NASHVILLE

Part One, Two, Three and Four

Inglath Cooper

Fence Free Entertainment, LLC

Nashville Copyright © 2014

Contents

- Copyright

- Part One - Ready to Reach

- 1. CeCe

- 2. Holden

- 3. CeCe

- 4. Holden

- 5. CeCe

- 6. Holden

- 7. CeCe

- 8. Holden

- 9. CeCe

- 10. Holden

- 11. CeCe

- Part Two - Hammer and a Song

- 12. CeCe

- 13. Holden

- 14. CeCe

- 15. Holden

- 16. CeCe

- 17. Holden

- 18. CeCe

- 19. Holden

- 20. CeCe

- 21. Holden

- 22. CeCe

- 23. Holden

- 24. CeCe

- 25. Holden

- Part Three - What We Feel

- 26. CeCe

- 27. Holden

- 28. CeCe

- 29. Holden

- 30. CeCe

- 31. Holden

- 32. CeCe

- 33. Holden

- 34. CeCe

- 35. CeCe

- 36. CeCe

- 37. Holden

- 38. CeCe

- 39. CeCe

- Part Four - Pleasure in the Rain

- 40. Holden

- 41. CeCe

- 42. Holden

- 43. CeCe

- 44. CeCe

- 45. Holden

- 46. CeCe

- 47. Holden

- 48. CeCe

- 49. Holden

- 50. CeCe

- 51. Holden

- 52. CeCe

- 53. Holden

- 54. CeCe

- 55. Holden

- 56. CeCe

- 57. CeCe

- Music by Barefoot Outlook

- Get in Touch With Inglath Cooper

- Free Stuff!

- Bonus 5 Chapters of Jane Austen Girl

- Prologue

- Chapter One

- Chapter Two

- Chapter Three

- Chapter Four

- Chapter Five

Copyright

Published by Fence Free Entertainment, LLC

Copyright © Inglath Cooper, 2014

Cooper, Inglath

Nashville – Boxed Set | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four / Inglath Cooper

ISBN – 978-0-9914997-4-8

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the email address below.

Fence Free Entertainment, LLC

Fence.free.entertainment.llc@gmail.com

Publisher’s Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

1

PART ONE - READY TO REACH

1

I’ve been praying since before I can ever actually remember learning how. Mama says I took to praying like baby ducks to their first dip in a pond, my “please” and “thank you” delivered in a voice so sweet that she didn’t see how God would ever be able to say no to me.

Mama says my praying voice is my singing voice, and that anybody listening would know right off that the Father himself gave that voice to me. Two human beings, especially not her and one so flawed as the man who was supposedly my Daddy, would ever be able to create anything that reminiscent of Heaven.

I’m praying now. Hard as I ever have. “Dear Lord, please let this old rattletrap, I mean, faithful car Gertrude, last another hundred miles. Please don’t let her break down before I get there. Please, dear Lord. Please.”

A now familiar melody strings the plea together. I’ve been offering up the prayer for the past several hours at fifteen-minute intervals, and I’m hoping God’s not tired of my interruptions. I’ve got no doubt He has way more important things on His plate today. I wonder now if I was a fool not to take the bus and leave the car behind altogether. It had been a sentimental decision, based on Granny’s hope that her beloved Gertrude would help get me where I wanted to go in this life.

And leaving it behind would have been like leaving behind Hank Junior. I reach across the wide bench seat and rub his velvety-soft Walker Hound ear. Even above the rattle-wheeze-cough of the old car’s engine, Hank Junior snores the baritone snore of his deepest sleep. He’s wound up in a tight ball, his long legs tucked under him, his head curled back onto his shoulder. He reminds me of a duck in this position, and I can’t for the life of me understand how it could be comfortable. I guess it must be, though, since with the exception of pee and water breaks, it’s been his posture of choice since we left Virginia this morning.

Outside of Knoxville, I-40 begins to dip and rise, until the stretch of road is one long climb after the other. I cut into the right hand lane, tractor-trailer trucks and an annoyed BMW whipping by me. Gertrude sounds like she may be gasping her last breath, and I actually feel sorry for her. The most Granny ever asked of her was a Saturday trip to Winn-Dixie and the post office and church on Sundays. I guess that was why she’d lasted so long.

Granny bought Gertrude, brand-spanking new, right off the lot, in 1960. She named her after an aunt of hers who lived to be a hundred and five. Granny thought there was no reason to expect anything less from her car if she changed the oil regularly and parked her in the woodshed next to her house to keep the elements from taking their toll on the blue-green exterior. It turned out Granny was right. It wasn’t until she died last year and left Gertrude to me that the car started showing her age.

What with me driving all over the state of Virginia in the past year, one dive gig to another, weekend after weekend, I guess I’ve pretty much erased any benefits of Granny’s pampering.

We top the steep grade at thirty-five. I let loose a sigh of relief along with a heartfelt prayer of thanks. The speedometer hits fifty-five, then sixty and seventy as we cruise down the long stretch of respite, and I see the highway open out nearly flat for as far ahead as I can see. Hank Junior is awake now, sitting up with his nose stuck out the lowered window on his side. He’s pulling in the smells, dissecting them one by one, his eyes narrowed against the wind, his long black ears flapping behind him.

We’re almost to Cookeville, and I’m feeling optimistic now about the last eighty miles or so into Nashville. I stick my arm out the window and let it fly with the same abandon as Hank Junior’s ears, humming a melody I’ve been working on the past couple days.

A sudden roar in the front of the car is followed by an awful grinding sound. Gertrude jerks once, and then goes completely limp and silent. Hank Junior pulls his head in and looks at me with nearly comical canine alarm.

“Crap!” I yell. I hit the brake and wrestle the huge steering wheel to the side of the highway. My heart pounds like a bass drum, and I’m shaking when we finally roll to a stop. A burning smell hits my nose. I see black smoke start to seep from the cracks at the edge of the hood. It takes me a second or two to realize that Gertrude is on fire.

I grab Hank Junior’s leash, snapping it on his collar before reaching over to shove open his door and scoot us both out. The flames are licking higher now, the smoke pitch black. “My guitar!” I scream. “Oh, no, my guitar!”

I grab the back door handle and yank hard. It’s locked. Tugging Hank Junior behind me, I run around and try the other door. It opens, and I reach in for my guitar case and the notebook of lyrics sitting on top of it. Holding onto them both, I towboat Hank Junior around the car, intent on finding a place to hook his leash so I can get my suitcase out of the trunk.

Just then I hear another sputtering noise, like the sound of fuel igniting. I don’t stop to think. I run as fast as I can away from the car, Hank Junior glued to my side, my guitar case and notebook clutched in my other hand.

I hear the car explode even as I’m still running flat out. I feel the heat on the backs of my arms. Hank Junior yelps, and we run faster. I trip and roll on the rough surface pavement, my guitar case skittering ahead of me, Hank Junior’s leash getting tangled between my legs.

I lie there for a moment, staring up at the blue Tennessee sky, trying to decide if I’m okay. In the next instant, I realize the flouncy cotton skirt Mama made me as a going away present is strangling my waist, and Hank Junior’s head is splayed across my belly, his leash wrapped tight around my left leg.

Brakes screech and tires squall near what sounds inches from my head. I rock forward, trying to get up, but Hank yips at the pinch of his collar.

“Are you all right?”

The voice is male and deep, Southern like mine with a little more drawl. I can’t see his face, locked up with Hank Junior as I am. Footsteps, running, and then a pair of enormous cowboy boots comes into my vision.

“Shit-fire, girl! Is that your car?”

“Was my car,” I say to the voice.

“Okay, then.” He’s standing over me now, a mountain of a guy wearing jeans, a t-shirt that blares Hit Me – I Can Take It and a Georgia Bulldogs cap. “Here, let me help you,” he says.

He hunkers down beside me and starts to untangle Hank Junior’s leash. Hank would usually do me the service of a bark if a stranger approached me, but not this time. He wags his tail in gratitude as the big guy unhooks the snap from his collar, tugs it free from under my leg and then re-hooks it.

Realizing my skirt is still snagged around my waist, my pink bikini underwear in full view, I sit up and yank it down, nothing remotely resembling dignity in my urgency.

“What’s going on, man?”

I glance over my shoulder and see another guy walking toward us, this one not nearly so big, but sounding grouchy and looking sleep-deprived. He’s also wearing cowboy boots and a Georgia Bulldogs cap, the bill pulled low over dark sunglasses. His brown hair is on the long side, curling out from under the hat.

He glances at the burning car, as if he’s just now getting around to noticing it and utters, “Whoa.”

Mountain Guy has me by the arm now and hauls me to my feet. “You okay?”

I swipe a hand across my skirt, dust poofing out. “I think so. Yes. Thank you.”

Hank Junior looks at the second guy and mutters a low growl. I’ve never once doubted his judgment so I back up a step.

“Aw, he’s all right,” Mountain Guy says to Hank Junior, patting him on the head. “He always wakes up looking mean like that.”

Grouchy Guy throws him a look. “What are we doing?”

“What does it look like we’re doing?” Mountain Guy says. “Helping a damsel in distress.”

“I’m not a damsel,” I say, my feathers ruffling even as I realize I could hardly be in much more distress than I am currently in.

Gertrude is now fully engulfed in flames, from her pointed front end to her rounded trunk. Cars are keeping to the far left lane. Surprisingly, no one else has bothered to stop, although I can see people grabbing their cell phones as they pass, a couple to take pictures, others more likely dialing 911.

“So what exactly happened?” Mountain Guy asks me.

“I just heard this loud noise and then smoke started coming out of the hood.”

“Good thing you got her pulled over fast,” he says.

“I didn’t know they let vehicles that old on the road,” Grouchy Guy says.

“She belonged to my Granny,” I fire back in instant outrage, as if everything that has just happened is all his fault.

Grouchy Guy starts to say something, presses his lips together, maybe thinking better of it.

“Don’t pay him no mind,” Mountain Guy advises. “You live near here?”

I laugh then, the sound popping up out of me under the sudden realization that with the exception of my dog, my guitar and my lyrics notebook, I now have no other earthly possessions to call my own. Even my purse has been incinerated inside Gertrude’s melted interior.

The shrill whine of a fire engine echoes from down the Interstate, and a couple of seconds later it comes roaring into sight, lights flashing. It rolls to a heavy stop just behind Gertrude, brakes squealing. Men dressed in heavy tan uniforms grab hoses and run at the burning car.

The water gushes out with impressive force. The blazing fire is a joke against the onslaught, and in less than a minute, the flames slink into nothingness. The only thing left is the charred framework of Gertrude’s once sleek exterior.

As soon as the water hoses cut off, I start to cry, as if some sort of transference has turned on the flow inside of me. I cry because I’ve ruined Granny’s car, her most prized possession. I cry because I now have no money, no means of getting any closer to my dream than my own two feet will carry me. And I cry because everybody back home was exactly right. I was born with dreams way too big for somebody like me to ever make come true.

“Hey, now.” Mountain Guy pats me on the shoulder the same way he had patted Hank Junior on the head a few minutes before. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

One of the firemen walks up to us. “This y’all’s car?”

Grouchy Guy points at me. “It was hers.”

“Sorry for your loss, ma’am,” the fireman says. “Guess you’ll be needing to call a tow truck.”

Even Mountain Guy can’t help laughing at this, and maybe if you were removed from the situation, it would be pretty funny. Me? I’m anything but removed, and I’m suddenly thankful for Mama’s faithful Triple A membership and the insurance she’s paid up for me through the end of the year.

“You can tell them the car is just short of Mile Marker 320.”

“Thank you,” I say. “And thank you for putting out the–”

“No problem, ma’am,” he says quickly, as if realizing I can’t bring myself to finish.

I glance at Mountain Guy. “Do you have a cell I could borrow?”

“Sure thing.” He pulls an iPhone from his shirt pocket and hands it to me.

“You mind if I get the number for Triple A?”

“’Course not.”

Hank Junior’s leash wrapped around my wrist, I walk a few steps away and tap 411. A bored-sounding operator gives me the 800 number and then connects me free of charge. The woman who takes my “case” doesn’t sound the least bit surprised that my car has burned to smithereens or that I need a tow truck to come and get us both. I wonder if she gets calls like this every day.

In between her questions, I can hear Mountain Guy and Grouchy Guy in a low rumble of discussion that sounds like it has disagreement at its edges. I know they’re talking about me, and while I want to swing around and scream at them both that I don’t need their help, I know the last thing I can afford to do is look a gift horse in the mouth.

The lady from Triple A tells me that Ray’s Towing from Cookeville will be coming out to get the car. She asks if I will also need a ride. I tell her both my dog and I will.

I return the phone to Mountain Guy.

“Get it all squared away?” he asks.

“I think so,” I say, not even sure in this context what that could possibly mean.

“How long before they get here?”

“Hour.”

“Well, you can’t wait by yourself. It’ll be dark by then,” Mountain Guy says.

“I’ll be fine,” I say. “But thanks for stopping. And for letting me use your phone.”

“Not a problem,” he says, glancing over at Grouchy Guy who is still wearing his sunglasses and has his arms folded across his chest in a stance of non-compliance.

I pick up my guitar case and give Hank Junior a little tug before backing away from them. “Thanks again,” I say and head for my charred car.

I’m halfway there when Mountain Guy calls out, “You going to Nashville?”

“What gave it away?” Grouchy Guy throws out, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

I pin him with a look, then turn my gaze to his friend. “Yeah. I am.”

“Well, so are we,” Mountain Guy says. “No point in you staying here when we’re going to the same place, now is there?”

Relief, unwelcome though it is, floods through me. I am feeling kind of sick at the thought of waiting with the car while dark sets in. Maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of Disappeared. My imagination has already started heading off in directions I’d just as soon it didn’t.

But then, on the other hand, I don’t know squat about the two I’m getting ready to ride off with. They could be serial murderers thinking it was their lucky day that my car caught on fire, and they happened by.

Hank Junior seems to think they’re all right though. He’s no longer low-growling at Grouchy Guy. And besides, what choice do I really have? I have no money, no credit card, no clothes.

Panic starts to clutch at me, and all of a sudden, I hear my Granny’s voice telling me, as she had so many times when I was growing up, that we take this life one moment, one day at a time. I’m not going to look any farther ahead than that because if I do, I think I might just dissolve into a puddle of failure right here on the side of I-40.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Mountain Guy says, taking my guitar case from me and placing it in the bed of the pickup.

Grouchy Guy looks at me. “He riding in the back?”

“You mean Hank Junior?” I ask.

“That his name?”

“It is.”

“Yeah, Hank Junior.”

“Not unless I am,” I answer.

Grouchy Guy looks at Mountain Guy. “That’s fine with me.”

Mountain Guy laughs. “Man, you got up on the wrong side of the truck.” Then to me, “He ain’t always this nasty. Y’all hop on in.”

Without looking at Grouchy Guy, I scoot Hank Junior up onto the floorboard, and climb in behind him, sliding to the middle. He hops onto my lap and curls up in a ball, as if he knows he needs to be as inconspicuous as possible.

It’s a full truck with the four of us. My shoulders are pressed up against both guys, and I try to make myself smaller by hunching over.

