama.
I scan the bar again. Eight people. Safe enough.
Hope grins like she knows she’s won.
“Fine. I’ll do it. You gonna pick?” I almost regret asking, because I wouldn’t put it past her to suggest something crazy.
“Nah, give it a go with whatever.”
I cross toward the stage where the sound crew set up everything for open-mic night instead of the house band instruments. This is about one voice and whatever instrument the person brings with them. As I step up onto the raised platform, I wonder if anyone has ever been discovered at the White Horse. It has been a fixture in Nashville for years, so it wouldn’t surprise me, but the chances have to be slim to none. And also completely irrelevant. I’m a bartender, not a nine-year-old with a pipe dream.
I take the microphone off the stand with a sweaty hand and flip it on. I go through the usual round of “Testing, one, two” anyway, and Hope gives me a thumbs-up from the bar.
Now what? I lean back, resting my butt on the tall stool in the middle of the stage. A song that has run through my brain so many times over the last few years rushes back to me. I can picture the video of the girl fighting with her drunk of a father, wishing a tornado would blow it all away.
Very fitting, so I launch into Carrie Underwood’s “Blown Away.”
I’m probably crazy to sing it a cappella, but in this moment, I don’t give two shits what anyone thinks. The song and the story wrap around me and transport me somewhere else, on the outside looking in on all those times my father told me I wasn’t good enough. All the times he called my mother a whore and told me I was just like her.
I just want it all to blow away.
But unlike the song, there’s not enough rain in Nashville to wipe the sins from that bar. It will never be clean again.
I lose myself in the lyrics, belting them out with everything I have, not caring if I’m off-key, because I feel every last word down to my soul.
When I whisper the last away, I finally open my eyes. The bar is silent. Every single person in the room is on their feet, their mouths agape, staring at me.
One of the waitresses starts a slow clap, and everyone else joins in as someone yells encore!
A rush of heat burns my cheeks as I realize I just bared my soul onstage in front of a room of strangers. I flip off the mic and shove it back in the stand before giving them a nod and stepping off the platform.
People are smiling and clapping as I walk by.
“Holy shit, girl. You got pipes.”
“Damn, I did not see that coming!”
“Why are you serving drinks instead of playing shows?”
I smile at them as the comments come, but hurry back behind the bar where I feel safer. When I get there, Hope says nothing, choosing to watch me with a smug smile as I grab a towel and unnecessarily wipe down the bar.
“Sound system works fine,” I mumble.
When I came in today, I told her everything that happened with Boone. She listened until I finished, then wrapped me in a tight hug and whispered, “It sucks now, but I promise it’s going to get better.” She knew I needed this outlet to pour out my frustrations and disappointments, and set them free.
“I’d say it’s never worked better,” she deadpans.
“Stop it.” I’m fighting a smile. I don’t want to admit just how good that felt, because I can still feel eyes on me. After my little performance, I don’t need to draw any more attention to myself.
Apparently, that ship has sailed.
“Well, shit. You could’ve been filling that bar of yours every night of the week if you’d just stepped on your own damn stage, Rip.”
I jerk my head around to see Zane Frisco staring at me, his hand wrapped around a beer and a broad smile on his face.
Oh crap. Where did he come from?
“I don’t perform,” I tell him.
He lifts the beer to his lips and tips back a swig. He doesn’t speak again until he lowers it to the bar. “So, what the hell would you call that? Oh, wait, we could call it God-given talent going to waste.”
I grab a towel and wipe down the perfectly clean section in front of me, needing to be doing something with my hands. Hope heads to the end of the bar where a customer waits, which officially steals my best excuse for escaping.
I finally look up at Frisco. “Please don’t say anything. No one needs to know. It’s not a big deal.”
His thumb skims along the lip of his pint glass, wiping away the condensation as I wait impatiently for him to say something, preferably that he’ll keep his trap shut. What he says instead sends ice through my veins.
“If you think that someone in here didn’t record at least part of that and post it on YouTube already, then you’re more naive than I realized.”
My gaze cuts away from Frisco and darts from person to person in the bar, as if a sign might pop up above someone’s head saying I did it. My ass is the one you need to kick. Obviously, that doesn’t happen.
As an alternative, I decide to go with denial. “No one would do that. It was . . . nothing.”
Frisco huffs out a mocking laugh. “Sure thing, Rip. We’ll just call it nothing.” His eyes lift to meet mine. “It’s better than calling it bullshit.”
“Wait, what?” The accusation has me jerking back.
Frisco’s easy demeanor dissipates. “Bullshit,” he repeats. “Because you’ve been hiding the fact that you could be opening concerts and working your way up to stadium shows right alongside me and the other assholes in this town trying to make it, and you’re over here pretending it’s nothing. You know how many people would kill to have that talent? Hundreds. Fuck, thousands.” His hands curl into fists on the bar on either side of his drink. “Instead, you’re spending your best years buried behind a bar. What a fucking waste.”