Mountain Guy throws the truck in gear, checks the side mirror and guns onto the highway. “Reckon we oughta know your name,” he says.

“CeCe,” I answer. “CeCe MacKenzie.”

“CeCe MacKenzie,” he sings back with a country twang. “Got a nice little rhyme to it.”

“What’s yours?” I ask, aware that I will now have to quit calling him Mountain Guy.

“Thomas Franklin.”

“You don’t look like a Thomas,” I say.

“I get that a lot.”

“I’m sorry,” I start to apologize.

“Hey, no problem. My folks wanted the world to take me seriously, so they never gave in on the Tom, Tommy thing.”

“Oh. Makes sense.”

“Attitude over there is Holden Ashford.”

“Hey,” Holden says without looking at me. He’s still wearing the dark glasses, and I wonder if his eyes are as unfriendly as his voice.

“Hey,” I reply, matching my tone to his.

“Where you from, CeCe?” Thomas asks, shooting a glance my way.

“Virginia.”

“Georgia,” he says, waving a hand at himself and then Holden.

“Let me guess,” Holden says. “You wanna be a singer?”

“I am a singer,” I shoot back.

I can’t be sure because of the glasses, but I’d swear he rolled his eyes. “What about the two of you? You headed to Nashville to be plumbers or something?”

Thomas laughs a deep laugh that fills up the truck. “Heck, no. I sing. He writes and plays guitar.”

“That’s why he takes himself so seriously.” The words are out before I can think to stop them.

“Matter of fact, it is,” Thomas says, another laugh rolling from his big chest.

“Up yours,” Holden says without looking at either of us. I’m not sure if he’s talking to Thomas or to me.

“What do you sing, CeCe?” Thomas asks.

“Country. What else is there?”

“Heck, yeah!” Thomas slaps the steering wheel. “Although with a dog named Hank Junior I reckon I could’ve assumed that.”

At the sound of his name, Hank Junior raises his head, blinks at Thomas and then continues his snooze.

“What about you?” I ask. “Who’re your favorites?”

“Chesney, Twitty, Haggard, Flatts. If it’s got country on it, I sing it. Holden there says I have a sound of my own. I figure it’s just what’s managed to stick together from all my years of tryin’ to sound as good as the greats.”

The sun has dropped on the horizon, fading fast. The sky has a pinkish glow to it, and cars have started to flip on their headlights. A sign on the right says Cookeville – 5 miles.

Holden pulls a phone out of his pocket, taps the screen and says, “Starbucks off exit 288. I could use a coffee.”

“I’ll second that,” Thomas agrees, and then looking at me, “We’ve got a gig tonight. Nine o’clock at the Bluebird.”

“Seriously?” I say, not even bothering to hide my astonishment. I’ve been reading about the Bluebird for years and the country music stars who played there before they made it big, Garth Brooks and Taylor Swift among them.

“Yeah,” Thomas says. “You oughta come. I mean unless you got other plans.”

Not unless you count finding a place to stay on credit. “I’d like that.”

“Cool.”

Holden makes a sound that clearly conveys his disapproval.

Irked, I say, “You ever take off those glasses? It’s getting dark outside.”

He looks directly at me then, without removing them. “They bothering you?”

“Honestly, yes. I like to judge a person by what I see in their eyes.”

“Some reason you need to be judging me?”

“I don’t know. Is there?”

He lowers the glasses and gives me a long cool look. His eyes are blue, ridiculously blue, and his lashes are thick. I lean away from him like I’ve been struck by a jolt of electricity.

“He’s just lovesick,” Thomas says. “He’s harmless. Well, mostly. Depending on who you ask.”

“Shut up,” Holden says.

Thomas chuckles. “Oh, the tangled webs we weave in our wake.”

“Good thing you’re not the writer,” Holden mutters.

“I had a little alliteration thing going on there,” Thomas sings back.

I have to admit his voice is wonderful. Smooth and rolling like I imagine a really nice wine might taste.

“That’s about all you had going,” Holden says.

We’re off the interstate now, turning left at a stoplight before swinging into the Starbucks on our right. Thomas pulls the truck into a parking spot. “Potty break, anyone?”

“Okay if Hank Junior waits here?” I ask.

“Sure, it is,” Thomas says and then to Hank Junior, “you ever tried their mini donuts? No? How about I bring you one? Plain? Plain, it is.”

I watch this exchange with a stupid grin on my face and wonder if Thomas has any idea that the only thing anyone could ever do to make me like them instantly was be nice to my dog.

“I’ll be right back, Hanky,” I say, kissing the top of his head and sliding out of the truck on Thomas’s side. I don’t even dare look at Holden to get a read on his opinion of his friend’s generosity. I’m pretty sure I know what it would be. And that’s just gonna make me like him less.

Starbucks is crowded, tables and leather chairs occupied by every age range of person, their single common denominator the laptops propped up in front of them. The wonderful rich smell of coffee hits me in the nose, triggering a reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since my last PBJ at eleven-thirty this morning. Right behind that comes the awareness that I have no money.

I head for the ladies’ room, glad to find it empty. For once, the men’s room has a line, and I don’t relish the idea of standing in the hallway across from Grouchy Guy, exchanging glares.

A look in the bathroom mirror makes me wonder why those two bothered to give me a ride. My hair is a frizzy mess. What were wavy layers this morning have now conceded to chaotic turn screw curls that only need a BOIIING sound effect for maximum laugh value.

I pull an elastic band out of my skirt pocket and manage to tame the disaster into a ponytail. I splash water on my face, slurp some into my mouth and use my finger to pseudo brush my teeth. Looking up, I realize none of it has helped much but will just have to do for now.

I head to the front where Thomas and Holden are ordering. Line or not, they’re fast.

“What do you want?” Thomas throws out. “I’ll order yours.”

“Oh, I’m good,” I say, crossing my arms across my chest. “I’ll just go let Hank Junior out.”

Thomas points his remote at the parking lot and pushes a button. “That should unlock it. Sure you don’t want anything?”

“I’m sure.”

Outside, I open the truck door and hook up Hank Junior’s leash. He bounds off the seat onto the asphalt, already looking for the nearest bush. I let him lead the way, across a grassy area to the spot of his choice. My stomach rumbles, and I tell myself this will be a good time to lose those five pounds I’ve been meaning to work on.

Hank Junior has just watered his third bush when I hear a shout, followed by the rev of an engine roaring off. Thomas and Holden are sprinting from Starbucks. At the truck door, Thomas looks around, spots me and waves frantically. “Come on!” he yells. “They just stole Holden’s guitar!”

“They” are two guys on a motorcycle, now peeling out of the parking lot and hauling butt down the road. The guy on back has the guitar case wedged between them.

Hank Junior jumps in. I scramble up behind him. Thomas and Holden slam the doors, and Thomas burns rubber through the parking lot.

“You left the door standing wide open?” Holden shouts at me. He’s not wearing his glasses now, and I have to say I wish I’d never asked him to take them off. His eyes are blazing with fury, and it’s all directed at me.

“I was just a few yards away,” I say. “I didn’t think–”

“Something you’re clearly not used to doing,” he accuses between clenched teeth.

“Hey, now!” Thomas intervenes. “Y’all shut up! I’m planning on catching the sons of bitches.”

And he’s not kidding. Thomas drives like he was raised on Nascar, gunning around and in front of car after car.

“What’s in the case?” I ask. “Diamonds?”

“Might as well be to Holden,” Thomas says. “His lyric notebook.”

My stomach drops another floor if that’s possible. “Your only copy?”

“For all intents and purposes,” he says.

By now, I’m feeling downright sick. I can feel Hank Junior’s worry in the rigid way he’s holding himself on my lap. I rub his head and say a prayer that we’ll live to laugh about this. Every nerve in my body is screaming for Thomas to slow down, but a glance at Holden’s face is all I need to keep my mouth shut.

“There they are!” I yell, spotting them up ahead just before they zip in front of a tractor-trailer loaded with logs.

“Crazy mothers,” Thomas shouts, whipping around a Volvo whose driver gives us the finger.

I never liked thrill rides. I was always the one on church youth group trips to sit out the roller coaster or any other such thing designed to bring screams ripping up from a person’s insides. I’m feeling like I might be sick at any moment, but I press my lips together and stay quiet.

“They just took a right,” Holden barks. He unbuckles his seat belt and sticks his head out the window, yelling into the wind. I can’t understand what he’s saying, although I’m pretty sure it involves profanity.

“Why don’t we just pull over and call 911?” I suggest.

Thomas ducks his head to see around a produce truck loaded with bushel baskets of tomatoes and cabbage. “They won’t catch them before we do.”

I have to admit we’re gaining on them. I can now see the way the guy holding the guitar case keeps throwing looks of panic over his shoulder. He’s making scooting motions, too, like he can force the motorcycle to go faster in doing so.

I drop my head against the seat and close my eyes, forcing myself not to look for a few seconds. That only makes the lack of control worse, so I bolt upright and hold onto Hank Junior tight as I can.

We’re two car lengths behind them now, and the motorcycle driver has taken his craziness to another level. He zips past a mini-van, laying the bike so low that the end of the guitar case looks like it might touch the pavement. I hear and feel Holden yank in a breath.

Thomas cuts around the van and lays on the horn. We’re right on the motorcycle’s tail now and, in the headlights, I see that both the driver and his buddy are terrified. The front of the truck is all but touching the license plate of the motorcycle, and I don’t dare think what would happen if they slammed on their brakes.

“Slow down!” I scream, unable to stand another second. At that same moment, the guy holding the guitar case sends it flying out to the right of the bike.

It skitters on the asphalt, slips under the rail and disappears from sight.

“Stop!” Holden yells.

Thomas hits the brakes, swings onto the shoulder and then slams the truck into reverse. Suddenly, we’re backing up so fast my head is spinning.

“Right here!” Holden shouts and before Thomas has even fully stopped the truck, he’s jumping out the door and running.

“There’s a flashlight in the glove compartment,” Thomas says, leaning over me.

I’m too stunned to move, and so I sit perfectly still, willing my reeling head to accept that we’ve stopped. Hank Junior barks his approval, and I rub his back in agreement.

Thomas hauls out, flicking on the flashlight and calling for Holden. Within seconds, he’s disappeared from sight, too. I tell myself I need to get out and help look, but a full minute passes before I can force my knees to stop knocking long enough to slide off the truck seat. I hold onto Hank Junior’s leash as if my life depends on it and teeter over to the spot where I’d seen them hop over the guardrail.

The drop off is steep, and vines cover the ground. I can’t see much except in the swipes when cars pass and lend me their headlights. I catch a glimpse of the light way down the hill. I hear Thomas’s voice followed by Holden’s.

“Are y’all okay?” I call out.

“We got it!” Thomas yells.

I’m so relieved I literally wilt onto the rail, and send up a prayer of thanks. Hank Junior and I wait while they climb up. Holden appears first, looking as battered as his case. Thomas is right behind him. As soon as they reach the top, they both drop down on the ground, breathing heavily.

“Man,” Thomas says. “What I wouldn’t give for the chance to beat their tails!”

They gulp air for several seconds before Holden fumbles with the latches on the case and pops it open. Thomas points his flashlight at the interior, and my heart drops.

“Well, that’s not good,” Thomas says, his big Georgia voice dropping the words like boulders.

Holden picks up the guitar. It hangs limp and useless, broken in three places. He holds it the way a little boy would hold a baseball glove that got chewed up by the lawn mower. His expression is all but grief-stricken.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Thomas consoles.

“Then whose fault is it?” Holden snaps, his blue gaze lasering me with accusation.

“Those two butt-wipes who stole it,” Thomas says tightly.

“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t insisted on stopping to help her!”

“Man, what’s wrong with you? Her car was on fire. Chivalry ain’t that dead.”

Holden hesitates, clearly wrestling with a different opinion. “We didn’t have to give her a ride to Nashville.”

“No, we didn’t,” Thomas agrees. “But that ain’t who we are.”

I stand and dust off my skirt. I walk to the truck, Hank Junior trailing behind me. I climb up on the back tire, reach for my guitar and return to where the two of them are still sitting. I pull out my own lyric notebook and the flash drive that contains the only two song demos I’ve been able to afford to have made. I stick that in my pocket, close the case and hand it to Holden.

“You take mine,” I say. “I know it won’t replace yours, but maybe it’ll work temporarily. Y’all have been real nice to me. I’m not gonna ask any more of you. Thanks a lot for everything.”

And with that, Hank Junior and I start walking.

2

Holden

I don’t want to stop her.

I mean, what the hell? You don’t need to be a friggin’ genius to see the girl’s nothing but trouble.

“You just gonna let her walk off into the night?” Thomas asks, looking at me like I just destroyed every illusion he ever had about me.

“If she wants to go, who are we to stop her?”

“You know dang well she thinks, knows, you don’t want her riding with us.”

“Do we really need another card stacked against us? She’s a walking disaster!”

Thomas throws a glance up the highway. “Yeah, right now she is.”

“See. You’re already trying to figure out how to fix things for her. Every time you find somebody that needs fixing, we come out on the losing end of the deal.”

“If you’re talkin’ about Sarah, that’s your doin’, man. All I ever agreed to do with her was sing. You’re the one who got involved with her. Nobody made you do that but you.”

I’d like to tell him to piss off, as a matter of fact. Except that he’s right.

I get to my feet, slap the dirt from my jeans and yank up both cases, one containing my broken Martin, the other holding the piece of crap CeCe MacKenzie probably bought at Wal-Mart.

“You keeping the guitar?” Thomas calls from behind me.

“I’ll toss it out the window when we pass her,” I say.

“Oh, that’s mature.”

I put both the guitars in the back, giving lie to what I just said. I climb in the truck and slam the door. Thomas floors it, merging into the oncoming traffic.

Thomas hunches over the steering wheel, looking for her. I’m starting to wonder if, hope, she’s hitched another ride when I spot her up ahead, her skirt flouncing left to right as she walks, that ridiculous floppy-eared hound trotting along beside her.

“Well?” Thomas throws out.

“Pull the hell over,” I say.

He looks at me and grins but knows better than to say anything. Wheeling the truck to a stop in front of her, Thomas gets out and walks around back. I force myself not to look in the side mirror. I crank the radio, lean against the seat and close my eyes.

A couple of minutes pass before the two of them walk to the driver’s side and climb in.

Hank Junior licks my face and I jerk forward, glaring at him. “You have to write her an invitation?” I ask. “We’re supposed to be in Nashville in an hour and a half.”

“Ain’t no problem,” Thomas says. “We’ll be there with warm-up time to spare.”

Thomas grabs his Starbucks bag from the dash where he’d flung it earlier. He pulls out a plain mini-donut and offers it to Hank Junior. “Believe I promised you that.”

The dog takes it as if he’s royalty sitting down to tea. He chews it delicately and licks his lips. “Good, ain’t it?” Thomas says, pleased. “Got you one, too, CeCe.”

“That’s okay,” she says.

“Go on, now. Hank Junior and I can’t eat alone.”

She takes the donut from him and bites into it with a sigh of pure pleasure. “Um, that’s good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

CeCe sits straight as an arrow, Hank Junior curled on top of her again. She’s yet to look at me, and I can imagine her pride has taken a few more pokes in agreeing to get back in here with us.

“I’m real sorry about your guitar,” she says in a low voice. “I mean it about you taking mine. My uncle used to play with a group called The Rounders. He gave it to me before he died.”

“The Rounders?” I say, recognizing the name. “They wrote ‘Wish It Was True’ and ‘Long Time Comin’?”

“Yeah, those were their biggest songs,” she says, still not looking at me.

“That’s some good music,” Thomas says. “I’ve had both those tunes in my sets.”

“Me, too,” CeCe says.

I stay quiet for a moment. “Which one was your uncle?”

“Dobie. Dobie Crawford.”

“Good writer,” I say, not sure why it’s so hard for me to release the compliment since I really do mean it. “I didn’t realize he’d died.”

“Two years ago,” she says.

“What happened to him?” Thomas asks.

“Liver failure.”

“That’s a shame,” he says.

“Yeah,” I add. “It is. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” she says, looking at me now with surprise in her voice. “He was a good man. Aside from the drinking, I mean.”

“He teach you how to play?” Thomas asks.

“He did,” she says. “I was five when he started giving me lessons.”

“You any good?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

She shrugs. “He thought I was.”

We’re looking at each other now, and all of a sudden it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time. I realize how unfair I’ve been to her, that I deliberately set out not to see her as anything more than a noose around our necks.

“What do you think?”

“I think I’m pretty good. Not nearly as good as he was.”

“Not many people have a teacher with that kind of talent.”

“I was lucky,” she says. “Who taught you?”

“I mostly taught myself,” I say.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Thomas says. “He’s got the gift. Plays like God Himself is directing his fingers.”

“Wow.” She looks at me full on, as if she’s letting herself take me in for the first time, too, without the conclusions she’s already made about me getting in the way. I’m uncomfortable under her gaze, and I don’t know that I can say why. An hour ago, I didn’t care what she thought of me.

“Thomas just likes the fact that he doesn’t have to pay me to play for him,” I say, throwing off the compliment.

“That’s a plus for sure,” Thomas says, and then to CeCe, “but I still ain’t overselling him.”

“I’d like to hear you play,” she says, glancing at me again.

“Good,” Thomas says. “’Cause he’s gonna have to take you up on that guitar of yours. We’re onstage in less than an hour.”

“Okay then if I come watch?” she asks in a cautious voice.

“Sure, it is,” Thomas says.

CeCe looks at me, expecting me to disagree, I would guess. But I don’t. “I don’t want your guitar. To keep, I mean. I’ll borrow it just for tonight.”

“You can keep it,” she says. “I owe you.”

“I don’t want your guitar.”

“Okay.”

♪

WE DRIVE THE REST of the way into Nashville without saying too much of anything. Thomas has gone quiet in the way he always does before a show, playing through lyrics in his head, gathering up whatever emotional steam he needs to get up in front of an audience and sing.

We’ve been together long enough that we respect each other’s process, and when it comes time to leave each other alone, we do.

I air guitar some chord patterns, walk through a new tune we’re doing at the end of the set tonight, wonder if I could improve the chorus lyric.

CeCe’s head drops against my shoulder, and it’s only then I realize she’s asleep. Hank Junior has been snoring the past ten miles. I look down at CeCe and will myself not to move. I don’t know if it’s because she’s clearly dead tired or because her hair is so soft on my arm. I can smell the shampoo she must have used that morning. It smells clean and fresh, like springtime and honeysuckle.

I feel Thomas look at me, but I refuse to look at him. I know what he’s thinking. That’s when I move closer to the door, and CeCe comes awake with a start.

“Oh,” she says, groggy, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I dozed off.”

“It’s okay,” I say, wondering if I could be more of an ass.

CeCe sits upright as a poker the rest of the way into the city. Hank Junior goes on snoring, and she rubs his ears, first one, then the other.

Thomas drives straight to the Bluebird. We’ve been coming down every few weeks for the past year or so, working odd jobs back home, saving money, gathering proof each time we come that we need to give this a real shot. This time, we’re staying.

The strip mall that includes the Bluebird Café among its tenants isn’t much to look at from the outside.

The lot is full so we squeeze into a grassy area not too far from the main entrance. The place is small, the sign out front nothing that will knock your socks off.

“It’s not exactly what I imagined.” CeCe studies the front door. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“We thought the same thing first time here,” Thomas agrees.

The truth is we’d felt downright disappointed. Both of us had heard about the place for years, how many dreams had come to fruition behind those doors. The physical appearance had been something of a letdown. It’s not until you’re inside and witness what goes on there that you get the fact that the appearance doesn’t much matter.

“Hank Junior can wait here,” Thomas says. “That okay?”

“Yeah,” CeCe says. “Let me take him potty first.”

Hank Junior follows her out of the truck as if that’s exactly what he had on his to do list. They head for a grassy spot several yards away where Hank Junior makes use of a light pole.

Thomas reaches for CeCe’s guitar case. “Maybe you oughta tune her up.”

“Yeah,” I say, taking the case and setting it at my feet. I feel weird about it even though I know CeCe wants me to use it. I pull out the guitar, pleasantly surprised by the heft of it. It’s a Martin, like mine, and this too, catches me off guard. I guess I should have known if it belonged to Dobie Crawford, it was gonna be more than decent.

I sit on the curb, strum a few chords, and find there’s not much to improve on. CeCe knows how to tune a guitar.

She’s back then, Hank Junior panting like he’s thirsty. “Either of you have a bottle of water you could share with Hank?”

I stand up, reach under the truck seat and pull out one I’d opened earlier.

“Thanks,” she says, without looking me in the eye. She takes the cap off, squats in front of the dog and cups her hand, letting him drink from it. She refills her palm until he loses interest, and then she helps him up in the truck.

Thomas hits the remote. “Let’s get on in there.”

“Ah, would it be all right if I borrow some money for the cover charge? I. . .my wallet was in the car.”

“You have no money?” I ask before I think to soften or censor the question.

She shakes her head, glancing down at her sandals. She looks up then, pride flashing in her eyes. “I’ll pay you back.”

“No need to be worrying about that,” Thomas intervenes. “We’ll spot you what you need. You don’t have to pay here anyway. You’re with the band.”

I attempt to level Thomas with a look, but our friendship is way past the point of him giving in to me on anything he doesn’t want to. “You’re using her guitar, aren’t you?” he tosses at me in case I need an explanation.

I start to argue that I wouldn’t need her guitar if she hadn’t left the truck door open. That seems pointless right now, so I march on ahead of them without bothering to reply.

There’s a crowd, college kids, couples, older folks, pretty much the gamut. I step around the line, murmuring, “Excuse me, sorry.” I duck through the door, trying not to bump anyone with the guitar case, Thomas and CeCe behind me.

A dark-haired girl is working the front door. She’s wearing a short blue dress, scooped low, and cowboy boots that make her legs seem a mile long. She directs a high beam smile at me. “You in the round?”

“We are,” I say, waving a hand at Thomas and CeCe.

“What about her?” She looks at CeCe and forces a smile the way girls do when they sense competition.

“She’s with us,” Thomas says.

“Are you playing?” the girl asks, meeting CeCe’s gaze with a note of authority.

“I, no–” CeCe begins.

“Then you’ll need to pay the cover charge,” she says.

Thomas starts to pull out his wallet when she adds, “And go to the back of the line. All these other people were here before you.”

CeCe’s eyes go wide, and suddenly bright like she’s going to bust out crying at any second. I guess it has been that kind of day for her.

I lean in on the stand, close to the girl’s face and say, “Can you cut her a break just for tonight? I’m using her guitar because mine got stolen by two guys on a motorcycle.”

“Hey!” Someone yells from the end of the line. “We standin’ here all night or getting inside to hear some music?”

“All right, all right,” the girl says, not taking her eyes off mine while she writes something on a card and hands it to me. “I’m Ashley. Call me later. I’d like to hear the rest of your story.”

I slip it in my shirt pocket and start making my way through the tables to the center of the floor where other writers and singers are already set up.

“So that’s why you bring him along,” I hear CeCe say to Thomas.

“Gotta admit he comes in handy,” Thomas shoots back with a laugh.

Thomas and I take the two chairs remaining in the circle. We’ve met everyone else in the round on other trips to Nashville. Darryl Taylor to my left who I just heard is on the cusp of a record deal. He writes his own stuff, and he’s good. Really good. Shauna Owens sits next to Thomas. She’s been a semi-finalist on Idol, and I hear the only thing keeping her from the big leagues is her stage fright. Sometimes she keeps it under wraps, and sometimes she doesn’t.

Across from us is a fifteen-year old who’s been coming to town with her mom for the past two years, learning the ropes, writing at first with anyone she could find. Last time we were in town, writers were starting to seek her out, which means someone up the ladder is taking notice of her.

Within ten minutes, the place is totally packed. People are turned away at the door. I look around and spot CeCe leaning against a corner wall by the bar. She looks a little lost standing there by herself, and I feel a pang of compassion for her. I instantly blink it away, reminding myself that Thomas and I both will do well if we manage to navigate the waters of this town without either one of us drowning. We threw her a life raft today. That oughta be enough. I’m not about to take on swimming her to shore.

Mike Hanson is top dog in the round tonight. He’s got a publishing deal with one of the major houses in town and just recently got his first cut with a cool new band. Thomas and I met him when we started coming to town and playing at the Listening Room. He’d already been at it for a couple of years then, and starting to get some interest. I knew the first time I heard him that he had the talent to make it, but the way things work here, affirmation doesn’t come until you get a publishing deal. The next rung up is a cut.

Mike blows on the microphone, taps it once and makes it squawk. “Howdy, everybody. Welcome to the Bluebird Café. I’d like to thank y’all for coming out. I’m Mike Hanson. We got some fine music for you tonight.”

The crowd claps with enough enthusiasm that it’s clear they believe him. I’m hoping we live up to it.

Mike introduces each of us, calls me and Thomas a duo, singer-writer team, and I start to get a rush of nerves the way I always do just before we perform.

“Y’all don’t forget your waiters and waitresses tonight,” Mike reminds the crowd. People clap and whistle. Mike strums a few chords. “I hope y’all will be hearing this on the radio real soon.” He sets right in to the song then, and the applause grows louder. It’s clear word has gotten out about his recent success.

This is one thing I’ve come to love about Nashville. People here take pleasure in the accomplishment of others. Sure, everyone wants to make it, or they wouldn’t have come in the first place. It’s more than that though, a camaraderie of a sort I haven’t known anywhere else.

It’s almost like running some kind of marathon together, and instead of begrudging the fact that they’ve crossed the finish line before you, you’re somewhere behind them, throwing a fist in the air and cheering them on.

At least, the people who have been at it a while do. Don’t get me wrong. The competition is fierce. Thomas and I were no different from any other newbie to the scene. We drove into town almost a year ago, thinking we’d be on the radio in no time. We’d gotten enough validation from our fans back home on the University of Georgia scene that we’d started to accept their loyalty as all we needed to verify what would happen once Nashville discovered us.

What we hadn’t counted on was all the other talent riding into town on the same wave of determination and hope. And how damn good they would be.

Mike’s song is enough to make me green with envy if I let myself buy into that. The lyrics are raw with truth, but polished like a diamond that’s been buffed with a soft cloth. The music has an element of something different enough to make it sound fresh, make it stand out.

I don’t think I’m far enough along to know exactly what it is that sets it apart from what the rest of us will play tonight. I just know there is something, and more than anything in the world, I want my stuff to be that good. A year of coming here has shown me that it’s not, yet, and in some weird and kind of awful way, I guess you could call that growth.

When Mike repeats the last tag of his song, the crowd throws out a storm of applause. He’s shy, and makes a pretense of brushing something off the front of his guitar, then leans into the microphone again. “Thank y’all. Thank you so much.”

When the applause falls back, the fifteen-year old sitting next to Mike starts her song, and while the lyrics don’t have the power of Mike’s, her voice is soft and sweet, the tone unique enough that it’s easy to see she’s got something special. People lean forward in their chairs, caught up on the wings of it, the emotion she lets spill through each word, captivating in and of itself.

Two more writers are up before Thomas and me. They’re both good, better than good, and I’m feeling the pressure of comparison. Thomas takes the microphone and glances at me the way he does when he’s ready. I tip into the intro, hitting the strings so lightly, that a hush falls over the room, and I can feel them start to listen.

I wrote this song for Thomas. His little sister died of cancer when he was twelve, and I remember how I felt when he told me about it, what it was like to go to the hospital to see her, watch her be strong for him, even though she was younger than he was, even as the pain became unbearable. I tried to write the lyric as if I’d been standing in that room, as if I had been Thomas, a big brother who’s got to know what it will be like where she’s going, that he will see her again one day.

I wrote it from a father’s point of view, somehow knowing I needed to give Thomas that distance. That he would never get through the song singing it as the brother.

It’s called Up There, and he sings it now like his own truth. I guess that’s why what the two of us have works.

I can see the faces of the people directly in front of us, the glimmer of tears in their eyes. Maybe this is what I love most about writing, that moment when you realize you’ve hit a universal, something everyone can feel.

I’m drawn to look up then and find CeCe’s gaze on me. I see on her face what I have felt on my own so many times. That yearning to express something that reaches people the way this song is doing. I glimpse enough of myself in her then that I wonder why I’ve been so hard on her, why I’d assumed she would want to stay in the shallow end of this pool. The look in her eyes tells me something completely different. She’s headed for the deep end, wants it with all her soul. And I don’t doubt for a second that she won’t give up until she’s there, swimming on her own.

A long moment of silence follows Thomas’s last note. One person starts to clap. More follow until the room is alive with it. Thomas never finishes this song without tears in his eyes, and tonight is no exception.

Mike is next again, and as good as his song is, I think I can honestly say, its effect on the audience doesn’t top ours.

The round goes on for four more songs each. Thomas and I do a fast one, a slow one and then another fast one. When it’s our turn to do our last song, he looks over at me before glancing out to where CeCe is still standing against the wall. I don’t think she’s moved all night, and I remember the first time I came here, how I’d just sat listening, not moving once until the end of the show.

“If y’all don’t mind, I’m gonna bring a new face in for this one. CeCe, come on up, girl.”

She stands frozen, her expression a confused mixture of euphoria and disbelief, as if she can’t decide whether to run or sink onto the floor. Thomas isn’t about to let her do either one. I’m suddenly so mad at him, I can’t see straight. What the heck is he doing? She’s not ready for this!

But the crowd has turned their attention to her, and someone starts to clap, urging her on. There’s a whistle, then another, more clapping until the force of it peels her off the wall and propels her to the circle of chairs.

Her eyes are wide as dinner plates, and I’m starting to wonder if she’s ever actually been on stage before.

Thomas pats one enormous thigh and indicates for her to sit, placing the microphone stand close in to them both.

“This here’s CeCe MacKenzie. CeCe’s new in town, and she’s had a bit of a rough day. We’ll make this her Nashville welcome. Y’all might’ve heard of her uncle, Dobie Crawford with the Rounders.”