The anger in his voice hits me hard in the chest, and I shoot back in kind.
“You don’t get to decide what’s a waste and what’s not. There are probably thousands of people out there with more natural talent than me who aren’t using it, so why don’t you go feed them this line of crap? You’ve got no say on how I live my life, Frisco, so don’t even start.”
His voice drops, going low and rough. “You know why I’m here, Ripley? You think this was my dream? Hustling my way through Nashville, trying to make it? No. It was my sister’s dream, and she wanted it more than anything. More ambition than talent and common sense combined. She bought into some asshole’s line about how they could make her famous, and the next thing I know, she’s not singing for her supper, she’s fucking for it.” His furious gaze tears into me. “I came here to find
her. Ready to tear this city apart, if that’s what it took to bring her home. But it was too fucking late. She was gone. My twin. Twenty-two and dead.”
The ferocity in his voice is only outweighed by the pain.
“I stayed because music was the only outlet I had. I threw myself into it, and somehow I got the lucky break she didn’t. Now I live with the guilt every damn day.”
“I’m so sorry, Frisco. I had no idea.”
He lifts his pint glass to his lips and chugs the beer, smacking the bottom against the wood when he finishes.
“Yeah, well, shit happens. But you got talent, and the fact that you’re wasting it slinging drinks pisses me the fuck off. Now I’m gonna stay perched on this fucking stool all night and get hammered. My babysittin’ abilities are gonna be impaired, but if shit goes down, I’ll definitely be ready to throw some punches.”
I’m still absorbing all his words, and one stands out at me. Babysitting?
Boone.
“He asked you to come keep an eye on me?”
I don’t even have to say his name for Frisco to nod. We both know exactly who I’m talking about. But why? A rush of confusion blows through me, and I have to ask it aloud.
“Why?” My question produces an are you frigging stupid look from Frisco, but no response. There’s another subject I need to bring up, but right now isn’t exactly the best time. Then again, I can’t let it lie any longer. “You know it wasn’t personal, me turning you down when you’d come into the Fishbowl, right?”
Frisco’s grip on his drink tightens. “Yeah, your rule lasted about thirty seconds after you met Boone, but I’m a big enough man not to hold it against you.”
“I know I owe you an explanation, but I really can’t—”
He holds up his other hand, and I go silent. “You don’t have to explain shit to me, Rip. You win some, you lose some. That’s how the game goes. Now, I’m ready for another beer.”
He shoves his empty glass toward me, and I can’t bring myself to keep pushing. He’s already torn up and raw from his confession about his sister, and I’m just adding insult to injury.
I retrieve the pint. “Your usual?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get you another.”
“Much appreciated.”
I flip the tap and let the glass fill with Bud before sliding it back in front of him, keeping my fingers wrapped around it when he tries to take it from me. After a beat, Frisco meets my gaze.
“I’m truly sorry for everything, especially about your sister. It’s not fair. I know exactly how much it sucks to lose someone before their time.” And because my emotions are flowing tonight, I add, “My mama sang. She wanted to be a star too, but Pop wouldn’t let her step foot onstage after they got together. That’s probably why she liked all those celebrities coming into the bar back in the day. I think it was her way of living vicariously through them because she’d never get the chance herself. I’ll always wonder what would have happened if she’d left Pop and gone out on her own, instead of . . .”
I trail off as understanding dawns in Frisco’s eyes.
“If Pop had known I could sing and had any ambition in that direction, he would’ve been even more cruel than normal. I think I knew that, even as a kid. So I buried it, because it doesn’t make sense to have a dream when you know there’s no chance of it ever coming true.”
Frisco’s expression softens. “You’re not under your old man’s thumb anymore, and you can’t know whether it’s gonna come true or not until you try.”
I blink away a few drops of unexpected moisture gathering in the corners of my eyes. I refuse to call them tears.
“You’re right, but at the moment, the only thing I need in my life is reality, not dreams. I need a paycheck so I can get my shit together. Maybe when I’m not sleeping on my best friend’s futon anymore, I’ll let myself do a little dreaming.”
“Fair enough. Sorry I snapped at you, Rip. It’s a tough subject for me.”
“I understand. No apologies necessary, Frisco. I’ll keep the beers coming.”
I move down the bar to take more orders, but in the back of my mind, I’m stuck on the fact that Boone asked Frisco to watch out for me. When’s the last time anyone cared enough to do something like that?
It doesn’t matter. It’s not happening.
But I can’t deny the warmth buzzing through my veins.
11
Ripley
It doesn’t take long for word to spread about my impromptu performance. Frisco obviously has more experience than I do with this. The video is already up on YouTube, and while it hasn’t gone viral, I know from Hope’s repeated checking that it’s getting more hits than I’m comfortable with. While I sling drinks and voice after voice comes through the open mic, plenty of people come to the bar and wave their phones in my face, asking is this you?
I pretend I can’t hear them over the music and ask for their drink order.
Working my way down the bar, I stop in front of the stool where Frisco has been parked all night, but an unfamiliar face looks up at me.
Where did he go?
I take the man’s order as Frisco’s voice comes over the speakers.
“I know I’ve been crashing here a little too often, but it’s just ’cause I like y’all. Whatcha want to hear? I feel like doing a cover.”
The energy changes in the White Horse like someone flipped a switch. People scream out requests, and I have to believe it’s no accident that Frisco chooses one of Boone’s songs.
“Shit. This place is going to turn into a madhouse again now that he’s onstage. Get ready for it, girl.” Hope hip checks me as she passes by with an armful of mixers to restock.
“I’m ready. Bring it.”
I make drinks, getting lost in Frisco’s voice and Boone’s words. When Frisco finishes, the crowd screams and shouts, and he waits for them to quiet down before speaking into the microphone again. What he says next almost stops my heart.
“What about doing something a little different before I give up the mic to the next person in line? I’ve got a good friend here, and she can sing. I think it’s time for a duet, don’t you, Ripley Fischer?”
I’m gonna kill him. I felt bad for him an hour ago, but now I’m gonna kill him.
Frisco starts the crowd chanting “Rip-ley, Rip-ley,” but I don’t move from behind the bar until Hope stops beside me again.
“Well, you gonna go?”
I shake my head.
“Why not?”
“Because! I don’t—”
“Come on, Ripley. We’re all waiting for you.”
I cover my face with a hand, but unless I duck out the back, there’s no getting out of this.
“Just go. It’ll be fine.” Hope sounds like she thinks this is a good idea.
I might need to murder my best friend too.
I tug out the bar towel tucked into the back pocket of my jeans and drop it on the counter.
“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”
Hope’s lips turn up in a smile. “You only regret the chances you don’t take. Go for it, girl. Cat’s already out of the bag, so what’s the harm?”
You only regret the chances you don’t take . . . God, I hope she’s right.
With a steadying breath, I slide out from behind the bar, and the crowd parts to make a path to the stage. My nerves are stretched to the limit as people start to clap and cheer and yell my name.
Oh God. What if I suck? I’ve never done a duet. This is the worst idea ever.
The voice in my head that loves to play devil’s advocate pipes up. Or it could be the first step in a completely new direction. Take a chance. What do you have to lose?
With conflict raging inside me, I climb onto the stage. Frisco winks at me and wraps an arm around my shoulders, turning me so I face the crowd.
“Give it up for Ripley Fischer, y’all!”
I plaster a smile on my face and hope they can’t tell I’m terrified. When
I meet Frisco’s eyes, he lowers the mic and puts his mouth to my ear.
“I know you want to kill me right now, but sometimes it takes a push in the right direction to realize your dreams are worth chasing.”
12
Ripley
The lyrics from the duet Frisco and I sang at the White Horse are still streaming through my mind the next afternoon.
A Great Big World and Christina Aguilera’s “Say Something.” It wasn’t exactly country, but I followed Frisco’s lead after he dragged a keyboard onstage, and it was insane.
Every time one of us would say “I’m giving up on you,” a shaft of pain would stab through me. Even though I know it’s the right thing to do with Boone, the ache hasn’t subsided.
Maybe if I were one of those people who were all about the power of positive thinking, I would believe Boone’s vow that he’s going to change my mind. But we all know positive thinking isn’t exactly my forte, and at this point, I’m not sure if I can handle more disappointment.
I’m giving up on you.
It’s the safest thing I could do and the only way I can protect myself. But am I ready to say good-bye?
I don’t know what possesses me to go surfing the gossip sites, but I do it anyway. Maybe just to drive home the fact that anything else isn’t an option at this point.
The headlines assail me as I click on the first link.
* * *
Amber Fleet and Boone Thrasher Repairing What’s Broken?
* * *
There’s a picture of Boone and Amber at Home Depot standing in front of a tool aisle, and it’s dated today. I scan the article, and although it doesn’t say they were spotted together and this is a new picture, the writer implies that’s the case.
No way. He wouldn’t.
I don’t know why I’m so sure he wouldn’t, but I have to know I’m right.
On my laptop, I can do a reverse Google image search, but I don’t know how on my phone. Instead, I pull up Google and search Boone Thrasher Amber Fleet Home Depot.