The applause erupts into a roar then. I’m hoping for CeCe’s sake and for ours that she lives up to expectation.

“Dobie wrote a song called ‘Wish It Were True’,” Thomas continues. “Let’s do that one for them,” he says to both me and CeCe.

It’s been a while since we’ve done this one. Luckily, I know it like I wrote it myself.

Thomas starts in on the first verse, and by the third line, I’m wondering if CeCe is going to join in. She closes her eyes and follows him into the chorus, her voice floating up in perfect harmony against Thomas’s.

I’m shocked by the blend. The sound is like chocolate and peanut butter. French coffee and half and half.

They’ve never sung together, and they sound like they’ve been doing so their whole lives. They each know the song the way you can only know one when its meaning reflects something of your own life.

By the second verse, it’s clear that CeCe’s forgotten she’s sitting on the knee of a guy she just met today. Forgotten she’s singing to a crowd at the Bluebird. I don’t know where she is, but it’s a place that lets her sing from the heart, from the soul.

I don’t hear training in her voice. It’s not perfected in that way. What I hear is a girl who’s been singing all her life. A girl who sings because it’s what she loves more than anything.

They hit the second chorus full throttle, and they’re smiling at each other, all out joy lighting their faces. The crowd is with them, sitting up on the edge of their chairs. I can see their realization that they are witnessing something they’ll talk about one day. “I saw them when they were just starting out. The very first time they ever sang together.”

And I have to admit, it’s like that. Some kind of magic that makes me wonder if everything that happened today had been the lead in to this. If we were supposed to meet her. Both for her sake and for ours.

They trail off, note for note, and the applause that follows is the loudest of the night. CeCe has tears in her eyes when she throws her arms around Thomas’s neck and hugs him so hard, he nearly sends the chair over backwards. People laugh and clap harder.

I watch for a moment longer, and then unable to help myself, I clap, too.

3

CeCe

I feel like I’m in the middle of a dream. The good part where you’re aware of hoping you don’t wake up. That it will go on and on forever.

I’m hugging Thomas as tight as I can because I don’t trust myself to thank him with words. If I do, I’ll break down and sob right here in front of all these people.

He hugs me hard and stands, his arm still around my waist. I dangle in mid-air for a moment, then slide down his big thigh until my feet hit the floor. He forces me to face the crowd, and I’m blown away by the admiration and appreciation on their faces.

I feel Holden’s gaze on me and make myself look at him. I guess I’m expecting him to be mad at me for horning in on their show, but that’s not what I see in his eyes. What’s there is the same admiration the audience has offered up, and maybe that surprises me most of all.

Mike thanks everyone again for coming, and people start to stand up and push their seats back. Several weave their way up to the circle of chairs and begin talking with the performers. A couple of teenagers ask Mike for his autograph. Next, they laser in on Thomas and Holden, giggling and looking as if they might lose their nerve at any moment.

One of the girls has red hair that hangs to her waist. Her eyes are a vivid green, and she looks at Thomas with starstruck longing. “Would you sign this for me?” she asks, handing him a Bluebird napkin.

“Why, sure, I will.” Thomas raises an eyebrow at Holden who shakes his head.

“You’re gonna be famous one day, Thomas,” the girl says. “I just know it.”

Thomas grins. “If that means I get to sing for a living, I’d be all right with that.”

The redhead’s friend sticks out a napkin of her own. “We’ll buy anything you release.”

“You don’t work for a record company, do you?” Holden throws out.

Both girls giggle. “We’re fifteen.”

“Shoot,” Thomas says. “Just our luck.”

They laugh again, and then the redhead looks at me, her voice suddenly shy. “Your singing’s so pretty.”

Something in the sincerity of the compliment touches me, makes instant tears well in my eyes. It’s stupid, I know, but after the way this day has gone, it’s nice to hear that I’m not totally crazy to think I might have a place here. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, ducking her head again.

The two girls bounce off, clutching their napkins to their chests like they’d just found winning lottery tickets.

A man walks up and introduces himself. “I’m Clay Morrison. Y’all sounded real good tonight.”

He has dark hair that’s started to pepper a bit at the sides. He’s dressed in jeans and a white shirt under a black jacket. His shoes are black, too, and they look expensive. Narrow frame glasses tone down his good looks and suggest he’s smart.

I step out of the circle so his focus is on Thomas and Holden.

“Thank you,” Thomas says. “Appreciate that.”

“Saw you two here a few months ago. Have to say I like your new addition. The three of you sound pretty great together.”

He swings a look at me then, and I want to sink into the floor. The last thing I want to do is barge in on their action. And it feels like that’s what I’m doing. “Excuse me,” I say and head for the ladies’ room.

I lock myself inside, leaning against the door and pulling in a deep, shaky breath. I can still feel Holden’s gaze on me, resentful, accusing.

I wash my face and dry it with a scratchy brown paper towel, taking my time with the process until I think Thomas and Holden might be ready to leave.

When I come out again, they’re both waiting by the front door.

“You fall in?” Holden asks, looking me up and down.

I roll my eyes at him, pushing out into the cool of the Nashville evening.

We walk to the truck in an awkward silence, like neither of us knows what to say about what happened in there tonight.

Thomas hits the remote, and I open the door. Hank Junior leaps out and heads for the closest bush. I grab his leash and follow him.

When we return, it’s clear Thomas and Holden have been talking. There’s electricity in the air, the kind that sparks from disagreement.

Neither one looks at me, and I’m thinking it’s time I go my own way. “Hey, thanks for everything, y’all. The help, the ride, the song. I expect to see your names in big places.”

Hank Junior wants to jump in, but I stop him. “Come on, boy,” I say, then turn around and start walking.

I have no earthly idea where I’m going. I just know I need to get away from those two before I bawl like a three-year old. I’m walking so fast that Hank Junior has to trot to keep up with me. He keeps looking back at the truck and then up at me as if he’s wondering what in the world I’m doing. I wouldn’t know how to begin to answer him. I don’t have a thing to my name except for him. Should I find a pay phone, call Mama right now and ask her to buy me a bus ticket home? Could I even take Hank Junior with me on a bus?

I cross the main road in front of the Bluebird. There’s a parking garage there. Maybe we can camp out for the night and see how things look in the morning, although short of me finding a winning lottery ticket in my pocket, I don’t know how it could look any better.

The garage is nearly empty, a few cars parked along the other side that opens through to a Whole Foods. My stomach does a low rumble, and I know Hank Junior has to be hungry as well.

I head for a corner and lean against the wall, sliding down onto the cold concrete. Hank Junior looks at me as if he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. I pat the spot next to me, and loyal friend that he is, he curls up with me, his head on my knee.

That’s when the tears start up for real. They gush from me like a geyser, and I just let them pour out, helpless to stop them even if I wanted to.

Hank Junior anxiously licks them from my cheek, and I rub his side, his sweetness making me drop my head to my knees and cry harder.

I guess it’s my own sobbing that keeps me from hearing the truck until it stops right in front of us.

“This your plan?”

I jerk my head up to see Holden looking down at me with resignation on his face, like he’s finally given in to the idea that they are stuck with me.

“For this minute, it is,” I shoot back.

“Sleeping in a parking garage?”

“Does it look like I’m sleeping?”

“It looks like you’re crying.”

“Since when is that illegal?”

“Get in the truck, CeCe.”

“No,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, you’ve been doing a great job of proving that,” he throws out.

“I didn’t ask you to rescue me!”

“And I sure as heck didn’t volunteer for the job,” he says, opening the door and swinging out.

I pop to my feet, the concrete scratching at my back through my thin cotton shirt.

“Are you coming with us or not?”

“I don’t need your charity, Holden!”

He leans in like a football player aiming a tackle and hefts me over his shoulder. I start kicking and wriggling, but he tightens his hold like I’m a sack of grain. Hank Junior stands there looking up at us, wagging his tail.

I’d like to think Holden is being chivalrous or some such thing. The truth is he’s mad and altogether tired of me messing up his plans.

“When you two get finished with the foreplay, hop on in, and we’ll go get some sleep,” Thomas tosses out the open door.

Holden walks to the truck with me still slung over his shoulder. “Get in, boy,” he says to Hank Junior who hops in like he’s in the middle of a raging ocean, and Holden just threw him a buoy.

Holden tilts forward and drops me in beside Hank Junior. Fury has me sputtering some not so ladylike protests. My skirt is up around my waist for the second time today, and I kick and struggle to sit up and pull it down.

Thomas laughs and shakes his head. “You two are right entertaining.”

Clearly, neither of us finds his assessment amusing.

Holden climbs in and slams the door. “Can we go now?”

Thomas peels out of the parking garage and turns right, gunning it. “I’m starving,” he says. “Next stop, food.”

He swings into a McDonald’s, pulling up at the drive-through lane. At the window, he places his order, two big Macs, two fries, a large Coke, then looks at me and says, “What do you want?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say.

Holden rolls his eyes. “Would you quit pretending like you have any other choice but to accept our help right now?”

“Seriously, CeCe,” Thomas says.

The pride trying to raise a flag inside me wilts. “Unsweetened iced tea. Mushroom and Swiss burger, please. With no meat.”

“No meat?” Thomas repeats, as if I’d just made the request in Mandarin.

“You mean like a cheese sandwich?” Holden says.

“Just no meat,” I answer.

Both guys look at each other and shake their heads. Thomas calls out Holden’s order, which is a duplicate of his own, adding, “We’ll take two plain burgers and a water, too.”

He pats Hank Junior on the head, and then to me, “I’m assuming our buddy here is not a vegetarian?”

“No,” I say. “And thank you.”

“You’re entirely welcome,” Thomas says, pulling forward.

We get the food and tear into the bags as if none of us has eaten in days. I open up Hank Junior’s, force him to wait a few moments until it cools, then take pity on his drooling and let him have it.

Thomas drives while he eats, and it isn’t until my stomach is full that I think to ask, “Where are we going?”

“We’ve got an apartment over by Vanderbilt,” Holden says. “Don’t have any furniture yet, but at least we have a floor to sleep on.”

I don’t even bother to object. A place to sleep right now sounds so good I melt at the thought of it, fatigue pulling at every bone, every muscle.

Thomas parks the truck on the street, and they grab their suitcases from the back. Holden hands me my guitar case, before reaching for his own. I follow them up the walk, stopping in a grassy spot to let Hank Junior do his business. They wait for us at the main door, before we climb a set of stairs to the third floor.

Holden pulls out a key and opens up the apartment, flicking on a light. The living room and kitchen aren’t huge, but the place is neat and clean, the walls a newly painted beige.

“We’ve got two bedrooms. Holden and I will bunk up,” Thomas says. “You and Hank Junior take the other one.”

“I’ll be happy to sleep out here,” I say.

“We’re good.” Holden’s words are short and abrupt. He heads down the hallway and disappears inside one of the rooms.

I look at Thomas and say, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t need to,” Thomas says. “Go get some sleep.”

I find the bedroom, wave Hank Junior inside and close the door. There’s a bathroom that connects. I turn on the faucet and splash my face with water, leaning in to drink some, then rinse and spit since I don’t have a toothbrush. I’ve brought in Hank Junior’s McDonald’s cup. I fill it with water and set it inside the bedroom, up against a wall. He saunters over and takes a couple laps, then flops down beside it, lowers his head on his paws and closes his eyes.

I make use of the toilet and flip off the light, lying down beside him on the floor and using his soft side as a pillow.

There are no curtains in the room, and a streetlight throws a beam across the middle of the floor. I try to turn off my brain, make all the what-if’s and how-will-I’s stop their relentless pecking, at least until morning, when I can address them with something resembling clear thinking.

I attempt sleep for an hour or more, but it’s no use. My brain just won’t turn off. I get up and leave the room, closing the door softly behind me to keep from waking up Hank Junior.

I walk through the living room and open the sliding glass door that leads onto a small deck. Holden is leaning on the railing, staring at the dark street below.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize you were out here.”

He looks over his shoulder at me, and I can see his hair is damp from a shower. “You can’t sleep either?” he asks, his voice even now, without the threads of irritation and aggravation I’d heard in it earlier.

“No. Even though I’m pooped.”

“I’m not a big sleeper,” he says. “Plus Thomas snores.”

“You can take the room I’m in,” I say. “Really.”

He shakes his head. “We were roommates in college. If I’m in sleep mode, I don’t even hear him.”

I step closer to the railing, folding my arms across my chest. “How long have you two known each other?”

“We met freshman year.”

“Football?”

“Yeah.”

“When did you start the music thing?”

“Both of us for as long as we can remember. Together, pretty much right after we met.”

I nod and say, “Y’all are quite a match.”

“Thanks. We kinda get each other.”

“Not the easiest thing to come by.”

“This what you’ve always wanted to do?”

“Yeah. I loved watching Uncle Dobie with his band. He told me one time that the way to know if music was going to be your life was to decide whether or not you were willing to give everything else up for it. He never got married or had a family.”

“You think it’s gotta be like that?” he asks, looking at me.

“I think dreams can have a high price tag or everyone would be going after them.”

“Guess that’s true.”

“What did you leave behind to come here?” I ask.

“Why do you think I left something behind?”

“What’s her name?”

He throws a glance at the street and then turns to me. “Sarah.”

“Ah. Why didn’t she come with you?”

“She likes predictability. Security. About the only thing I can predict is that I will write another song. Even if the one I just wrote sucks. Even if I don’t think anybody’s ever gonna wanna hear it. I don’t know how not to write another one.”

I absorb each word, recognizing the truth of them as my own. “Sometimes, I wish I knew how to unplug that need inside of me. How to reprogram myself to want to do something that wouldn’t make my Mama so unhappy with my choices. That wouldn’t force me to walk so far out on a ledge I’m terrified of falling off of.”

He keeps his gaze on the street below us, and I have the feeling he’s forcing himself not to look at me. I wonder if I’ve said too much, revealed enough vulnerability that I’ve made him uncomfortable.

But then he does look at me, his eyes locking onto mine, and I feel like he’s drawing something up and out of me, a longing I’ve never felt before and am not even sure I could put a name to if asked. All I know is I can’t make myself look away. Even though he just told me there’s someone in his life. Even though every nerve ending is screaming at me to back up and go inside.

A car rolls by, its headlights throwing a shadow over us, and for a moment I see something in his face that I know as surely as I know my own name, I am in no way ready for. I sense that all I have to do to find out is place my hand on his chest, splay my fingers wide so that each tip absorbs the beat of his heart. In this moment, I want to do that as much as I have ever wanted to do anything. I close my eyes and imagine myself doing it or maybe I close them to stop myself from doing it.

“CeCe,” he says.

My name is a protest, uttered to me or to himself, I don’t know.

I let myself look at him then, and I feel the tug between us, as if an invisible cord now connects my heart to his. The stereo beat drums in my ears, and my pulse picks up its rhythm. I feel it in my wrists, my neck, the backs of my knees. My breathing has shortened, and I wilt forward like all the air has been let out of my bones.

His hands latch onto my shoulders, and he dips his head in, his mouth hovering over mine. I can smell the lemony scent of whatever soap he showered with. I tilt my head back, inviting him, imploring him.

When he steps away, I blink my eyes wide open and press a hand to my mouth.

“CeCe,” he says, my name sounding ragged and torn. I haven’t imagined that he wanted to kiss me. I can hear it in his voice, what it cost him to stop himself.

“What?” I manage, the question not really needing an answer.

“When the sun comes up, we’ll wish we hadn’t. You’re gonna need a place to stay until you get things together. I’m okay with that. But this would just complicate everything.”

He’s right. I know it. “You always have this much common sense?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

“Not sure I should be flattered by that.”

“I can be stupid if you really want me to be.” There’s teasing in his voice, but something else, too. I could make him change his mind if I wanted to. I can hear that. Common sense is now raining down on me, and I take a step backwards.

“Think I’ll try to get some sleep,” I say.

His phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen, then at me. “Goodnight then.”

I step inside the apartment, close the door behind me, wondering if it’s Sarah who’s calling him in the middle of the night.

I start to walk toward the bedroom, then stop for a second, listening to the way his voice has changed. There’s tenderness in it, longing, and I realize he must miss her.

I’m suddenly grateful for whatever bolt of logic kept us from following through on instinct just now. Holden might have moved to Nashville without Sarah, but he hasn’t left her behind. Those are two very different things.

♪

4

Holden

Sarah’s voice is soft and full of regret. I’m human, so it feels good to know that she wishes she’d come with us.

“I miss you so much,” she says, and I can hear she’s been crying.

“I miss you, too, baby.” And I do. Way down deep to the core of me. Which in no way explains why I’d been out here wanting to kiss CeCe a few minutes ago, a girl I’d just met today.

“Everything feels empty without you. My bed, my apartment, the whole city of Atlanta feels empty without you.”

Pride had kept her from saying any of this when I’d left early yesterday morning. Had it only been a day? Somehow, it feels like weeks since I had seen her.

“You know I want you here, too, Sarah. I never wanted to do this alone.”

“And if I hadn’t just gotten this promotion, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it.”

“I know.” And I do. Sarah has a great job with an advertising firm in Atlanta. She’s actually putting her college degree to use, and while, for her, singing with us was a side thing, something she did at night and on weekends, it’s never been that for us.

For Thomas and me, music is THE thing, the ONLY thing we want to do.

Sometimes I think I could be happy living on an island eating bananas if all I had to do to survive was write and play.

Sarah grew up with a father who preached job security as the holy grail, the reason a person went to college in the first place, a means to increasing the likelihood that you would never be laid off, never wake up one morning to find that your livelihood had been snatched out from under you.

In all fairness, that’s exactly what happened to him when Sarah was ten years old. They’d lost their house, their car, everything. Pretty much all they’d had left was the college fund he had put aside for Sarah. I guess the thought of her squandering it by taking a shot on something less than for sure is more than he could stomach.

The sad thing is Sarah has a voice like an angel. I don’t think she has any idea how good she really is. Maybe because it’s not important to her in that way. Her voice is part of who she is, like the color of her hair, her height, or that she’s a good runner. It doesn’t define her.

As much as I love her, I know this is always going to be the fence between us.

“Did you play the Bluebird tonight?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“How did it go?”

“It went great. Thomas sang the house down.” I don’t mention CeCe. It feels like I’ve left a big gaping hole in the truth of our day. Bringing up the fact that we picked up a girl on I-40 whose car caught on fire and then let her sing with us at the Bluebird when the person singing with us should have been Sarah, isn’t a direction I want to take our conversation in.

“We had some interest from some record company guy,” I say.

“Cool,” she says, but I can hear the reserve in her voice. I really think what she wants to hear is that we don’t have a shot in hell of making it so we’ll come back to Atlanta with our tails tucked between our legs.

And suddenly, I’m feeling the same irritation I’d felt that morning when I left her in bed, warm from the quick urgent way in which we’d just made love. She’d begged me not to go, and I’d begged her to come with me.

The stalemate made us both angry and torn and frustrated.

“I’ve got to get up for a work in a bit,” she says. “I should try to go back to sleep.”

“You should,” I say.

“Call me later?”

“Yeah. I will.”

“Holden?”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll work it out.”

“We will.”

“I miss you like crazy.”

“I miss you, too.”

She clicks off without saying goodbye. We made the agreement when we first met that we wouldn’t use that word with each other. Sarah liked the idea that our time together never really ended if we didn’t say goodbye. We just picked up where we left off.

I picture her in the bed we’d shared in her apartment, her long legs bare beneath the expensive sheets she’d insisted were worth splurging on. I wonder if she’s staying on her side of the bed or if her arm is slung over my side, if she imagines I’m there with her as she tries to go to sleep.

I push off the deck railing and slip inside the apartment. I need to sleep. I walk down the hallway to the room where I can hear Thomas snoring. The door to CeCe’s room is shut, but I stop outside it, touching my fingertips to the wood surface.

“Is someone there?” she calls out.

“It’s just me,” I say. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right,” she answers.

I stand for a moment while neither of us says anything else. And then I go to my own room and close the door behind me.

♪

5

CeCe

The sun has found its way to every corner of the room when I wake up. Hank Junior is nowhere to be seen, and I scramble to my feet on a bolt of panic.

“Hanky?” I call out, opening the bedroom door and flying down the hall.

Thomas is standing in the small kitchen, pouring a bowl of cereal. “He’s out walking with Holden.”

The surprise of that brings me to a stop. “Oh. What time is it?”

“Ten.”

“Ten?!? I can’t believe I slept that long.”

“Musta needed it.” He offers me a red plastic cup and spoon. “Cereal?”

My stomach is growling loud enough for him to hear, so there’s no use denying I’m hungry. “Thanks.”

“I bought Hank Junior a couple cans of food while I was out. He’s had his breakfast.”

Gratitude washes over me in a wave. “How will I ever pay y’all back?”

“We’re not lookin’ for a payback.”

“I didn’t mean–”

“I know you didn’t. Got us a newspaper, too,” he says. “Job search central.”

We take our cups and the paper and sit on the bare living room floor, spreading the sections out between us.

The door opens, and Holden and Hank Junior appear. Hank Junior trots over and gives me a slurpy kiss on the cheek, his tail wagging like he hasn’t seen me in a year.

Holden is wearing running shorts. Hank Junior flops down beside me, panting big.

“We went for a jog,” Holden says.

“Thanks for taking him,” I say, and I cannot meet his gaze this morning.

He can’t look at me either. The awkwardness between us is thick, nearly tangible in the room. I can’t imagine what it would have felt like if we had continued what we started. I am overwhelmingly grateful that we didn’t.

I feel Thomas looking at me, and then Holden before he says, “Did you two–” He stops, lasers Holden with a look. “Shiiiit, man. The only hound dog in this room is you.”

“Quit talkin’ crap, Thomas.” Holden makes a show of pouring himself some cereal.

Thomas looks at me, raises an eyebrow. “Is it crap?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

“I must look like I just fell off the turnip truck,” Thomas throws out.

“As a matter of fact,” Holden says, joining us on the floor with his cereal.

Even though my cheeks feel hot, I put my focus on scanning through the Help Wanted section of the Classifieds, heartened by the number of places currently looking for waitstaff. “I have to get a job today,” I say.

“We got you covered until you do,” Thomas says.

“Thanks,” I say. “Really. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“Good Samaritans R US,” Thomas adds.

“What are you looking for?” Holden asks, not quite meeting my gaze.

“Waitressing.”

“Go for the high end places,” he says. “Big tips, and you never know who you’ll meet.”

“Are y’all looking for jobs?”

“Oh, yeah,” Thomas says. “Waitin’ tables ain’t my thing. Got an interview over at the Mill and Feed. Throwin’ bags of grain on a truck bed – that’s me.”

I smile and think he’s right. I can’t picture Thomas balancing a tray over a table full of picky people. “What about you, Holden?” I ask.

“Bartending,” he answers. “That way I can write during the day. And if we get a gig, hopefully I can switch with someone else.”

He pulls out his phone, taps an app and holds the screen up for me to see. “I’ve already made a list of the better places in town. If I’m going there, you might as well apply, too. To waitress, I mean.”

“Oh, well, that would be–”

“I’ll drive you both,” Thomas says.

First thing I need to do is call Mama and ask for money. Thomas lets me borrow his phone again, and I slip into the bedroom and close the door. I know she won’t recognize the number. I’m hoping she’ll answer anyway.

She does, with a tentative hello.

“It’s me, Mama,” I say.

“CeCe. I’ve been calling your phone since last night. I was worried sick. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I am. I had a little mishap.”

“What happened?”

I picture her standing in our small kitchen, her hand worrying the long cord of the wall telephone. I know she’s got a cigarette somewhere nearby because I can hear the smoke of it in her voice. I tell her the whole story then, hardly drawing in a breath until it’s all out.

“Oh, CeCe,” she says when I explain how I left the burned up car on the side of the Interstate for Triple A to have towed. “Where are you now?”

“I made a couple of friends. They’re letting me crash at their place. They’re really nice.”

She doesn’t ask, so I let her assume they are girls.

“Do you need me to come and get you?” she asks. “I can leave right–”

“No, Mama,” I say, stopping her before the hope in her voice gets too much traction. “It’s gonna be okay. I just wondered if you could wire me some cash. Until I get my credit card replaced and all that.”

“Did you lose your purse, too?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, CeCe. Are you sure you’re with nice people?”

“I am, Mama.” And that really is one thing I can say for sure.

“Where should I send the money?”

I tap Thomas’s Google app and do a local search for Western Union. I give Mama the number. “I’ll call you later today. I’m going job hunting. And I’ll pay you back, okay?”

“I’m not worried about that, honey. You just be careful.”

I know she’s lonely. That she misses me. Guilt slips a noose around my neck, and I feel so selfish I can hardly stand myself. “Are you all right, Mama?”

“Why, sure I am,” she says, her voice too bright, too cheery for me to believe her. “I’ve got choir practice tonight. We’re having a coffee and dessert get together afterwards.”

“That’s good,” I say. “What are you taking?”

We go on like this for a couple minutes until we both feel like some sort of normalcy has been reestablished between us, Mama not so worried, me not so guilty.

I miss her to the very deepest parts of me. In high school, I’d had so many friends who couldn’t stand their mothers, who saw them as the one stumbling block between them and everything they wanted in life. I’ve never seen Mama as anything other than my biggest supporter and best friend. It’s hard to leave that behind. Even to chase a dream.

Especially since I know how hard it was for her to let me go. She’s never said it out loud, but I know she’s terrified that I’ll end up in the same place as my Uncle Dobie. That the love I have for music will be eclipsed by disillusion and defeat in the end, the two things that fueled his drinking. I’ve tried to reassure her many times. I’ve promised her I won’t end up like that. But then she says that’s what he said, too.

Tears well up in my eyes as I end the call. When I make it, the first thing I’ll do is move Mama here and buy her a house that has everything she could ever want in it. She’s so much a part of why I want to make it. I want to give her the things she’s never been able to afford, provide her with a life that doesn’t involve hoping there will be enough money in the checking account to pay off the month’s bills.

I take a quick shower, without soap or shampoo. I stand in the tub until the water has dripped free of my skin, then squeeze out my hair, fluff it up with my fingers and pull it into a ponytail. At least I’m clean.

I feel fresh and rejuvenated. That seems like as good a place to start as any.

♪

THOMAS AND HOLDEN drive me to the Western Union, and I don’t even have to wait to get my money. Mama must have left the house as soon as we hung up. Another wave of homesickness for her washes over me. Before we start hitting the restaurants for applications, I ask if we can make one more stop at a Goodwill store so I can buy some clothes.

Holden uses his local search to find one nearby, and Thomas drives there.

“You sure that’s where you want to go?” he asks, looking at me with a raised eyebrow.

“You’d be surprised what you can find,” I say.

They both go in with me, wandering the aisles and discussing their finds.

I’m after clothes, and I flip through the racks, not finding much at first. Then I spot a cute orange sundress in size 4 that looks like it will fit me. I grab it, along with a pair of black pants and a white shirt. A floral skirt and a light green t-shirt make up the rest of my stuff.

I head for the register and pay for my things. All of it comes to under $15.

Thomas and Holden are waiting in the truck. Thomas is flipping through an old book he’d found on how to make a guitar. Holden is writing something on one of the blank pages of his notebook.

He opens the door and slips out so I can slide in beside Hank Junior. “Find anything good?” he asks.

“I did,” I say, feeling pleased with myself.

“I didn’t know people actually shopped at Goodwill,” Holden says.

I start to take this as an insult, except there’s nothing judgmental in the assertion. It is simply that, a statement of fact.

“That’s because you grew up with a silver spoon up your butt,” Thomas throws out.

I expect Holden to snipe something back, but he just shakes his head. “At least I didn’t grow up with cow manure between my toes.”

“Neither one of them would make walking too easy,” I say.

They both look at me then, and laugh, abruptly, as if I’ve surprised them. I rub Hank Junior’s head and look down, a smile on my mouth. Something warm unfurls within me, soft and fluttery as a butterfly. I like the feeling and realize it’s something I haven’t felt since high school, and even then, never like this.

Friendship.

♪

6

Holden

Based on my research, there are five restaurants in Nashville where I’d like to bartend. I came up with those by looking at potential nightly take, whether they’re known for attracting the music business crowd, and their proximity to other clubs and bars in the city.

The first two are a total bust. The managers are tight-asses who start laying down the do’s, the don’ts, and the musts like they’re the last stop on Planet Great Job. I don’t even let CeCe finish filling out the application. In both places, we leave them on the bar and head for the truck.

Thomas looks up from the nap he’d been trying to take and gives me a look I’ve seen before. “I assume they didn’t pass your personality test?”

“Whatever hours I have to give away to support this gig, I’m not giving to either of them.”

“They seemed nice enough,” CeCe says, and I can tell she thinks I might be a little nuts.

We’re on 40, heading for downtown when I look at her and say, “How many jobs have you had?”

She’s quiet for a few moments. “If you count the three day stint at McDonald’s, two.”

My eyes go wide. I can’t help it. “Where was the other one?”

“Beckner’s Veterinary Clinic.”

I consider this and then say, “Seriously? So you have no actual waitressing experience?”

“No,” she admits. “But I’ve watched a lot of them during shows.”

“How are you planning to write that up on the app? Conducted observations of working waitresses in real-life settings? Or served breakfast, lunch, and dinner to canine and feline guests at Chez Beckner?”

Thomas lets loose a bark of a laugh, as if it surprises him. He apologizes for it, looking at CeCe and saying, “Sorry. He’s an ass. But a sometimes funny ass.”

CeCe doesn’t seem to think so. “I’ll be a great waitress,” she says, folding her arms across her chest.

“Places like these usually don’t want to just take your word for it.”

Thomas wheels the truck into the third place on my list, backing into a shady spot at one end of the parking lot. “Can you two finish your argument on the way in so I can catch some shut-eye, please?”

I get out, pissed enough at CeCe that I start across the pavement without waiting up for her until I get to the front door.

“I don’t have to apply at the same places as you,” she says, stopping in front of me, an expression of stubborn pride on her face.

“I don’t care if you apply here or anywhere else,” I say. “I was just pointing out that you usually need some experience for places like this.”

“I get that.”

“Okay then,” I say while we glare at each other.

I look away first, start to open the restaurant door, and then on impulse, turn back to her. “About last night–”

“Wasn’t that a movie?” she quips.

“Look,” I begin again awkwardly.

She holds up a hand to stop me. “You really don’t need to go there. You have a girlfriend. Moment of weakness. No explanation needed.”

Her straightforwardness surprises me. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“So we’re past it,” she says. “Moving on?”

I’m not sure what I was expecting. It wasn’t this. The girls I’ve known are way more persistent. Or maybe it’s just my ego that’s feeling the air leak.

I open the door and leave her to walk in behind me, just on principle.

The restaurant’s foyer is low lit, and I blink a couple of times to adjust to the dimness. The dining room is big and circular, the walls a deep red, the tablecloths on each of the tables a rich gold. The bar is at the back. It’s enormous, carved walnut, I think, and it looks like the kind of place where major movers and shakers would want to hang out.

“Wow,” CeCe says in a low, breathy voice.

“Yeah. Wow,” I agree. There’s no one in sight, and so I call out a, “Hello?”

When there’s no answer, CeCe says, “It doesn’t look like anyone is here.”

Still ticked at her, I ignore her and walk toward the bar. I call hello again, but still no one comes.

I look around the corner of the bar. There’s a long hallway that looks like it has two or three offices on either side.

“Maybe we should come back,” CeCe says behind me, sounding worried.

I’m anxious to get a job nailed down, and this looks like the place I was hoping for. I head down the hall, raising my voice again, “Hello?”

I hear something and stick my head inside the next office doorway. CeCe bumps into me, jostling me forward just as I realize what I am staring at.

A man on top of a woman on top of a desk, naked as Adam and Eve before the apple thing.

I catch myself just before my forehead hits the opposite end of the doorjamb, CeCe grabbing my shirt to keep from falling.

“Oh, my gosh!” she says, spotting what I’ve just spotted.

Both the man and the woman look at us then, and amazingly enough, neither of them jumps up in alarm or embarrassment or anything resembling either one.

My gaze snags first on her, fortyish, blonde, gorgeous, and then on the man, whose face is instantly recognizable. Case Phillips. Case-frigging-Phillips!

I jerk upright and turn my back to face the hallway. CeCe does the same, and I guess we must look like two soldiers snapping to attention after a reprimand.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “We were looking for the manager or–”

“Owner?” the woman asks.

“Owner,” I agree, still not looking.

“That would be me. And I’m a little–”

“Occupied. You’re occupied. We can come back.”

She laughs. “Why don’t you do that?”

“Ah, are you looking for any bartending help?”

A couple beats of silence pass. “I think I just might be.”

“Good. How about waitressing? Need any?”

“That depends on the waitress.”

“That would be me,” CeCe pipes up, raising a hand and waving it in the air. She starts to glance over her shoulder, but I throw my arm around her and tuck her into my side, so she can’t.

“Why don’t you two come see me later this afternoon when I’m not–”

“Indisposed,” the man on top of her says with a chuckle. And in the notes of his laugh, I hear the voice I’ve heard on the radio a thousand times. Again, shit!

“Indisposed,” the woman agrees, laughing.

I hear feet hit the floor, just before the door behind us slams shut. And then Case Phillips: “Shoulda shut the damn thing to start with.”

“Come here and let me make it up to you,” she says.

Only then do I let myself look down at CeCe. She’s pressing her lips together, like laughter is about to explode out of her. I grab her arm and haul her down the hallway before she wrecks whatever opportunity we might have.

By the time we reach the dining room, we’re both running full out, through the foyer, the front door, all the way to Thomas’s truck before we collapse against the passenger side door and can’t hold it back a second longer.

We laugh until my eyes are watering, and we’ve woken up Thomas. He slides out and walks around to look down at us like we’re both insane.

“What the heck?” he asks.

I start to tell him, but I still can’t talk.

“We just saw Case Phillips naked as a jaybird in there on top of the woman who owns this place.” She tries to stop, then starts up laughing again.

“Was she naked, too?” Thomas asks, straight-faced.

“Oh, yeah,” I say.

“Well, all right then,” Thomas says.

CeCe is giggling so hard now she can barely breathe.

I glance across the parking lot and spot the black Ferrari tucked into a corner space. The license plate says JSTNCASE.

I point at it, and Thomas lets out a low whistle. “That’s the life I want. The car and the girl.”

“I hope I’m not the one that finds your bare linebacker ass on top of some hot babe,” I say, wiping my eyes.

CeCe giggles a fresh giggle. “Don’t need that visual.”

Thomas laughs. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

I get to my feet then, offering CeCe a hand up. She stands and for a second tips into my chest, her breasts soft and full against me. I feel the shock as if someone just stuck a hot wire to my back. Our gazes lock for a snap of a second, and I see the same awareness in her eyes.

I step away, too quickly, and hang my running shoe on Thomas’s enormous cowboy boot. I catch myself before hitting the pavement, and grab onto the bed of the truck.

“Good day, man,” Thomas says, “you are in such a world of trouble.”

“Shut up, Thomas,” I say, climbing in. “All I pay you to do is drive.”

Chuckling, Thomas shakes his head and pulls CeCe around to his side, waiting while she slides into the middle of the seat.

I lower my window, keeping as close to the door as I can.

♪

7

CeCe

So it’s decided once we get to the apartment that I will buy in as a roommate. Both Thomas and Holden say they don’t mind rooming together.

“I already know how bad his boots can stink,” Holden had graciously said.

“And I already know what kind of rattlesnake he is at six a.m.,” Thomas throws back, matching the dig.

What it adds up to is the two of them throwing me a lifeline. Since I am now starting out in Nashville from negative ground zero thanks to the explosion of Granny’s car, I don’t have any choice but to take it.

And I am grateful. I tell them both as much, promising to pay them every penny I owe them.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Thomas says once we’re at the apartment, and I am again scouring the classifieds, Hank Junior asleep with his head on my lap. Holden had borrowed Thomas’s truck to go open up a banking account. I’m not holding out hope for the Case Phillips joint, considering that I’ve now seen the owner naked. Seems like a significant conflict of interest to me.

“I will worry about it,” I say. “I like to pay my debts.”

“In other words, you don’t like letting others do something for you.”

“Only a fool rejects a helping hand when it’s needed, but I believe in keeping the slate clean, too.”

“You and pecker head are more alike than you know.”

I glance up from the paper, raise an eyebrow.

“Holden,” he says, like who else would he be talking about.

I refuse to acknowledge the comparison, and say, “They’ve got openings at the Olive Garden.”

“Love the food, but how’s that going to help your music?”

“By helping me pay my way around here, feed myself and Hank Junior.”

“Holden’s right about putting yourself in a place where music stuff is happening.”

“In Nashville, that could be at McDonald’s.”

“True. But the odds are greater over there where Case Phillips is getting some.”

“Girl here. You and Holden are going to have to remember this isn’t a locker room.”

Thomas grins. “Spunk. I like it.”

Just then the apartment door swings open, and Holden bursts through, his big white smile the first thing I see.

“You’re not going to believe who I just saw in Whole Foods!”

Thomas and I both stare at him, waiting.

“Taylor Swift.”

“Seriously?” Thomas throws out.

“Picking out apples in the produce department.”

“You suck,” Thomas says. “Did you ask for her autograph?”

Holden tosses him a look. “Right after I taped that sign to my forehead that says ‘New to Nashville and gawking at every star’.”

“Well, you’ve seen two already today. You might want to let someone else borrow your sign,” Thomas argues, sounding irked.

I laugh. I can’t help it. The two of them are pretty ridiculous. “Y’all are like two old ladies at a bachelor auction,” I say.

“I’ve got a lyric I want to work on,” Holden says, ignoring me and grabbing a Coke from the refrigerator before heading for the back of the apartment.

“To give you a heads up on the vernacular,” Thomas says, looking at me, “that means don’t come anywhere near him until he comes out and gives the okay.”

“Ah,” I say.

“If you do bother him, I recommend a shield of some sort. A baking sheet works pretty well.”

“Because?”

“He’s gonna throw something at you.”

I laugh again. “How in the world did the two of you ever get hooked up?”

“Football was the original connect. He had a daddy to prove wrong. And I had a mama to prove right.”

“How so?”

Thomas digs his spoon into the half-gallon of chocolate ice cream in front of him. “Holden’s father didn’t think he had what it took to play ball.”

“Why?”

Thomas shrugs. “The real answer is he’s pretty much a jerk. He kind of thinks being a musician waters down any athleticism gene.”

“Why would he think that?”

“Heck if I know. Why does anyone think stupid stuff?”

I find myself feeling a pang of empathy for Holden. My mama and I never had much, but if I said I wanted to fly to the moon, she’d start helping me make the wings. “What did you have to prove to your mom?” I ask.

“That I was as good as she thought I was.”

“That’s nice.”

“Better than Holden’s version for sure.”

“How long has he been writing?”

“Since kindergarten.”

“I mean lyrics.”

“Since kindergarten.”

We both smile, and I say, “He’s the real thing, huh?”

“As it gets.”

“He’s lucky to have you to write for.”

“Actually, I’m the lucky one. I can sing until the cows come home, but hand me a pencil and tell me to write something that’s gonna strike a chord with somebody, and my brain freezes up like lemonade in Alaska.”

“You’re lucky to have each other then.”

“I’ll go with that.” He looks at me a moment, and then, “What’s your dream, CeCe? Why are you in Nashville?”

“To sing and write.”

“If you had to pick one, what would it be?”

“I love both, but unlike Holden, other than myself I don’t have anyone else to write for, so if I had to pick one, I guess it would be singing.”

“You’re good, you know. Real good.”

I hear the sincerity in his voice, and I start to brush off the compliment like it’s no big deal. Actually, it is. I bask in it for a second or two. “Thank you for that. I appreciate it.”

“I guess you know there are hundreds of others here just like us. Fresh off the bus. Totally sold on their talent. Ready to share it with the world.”

“Yeah,” I say, the seriousness in his voice instantly sobering me up from the high of his praise.

“So you wanna know what the difference between me and them is?”

Again, “Yeah.”

“I’ve got the work ethic of a dozen mules. If someone offers me a gig down on the corner of Broadway at two in the afternoon, I’m gonna take it ‘cause you never know who might be walking by. Every single chance I get to open my mouth and sing, that’s what I’m gonna be doing. And I ain’t averse to shakin’ some hands and kissin’ some babies either.”

Laughter bursts up out of me, part delight, part amazement. “You’re going the politician route then?”

“It don’t matter what talent you’ve got if people don’t like you first. If you’re an ass, they won’t bother looking past that long enough to see any other good in you.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be this wise?”

“My granddaddy was in Georgia politics. By the time I was six years old, I’d watched him win voter after voter just by being nice to them. It wasn’t an act on his part. He genuinely liked people. Enjoyed hearing what they had to say. He taught me that you end up with way more in this world if you go at it by giving back first.”

“You’re amazing,” I say and mean it.

He looks surprised by that and practically blushes. “Naw.”

“You are.”

“Holden’s right about my boots,” he says, grinning.

I laugh. “Even so.”

He gets up to throw away his ice cream carton and put his spoon in the sink. I want to thank him, but the words stick in my throat, and I can’t force them out. “Thomas?” I say, my voice cracking.

“Yeah,” he calls back over his shoulder.

“I’m really glad y’all stopped yesterday. I don’t know how I got that lucky.”

He turns around then, studies me as if he knows just what I’m trying to say. And when he says, “No, CeCe, I think Holden and I are gonna turn out to be the lucky ones,” I know for sure Thomas would make his granddaddy proud.

♪

8

Holden

CeCe hasn’t said a word since we left the apartment. I’m matching her silence beat for beat, determined not to speak first.

“Don’t you think this is a waste of time?” she finally asks just as we turn in at the restaurant parking lot.

“Actually, no, I don’t,” I say, swinging into a spot at the back. I glance at the corner of the building where the Ferrari had been parked earlier. “Looks like Case is gone anyway.”

“Oh, good,” CeCe says. “I’ve seen enough naked country music stars for one day.”

“You sure about that?”

“Quite.”

“I mean we could ask her when he’s coming back,” I say, enjoying myself.

“No, thank you.”

We both get out of the truck, slam our respective doors and walk side by side into the main entrance of the restaurant. Unlike earlier, now all the lights are on, and wait staff bustle around table to table getting the place ready for evening business.

A man in a dark suit and a blazing red tie walks up and says, “Can I help you?”

“We’re here to see Ms. Trace,” I say.

“Is she expecting you?”

I nod yes, hoping like heck she remembers.

“Just a moment.” He walks through and disappears down the hallway behind the bar.

CeCe and I stand poker still in the foyer, and if I feel like a fish out of water, it’s clear that she does, too.

Ten minutes later, the blonde woman we’d met in her birthday suit just a few hours before walks in wearing a sexy-as-all-get-out black dress that leaves little to the imagination as to why Case Phillips hangs here.

“You came back,” she says, looking directly at me.

I sense, rather than hear, CeCe stepping up close behind me. I move aside so Ms. Trace can see her too. “Yeah,” I say. “We were hoping you’d have a moment to talk to us.”

“Sure.” She waves us both to the bar, pulls a chair up and sits down. “Have a seat.”

Remembering my manners, I pull out one for CeCe, causing the woman to raise an eyebrow in approval. I take the next chair over.

“So you’re looking to bartend,” she says, her assessing blue gaze on me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“And I was hoping you might have a waitressing position open,” CeCe throws in.

“What kind of experience do you both have?”

“I tended bar around the University of Georgia,” I say.

“You go there?”

“I did.”

“Played ball, I bet.”

“Yeah.”

“You any good?”

“They seemed to think I was.”

“But music’s your real love,” she says.

“Yeah,” I admit, wondering how many guys just like me had sat here asking her for a job. Based on her look, I’m assuming a lot.

“How about you?” she asks, glancing at CeCe.

I hold my breath, hoping she’s not going to tell her about the veterinary clinic.

“I’ve never actually waitressed,” CeCe says, while I cringe inside. “But I am a really hard worker. I’ve watched some great waitresses in places where I’ve had gigs. I’d like to think I’ve filed away what works and what doesn’t.”

To my surprise, Ms. Trace looks impressed.

“Hm. Most girls would have told me they had experience even when they didn’t.”

“The truth is a lot less cumbersome,” CeCe says.

“You’re right about that. It just so happens I do have a couple of open spots. The bartending position is about thirty hours a week, the waitressing one more like fifteen. You okay to start with that?”

“Yeah,” we both say in unison.

“Can you start tonight?”

“Yeah,” we echo again.

Ms. Trace smiles. “Uniforms are in the back. The ones hanging in plastic have been dry-cleaned. See if you can find something in your size, and we’ll get started.”

She stands and leads the way, showing us where the uniforms are.

“All right, then. I’ll tell Michael, the manager up front to show you two the ropes.”

“Thank you, Ms. Trace.”

“Yes, thank you,” CeCe adds.

She looks at me then, her gaze direct and unless I’m mistaken, slightly interested.

“It’s Lauren,” she says.

“Thank you. Lauren,” I say.

“You’re welcome. Both of you.” And with that, she turns and heads to the main part of the restaurant.

“Wowww,” CeCe says once she’s out of earshot.

“What?”

“That look.”

“What look?

“You know what look.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“What are we? Six?”

CeCe smiles. “She doesn’t think you’re six.”

I roll my eyes and start looking at pants hanging in the closet. I find a pair of thirty-twos, pull out those and a white long sleeve shirt in large.

CeCe steps up and rifles through the skirts in her size. I notice that she finds a four and a white blouse in a small.

“I’m not changing in here with you,” she says.

I roll my eyes again. “Like I want you to.”

I leave in search of the men’s room, figuring she can find the women’s on her own. Once I’ve changed, I head for the bar. Michael, the guy in the black suit, is waiting there. He starts showing me the setup behind and spends the next ten minutes or so telling me who some of their customers are, what they like, the drinks the restaurant likes to push. Some of the names he drops are pretty impressive, I have to admit.

“Here’s what’s not cool,” he says. “I’m assuming you’re here for the music business, and this is a secondary gig to you.”

I don’t bother denying it.

“When these folks come in, they want to be away from all that. Not ever cool to pitch a song, ask for a card, give a card, a lyric, a CD.”

I laugh. “I take it that’s been done before?”

“Ohh, yeah.”

“Got it. Not cool.”

He turns to CeCe then where she’s been waiting at the end of the bar for him to finish with me. “Why don’t we start there? Did you get that part?”

“Yeeaah. I got that part. Does that include live auditions while I’m serving dessert?”

Now he laughs. “Yeah. It includes that.”

CeCe smiles. “Not cool.”

He looks at me. “You good?”

I nod. “Yep.”

CeCe follows him to the front of the restaurant where he begins introducing her to some of the other wait staff. I watch her shake hands with them, notice how easily her smile comes when it’s not being censored for me. A blonde dude with a GQ face holds her hand longer than necessary. It’s clear that CeCe isn’t immune to its intensity, and it feels kind of weird seeing her melt a bit under it.

I start taking glasses from the dishwasher and placing them on the shelf behind the bar. So she thinks the guy is hot. Whatever.

♪

9

CeCe

I think I’m gonna like waitressing. By nine o’clock, I have two hundred dollars in my tip wallet. I haven’t spilled a thing. And not one person has yelled at me. I’m beginning to see why Holden insisted on making this place first choice. Two hundred dollars in three hours. Not bad.

And that’s not even counting the fact that Brad Paisley and his wife Kimberly are having dinner in one of the private rooms off the main area. Not part of my station, but cool nonetheless.

From the looks of it, Holden has been knocking back some good money as well, the bar slammed non-stop. I haven’t really recognized anyone, except Brad Paisley, of course. Everyone here appears uber-successful at something or other. Hair and makeup are flawless. Suits are definitely high end. And the women’s shoes alone, purchase price all total, could make a ding in the national debt.

Thomas comes in around eight to get the truck keys from Holden. He’s been downtown going bar to bar, trying to book some gigs. He took the bus over. The plan is for him to pick Holden and me up when we get off after eleven.

Thomas agrees to head back to the apartment and take Hank Junior out for a walk since I am sure he’s about to pee in his fur.

When the last of the customers leave the restaurant, I feel as if my feet have permanently molded themselves to the insides of my shoes. Cleanup takes an hour or better, and it’s after midnight before we’re done. Holden finishes before I do, and he’s waiting by the front door when I say goodnight to the other waiters and waitresses and head out.

In the parking lot, Holden says, “I decided not to call Thomas since it’s so late. Okay with you to take the bus?”

“Sure,” I say, and we walk to the curb, sitting down on the bench to wait. We’re the only ones at the stop, and there’s very little traffic on the street in front of us.

“So how was it?” he asks, leaning back to stare up at the sky, his arms folded across his chest.

“Actually, pretty amazing.”

“You like?”

“I like.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I smile. “Did you know Brad Paisley came in?”

“I took a bottle of champagne to his table. Dom on the house.”

I bolt around to face him. “No fair!”

“Fair.”

“What did he say?!?”

“Thank you very much.”

“Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“Were you nervous?”

He raises his head to look at me. “He’s a person like the rest of us.”

“A person, yes. Like the rest of us, no.”

“How you figure?”

“Just blazingly talented, that’s all.”

“Agreed. Got a pretty wife, too.”

“I’m sure you noticed.”

“Do I look dead?”

“Only a bit.”

“Thanks,” he says with a surprised grin.

“You’re welcome.”

“How’d you do tonight?”

“Crazy good. Three hundred and some change by the end of the night.”

“Awesome.”

“How ‘bout you?”

“A little better than that.”

“People must be generous when they’re drinking.”

“Alcohol is a well-known lubricant for the wallet.”

The bus rolls up and screeches to a stop. Holden stands and waits for me to step through the open door. We find a seat in the back, and we’re a few minutes into the ride when I make myself say, “Thanks for helping me get the job, Holden. I know I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been there.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think she liked your honesty.”

“She liked your body.”

He tilts his head to look at me with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, something warm unfurling in my chest.

“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice warm and curious.

“I think your head has been enlarged quite enough for one day.”

He laughs. “It’s awfully easy to yank your chain.”

“Is not.”

“Is, too.”

I huff a big sigh and turn my head to look out the window, but I’m smiling. Holden seems to have that effect on me.

♪

10

Holden

We get to the apartment to find that Thomas isn’t there. The truck is parked out front, but he’s nowhere to be found. And neither is Hank Junior.

“Could he have taken him for another walk?” CeCe asks.

“Probably. I’ll text him and see.”

“Okay,” she says, fixing herself a glass of ice water.

I tap the message into my phone.

Me: Hey. Where r u

Thomas: Looking 4 hank jr

Me: What do u mean looking

Thomas: As in I can’t find him

Me: Wtf

Thomas: A squirrel ran out when I was walking him and he took off

Me: Seriously?

Thomas: So

Me: We took the bus. Where r u and we’ll help look

Thomas: R u gonna break the news to CeCe

Me: Yeah. Thanks 4 that.

Thomas: Shit

Me: So

She’s left the kitchen, and I walk down the hall to her room. Feeling like I just swallowed a rock, I stick my head inside the open door. “Ah, CeCe?”

She comes out of the bathroom, toothbrush in her hand. “Yeah?”

“Thomas kind of lost Hank Junior.”

“What do you mean lost?” she asks slowly.

“He took off after a squirrel, and Thomas dropped the leash.”

Her face loses its color. “How long ago?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Where is Thomas?”

“Still looking.”

She grabs a pair of running shoes off the floor and tugs them on. “Can you find out where he’s been so I can try a different area?”

I call Thomas this time, instead of texting. He picks up on the first ring and tells me which streets he’s covered. “Why don’t y’all start with the ones closest to the apartment?” he says. “In case he headed back that way?”

“Okay. Call you in a few.”

We click off, and I glance at CeCe who now looks as if she might be physically sick. “Come on,” I say, squelching my pity and forcing myself to focus on finding the dog. “Don’t worry. He’s probably not far away.”

We head down Fume Street. CeCe’s voice is high and sweet in the way she sounds calling for Hank Junior to come when it’s time to eat. We walk to the end of Fume, then cut across to Sharp and jog all the way down. I wonder how many people we’re waking up, then realize immediately that I don’t care as long as we find Hank Junior.

Aside from calling him, CeCe hasn’t said a word. I see in the rigid set of her shoulders and the tenseness of her jaw that she’s barely holding it together.

We’ve just started up another street when a porch light flips on at a house we’re about to pass. A woman comes out in a fluffy white robe and waves a hand at us. We both stop, and she bustles over, a worried look on her face. “Are you looking for a dog?”

“Yes,” CeCe says quickly. “A Walker Hound. White with black and tan markings.”

“Oh, yes.” She shakes her head. “Animal control picked him up a little over an hour ago. I heard some barking and came outside. My neighbor, that crotchety old Mr. Lemmons, name fitting, I might add, had already called the pound because the dog had been in his yard for a half hour or more.”

“But he had ID on his collar,” CeCe says, her voice breaking on the end.

“I could see that, and I told the officer that we could call the number on the tag. He said he didn’t have time to wait.”

“The phone number on that tag is my cell, and I don’t have it now.” CeCe looks at me with eyes brimmed over with tears.

“Did you happen to see a name on the truck?” I ask the woman. “So we’ll know where to go to get him?”

“Davidson County Animal Control,” she says. “I asked him where he would be taking him, and he said the main facility.”

“Thank you,” I say to the woman, just as CeCe turns and takes off running down the street. We all but sprint the entire way to the apartment, and I have to admit I’m impressed with her stamina.

I call Thomas as soon as we’re back in the parking lot of our place and tell him what we know.

“Take the truck,” he says. “I’m still a few blocks away.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know what we find out.”

“Tell her I’m sorry, okay?”

“She knows.”

I end the call and wave CeCe to the truck. “Let’s go. Thomas said to take it and that he’s sorry.”

CeCe nods, and doesn’t speak because she’s about to burst out crying again. I Google the animal control place and then tap the address into my GPS. It’s a good haul from us, and we don’t say a word the entire drive. She just sits straight up in the seat, staring ahead as if she’s willing the distance between her and her dog to melt into nothingness.

The building is off the main road, and an intimidating gate blocks the entrance. The truck’s headlights illuminate the sign. NO TRESPASSING. HOURS OF OPERATION 8 AM – 4 PM

A chain link fence surrounds the property, and a camera sits on one corner of the gate. “This place is locked up like Fort Knox,” I say.

“There has to be some way we can get in,” CeCe says, tears in her voice. She slides out of the truck and jogs over, jerking at the padlock.

I walk up behind her, put my hand on her shoulder. “We can wait here until they open.”

She looks up at me, her eyes wide and hurt-filled. “But he’s in there.”

“I know.”

“What if they–”

“He’ll be okay until morning,” I say, hoping like heck that I’m right.

“We could climb the fence.”

“And then what? We won’t be able to get in the building.”

“Someone might be there.”

“I doubt it since the gate is closed.”

“I want to make sure.” She grabs the chain link and starts to climb.

I grab her around the waist and haul her off, swinging her away from it. She slides to the ground in front of me, and I’m instantly aware of her breasts against my chest, her thighs pressing into mine. With one arm around her, I carry her to the truck. I open the driver’s side door and set her on the seat, facing me. “He’s gonna be okay,” I say.

She starts to cry outright then, and I realize she’s been doing her best to hold it in since finding out Hank Junior was missing. Hearing her cry feels like someone just stuck a knife in my heart, and I push a hand through her hair and pull her up against me. Her cheek is against my chest, and I draw her closer, wanting to absorb her pain.

I rub her back with one hand, my other anchored in her long, sweet-smelling hair. She widens the space between her knees, and I step in closer, some kind of crazy need sweeping up through me.

She raises her face to mine, and I can’t stop myself from kissing her. It’s not the right time. And it’s not for the right reasons. I know this, but I can’t stop.

I can feel how much she wants to escape from where we are, blank out what has happened tonight. I guess I do, too, or at least that’s what I tell myself. It’s a lot easier to know what to do with that than it is knowing what to do with the fact that I’m kissing her because there’s nothing in the world I want to do more right now than exactly that.

♪

11

CeCe

Nothing in my life has ever felt as good as Holden’s kiss. Not the top of my first roller coaster ride, right before the plunge. Or the first time I performed one of my own songs in front of a crowd. Not even the day my Uncle Dobie said he thought I had a future in country music.

At first, Holden is gentle, kissing me like he’s not sure where the line is. I’m the one who deepens it. I loop my arms around his neck and pull him closer, opening my mouth beneath his and inviting him in. He accepts. I’ve never been kissed like this. Thoroughly. Completely. Expertly.

And that’s what it feels like. As if Holden knows exactly how to coax, persuade, entice. A couple minutes of this, and my mind is blanked of everything but him. I explore the ripples of abs. His breathing quickens, and I trace the other side.

He runs his hands down my back and under my bottom to anchor me up against him, as if he needs me to know what I’m doing to him. Knowing I’m not ready for what I’ve so clearly asked him for, I pull away and study his far too good-looking face, my chest feeling as if I’ve just run a marathon.

“I’m sorry, Holden,” I say.

He smooths my hair back from my face. “If this ever happens between us, it has to be for the right reasons.”

Sanity begins to wash over me in a wave. And along with it, a tide of mortification. “Thank you.”

He laughs. “Thank you?”

“For taking my mind off Hank Junior for a few minutes.”

“It was entirely my pleasure. Should I feel used?”

“Maybe a little.”

“It’s not so bad, being used by you.”

I smile, then just as quickly feel the tears well back up and spill down my cheeks.

Holden physically slides me to the middle of the seat and climbs in, shutting the door. He hooks an arm around me and tucks me into the curve of his shoulder. “He’s going to be all right,” he says. “We can wait here until someone comes to open up.”

“You don’t have to stay with me.”

“I want to.”

“Why?” I ask, my voice muffled against his shirt.

Holden glances out the window. “We had a dog when I was growing up. A yellow Lab named Lucy.”

He’s silent for a bit, and I say, “Yeah?”

“Our yard was fenced, but some of the kids in the neighborhood unlatched the gate one day when we weren’t home. She got out, and that night after we came back, we looked everywhere. The next morning, my mom called the pound to make sure she wasn’t there, and they said she wasn’t. We put up flyers and kept looking for days. Every day my mom called and gave them her description again. They kept telling her she wasn’t there.”

My stomach drops, and I’m not sure I want to hear the rest of this. But I wait, unable to tell him that.

“Someone my dad knew called and said he’d just heard we were missing our dog. He had seen a yellow Lab at the pound when he and his family went down to adopt a puppy.”

I want to say something. I can’t because it feels like my voice is locked up inside me.

“My mom and dad and I jumped in the car and drove to the pound as fast as we could. Mom showed a woman at the front desk Lucy’s picture, and just the look on her face made me run out of the place.”

“Oh, Holden.”

“We’d been calling for days, and they said she wasn’t there.”

I hear the bitterness behind the words, and I can barely bring myself to ask, “Did they–”

“The woman said they’d held her for the required period of time, but when the kennels became full–”

I reach up and touch my fingers to his lips. Tears run down my face, and I’m not surprised to see that the same is true for Holden. I lean in and kiss each of them away, my heart feeling as if it has splintered into a thousand pieces.

We sit silent for what feels like a long time, me absorbing, Holden reliving, I guess.

And then he finally says, “When I think about someone leading her to some room and taking her life while she’s wondering where we are. . .while we’re looking for her–”

A sob rises up out of me, this image of Lucy more than I can manage right now. Sorrow for her and renewed fear for Hank Junior swallow me.

Holden pulls me closer, and while I know I should be comforting him, he’s the one comforting me. “So that’s why I want to wait here with you,” he says.

I’ve barely known Holden for any time at all. It feels like I’ve known him forever.

♪

WE’RE QUIET FOR the next hour or so, arms locked around one another, like we both need this mutual infusion of empathy and understanding.

The truck’s digital clock says 4:07 when Holden reaches beneath the seat and pulls out a notebook. I sit up and watch him remove a pencil from the spiral binding.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Just a thought for a lyric.”

He writes a line on the blank page.

So I got a few things I need to say

He’s still for a bit before writing:

Never thought my life would turn out this way

His pencil is quiet again. This time several minutes pass before he writes down:

Do you ever think about the choice you made

And what those who loved her have had to pay

Then he adds:

Chorus

What you took from me

You can’t give back

I wait for the next line, trying to guess what it might be. Several minutes pass before he writes:

You took the sun

You took the stars

You took the ground beneath my feet

The words are out before I realize I’ve said them. “You even took the air I breathe.”

Holden looks at me and nods. He writes it down.

You even took the air I breathe

And then adds:

Everything, that’s what you took from me

“For Lucy,” I say.

“I don’t know what else it will end up being. I never do at this point.”

The sun has started to lighten the horizon behind the pound building. I feel a settling sense of peace that it’s all gonna be okay. That very soon, I’ll have Hank Junior back, that his fate will be different from Lucy’s. Holden’s sweet Lucy.

Sitting here with him as he writes on his rumpled pad, I have no way of knowing that in a few months, one of Nashville’s most well-known artists will hear Thomas singing Holden’s song, the one he started in this truck with me, at a club downtown. Or that in a year and a half, that same artist, whose wife was killed by a drunk driver, will release it, and the song will hit number one.

Looking at him now, the intensity on his good-looking face, my heart feels like it’s becoming aware for the very first time of what it was made to feel. It’s both terrifying and wonderful all at once.

He has a girlfriend. I know this, but my heart isn’t listening. Just like it hasn’t listened to all the reasons why turning my dreams over to Nashville might not have been the safest route for me to take.

Some things, our hearts don’t let us have a say in. For me, music is one. And right here, right now, I believe Holden Ashford might be the other.

Someone once said every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end. The trick then has to be letting go of the safe, the known and reaching out for what we can’t yet see.

I’m ready to reach.

I really am.

♪

2

PART TWO - HAMMER AND A SONG

12

CeCe

I’m sitting in the middle of the truck seat with my head on Holden’s shoulder when the sun begins to peep up over the Davidson County Pound building. I’m not the least bit sleepy. I’m as wide-awake as I’ve ever been.

Holden’s hand is on my knee, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric of my jeans. We haven’t said anything for a good while, instead letting the music from the radio take up the space between us.

There are so many things I want to say, but I know I shouldn’t. Like how is it possible to feel this kind of connection to someone you’ve known for such a short time? Or how I can’t imagine sitting here all night, waiting to find out if Hank Junior is okay, without Holden next to me.

I know it hardly makes any sense, but it’s true.

An engine sounds behind us, and I look back to see a white truck pull up. A man in a tan work uniform gets out, repositions the ball cap on his head and walks up.

Holden opens the door and steps from the truck. “Mornin’,” he says to the man.

“Help you?”

“I hope so,” Holden says. “Our dog is missing, and we were told an animal control officer picked him up last night. We think he might be here.”

My heart does a somersault at Holden’s description of Hank Junior as our dog. Had I really called him Grouchy Guy the first day we met?

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until the main office opens at eight to find out.”

“Are you headed down there now, sir?”

“Yeah, but I can’t release him for you.”

“Could we just go with you and make sure he’s there?”

“I’m real sorry.”

Tears well up from my chest and splash down my face before I even realize I’m crying. I jump out of the truck and stumble on a rock, righting myself with a hand on Holden’s arm. “I’m CeCe,” I say, sticking out my hand. “This is Holden.”

We shake, and he points to the nametag on his shirt. “Kenny.”

“Hey, Kenny. I’m kind of having a hard time with this. Hank was in a pound when he was a puppy. His first family left him at one, and he just sat in a corner of his kennel and shook. He wouldn’t eat, and he–” I break off there, unable to speak past the knot in my throat. “Please. I need to know he’s okay.”

The man shakes his head.  “It’s against the rules.”

My heart drops south, and I search for the words to make him understand. “He’s my best friend,” I say. “He needs me.”

He looks at me for an endless string of moments. “I wish some of the folks who throw their dogs away here thought of them like that instead. If I get fired, maybe you can help me find a new job.”

“I don’t want you to lose your job, but I just want my dog back.”

“Probably wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

“Thank you so much,” I say, the words pouring out in a gush of gratitude. “Thank you.”

“Well, all right then.” He pulls a set of keys from his pocket, walks over and opens the padlock on the gate, swinging each arm wide. “Y’all follow me.”

I scramble into the truck, and Holden slides in behind me.

Neither of us says a word all the way to the building. I feel frozen to the seat, my heart pounding so hard in my chest that I know Holden must hear it.

Kenny pulls up to a side door, and we roll to a stop behind him. I hear the dogs from inside, a few barks starting up, and then more follow. By the time he steps in and flips on a light, all the dogs are awake and starting to bark.

“All right, now,” Kenny says in a kind voice. “Y’all settle down.”

His voice has an amazing calming effect. The barking subsides to a few rumbles of concern.

I scan the kennels in front of us, trying not to look at the faces. Already, my heart feels like it’s swelled to the size of a pumpkin, and I’m afraid the sob sitting at the back of my throat is going to burst out at any second.

“Walk on down, and see if you see him,” Kenny says.

I start down the aisle with Holden right behind me. I can tell he’s trying to keep his gaze focused straight ahead. Halfway down, I spot Hank Junior curled up in the back of his kennel, shaking from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail. Snuggled up next to him with its head on Hank’s side is a chubby little Beagle.

“Hank,” I say, my voice cracking.

He looks up, thumps his tail once as if he’s afraid to believe it’s really me.

Kenny steps in and says, “That him?”

“Yes,” I say.

Kenny opens the door. I nearly leap inside, dropping to my knees and hugging Hank so hard he yelps. He licks my cheek though, still shaking.

“I’m sorry,” I say, kissing his velvety ear, unable to hold back my tears.

Something nudges at my elbow, and I glance down to see the chubby Beagle looking up at me as if hoping to be included in the reunion.

Holden walks into the kennel and squats down beside us. He reaches out and strokes Hank’s head, then does the same for the Beagle.

She all but melts under his touch and rolls over on her back. He smiles and scratches her belly.

“What’s her name?” Holden asks, looking up at Kenny.

“Patsy,” he says.

“As in Kline,” I say, and we both smile.

Patsy turns her head and licks the back of Holden’s hand. I see him melt a little.

“I hate to rush y’all,” Kenny says, “but I’ve got to get to work.”

I stand up and turn to face him. “Please let me take him now, Kenny. I can’t leave him here. I just can’t.”

He looks at Hank and then back at me again. “So what kind of work did you say you have lined up for me?” he asks with a half-grin.

Before I can answer, he hands me a nylon leash and says, “Bring him on out.”

I can’t help it. I throw my arms around his neck and hug him hard. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I slip the lead around Hank’s neck, and he glues himself to my leg. Holden is still rubbing the Beagle. He stands reluctantly, following me through the door.

Kenny closes it and clicks the latch back in place. Patsy looks at Hank Junior, then up at us, her brown eyes suddenly sad, as if she knows she’s being left. Clearly, not for the first time.

Holden points at the orange card with her name on the kennel door. “What does that mean?”

“Today is her day since nobody came for her,” Kenny says, his voice flat now, as if he’s had to practice saying these things without emotion.

“You mean she’ll be put to sleep?” Holden asks, disbelieving.

“Yeah,” Kenny says.

Holden’s face goes white as chalk. I know in my heart how hard it must be for him to come in here in the first place and all the bad memories it must bring back. I kneel down and stick my hand back through the door to rub Patsy’s head, feeling sick all the way down to the bottom of my stomach.

I don’t see any orange cards on the other doors. I open my mouth to ask what her adoption fee is when Holden says, “Can I adopt her?”

Kenny glances at his watch. “The front desk people won’t be here until eight. The euth tech usually comes in at seven-thirty.”

Holden actually looks like he might pass out. I feel sick myself, but I put a hand on his arm, maybe to steady us both.

But his voice is strong when he says, “I don’t care what the fee is. I’ll put it on my credit card. Let us go on and take her. I promise I’ll give her a good life.”

Kenny glances at Patsy, then back at Holden, and hands him another nylon lead. “Y’all come on, so I can at least fill out the paperwork.”

We follow him to the front office where he opens a drawer and pulls out two forms, one for me and one for Holden. I fill out the paperwork for Hank’s release, waiting while Holden finishes the application for Patsy.

“The adoption fee is fifty dollars,” Kenny says.

Holden opens his wallet and counts out the cash. I notice he has one dollar left.

Kenny takes it and says, “All right, then.”

“Thank you, Kenny.” Holden shakes his hand.

“For her sake, I’m glad y’all were here,” Kenny says, walking around the desk and reaching down to rub Patsy’s head. She looks up at him and wags her tail as if to say thank you.

“I’m happy for you, girl,” he says, a rasp to his voice.

“Thank you so much, Kenny,” I say and give him another hug.

He nods and walks us to the door. We step outside into the crisp morning air, Hank Junior and I climbing into the truck from the passenger side, and Holden picking Patsy up and putting her in from his side.

He backs the truck out of the spot, throws a wave at Kenny, then looks over at me and smiles. A really happy smile. I smile back, and as we roar off down the drive, it feels as if we’ve just done something as miraculous as cheating death. Which I guess we actually have.

♪

13

Holden

She’s got her head on my thigh. How the heck is a guy supposed to resist that?

I stroke her back with my right hand, and if the snoring is any indication, it’s not long before she appears to be fast asleep.

“She knows,” CeCe says, studying me from the other side of the truck.

“What?” I ask.

“That you saved her life.”

“How do you know?”

“They just do. Hank Junior was the same way the day I got him out of the pound.”

“I can’t even imagine that someone could leave her in a place like that.”

“Me, either. Thank you for getting her.”

“If I hadn’t, you would have.”

She smiles at me, and it feels good to know we have this in common.

“Not sure what Thomas is gonna say about our new roommate.”

“He’s a softie like you.”

“Oh, you think I’m a softie now, do you?”

“Yeah,” she says with a smile that reaches her eyes. “I do.”

I don’t know that anyone has ever looked at me the way CeCe is looking at me now. I just know it feels good to have her approval. At the same time, I realize I probably shouldn’t let myself dwell on that. That there’s trouble down that road if I do.

“They might need to go to the bathroom,” CeCe says.

“Yeah,” I say and pull over at the next turn. We get the dogs out and walk them to a grassy spot where they both immediately do their business. We let them sniff for a couple of minutes and then get back in the truck.

A mile or so down the road, we pass a little country store with its lights on. I slam on the brakes. “Coffee?”

“Oh, my gosh, yes,” she says.

I throw the truck in reverse and then swing into the parking lot. “Y’all wait here,” I tell the dogs. They both wag their tails and stretch out on the seat as if they plan to get some shut-eye while we’re gone.

The store is everything you would think a country store might be. The smell of homemade biscuits and coffee greets us at the door. Three older men in bib overalls sit on a wooden church pew across from the coffee pots, sipping from their cups and talking like they’ve got the world’s problems to figure out by noon.

CeCe and I both choose a large, mine black, hers with cream. I find myself noting the choice for future reference and at the same time wonder what I’m doing.

A large lady with heavily teased hair greets us at the cash register. “Y’all out mighty early,” she says, smiling like she’s happy to see us.

“Rescue mission,” CeCe says.

“Ah,” she says, winking at me. “Fun stuff.”

CeCe looks like she’s going to add something, then thinks better of it. She insists on paying for the coffee. “You might need that last dollar for Patsy food,” she teases.

“Hope the tips are good tonight,” I say.

“Y’all enjoy your morning,” the cashier calls out as we head back through the door.

Patsy and Hank Junior barely glance up as we climb in the truck. “They look like they could sleep for days,” I say.

“Who could blame them?”

We drive for a few minutes, silent while we sip our coffee. With CeCe, there’s no feeling of having to fill the silence with small talk. I have to admit I like that. It’s not something I’ve experienced with anyone other than Thomas.

We round a curve, and the view opens up with a valley sloping down to our right.

“Let’s pull over for a minute,” CeCe suggests.

I turn the truck onto the gravel edge that looks as if it’s been put there for people to stop and enjoy the view.

“That’s just crazy beautiful,” she says, opening her door and sliding out.

I follow her to the front of the truck. She climbs onto the hood and looks out at the valley below us. I step up and sit next to her. “Yeah, it is,” I say.

The trees have that new leaf green that I imagine artists must yearn to get exactly accurate. A big red barn sits out to the right, and I can see horses grazing behind the white board fencing surrounding it.

“So are you,” I say, the words slipping out before I can edit them.

CeCe looks at me, her eyes questioning.

“Crazy beautiful,” I add.

She looks down, and I can see the color come into her cheeks. When she looks up at me, I reach out and touch her face with the back of my hand. I hear her short intake of breath, and it matches the electricity that zips through me from the softness of her skin.

We study each other for what feels like a good while, and without censoring what I’m feeling, I lean in and kiss her. It starts out light and testing, but then just as quickly ignites into something completely different. I snag her waist with one arm and reel her in to me. She opens her mouth beneath mine, and we kiss like we’ve both been waiting for it all our lives.

If so, it was worth every moment of the wait. If for nothing else, then to hear the raspy way she says my name now.

She slides her arms around my neck, and I haul her in closer, slipping my hands up the back of her shirt and under the lacy bra beneath. Her skin is like silk, and I have never wanted to touch anyone the way I want to touch her now.

I feel myself losing control and start to pull back, but CeCe presses her hands to the back of my head and deepens the kiss. We’re both breathing like we just ran here from downtown Nashville, and I know if we don’t stop now, there won’t be any stopping at all.

I untangle myself and lie back on the truck hood, staring up at the morning blue sky and breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” CeCe says, lying down beside me, her voice regretful.

“I’m not,” I say.

“You’re not?”

“How could anyone be sorry about a kiss like that?”

She lets out a breath of what sounds like relief. “I thought I might have–”

“You didn’t,” I say. I sit up then and pull her up beside me.

“You’re not the kind of girl a guy should take advantage of, CeCe.”

The look on her face makes me smile.

“Yeah, right now, I kind of wish you were, too,” I say.

“You’d never take advantage of anyone,” she says. “But then I don’t imagine you’d have to.”

“Thanks, I think,” I say, grinning.

She smiles at me then, and there’s no denying the spool of feeling unraveling between us.

We study the view for a few moments before I say, “CeCe?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t make a habit of leading a girl on when I’m seeing someone else.”

“Are you leading me on?”

“I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“It’s okay. Neither do I.”

“Is there someone in your life?”

She shakes her head. “No one serious.”

“Has there been?”

“Sort of.”

“Which means?”

“Not serious enough for me to stay in Virginia.”

I put my hand on the back of hers and lace our fingers together. “What do you really want out of this town, CeCe?”

She considers the question and then looks at me. “Just a chance to do what I love to do. You?”

“The same.”

“You think anybody ever comes here just because they want to be famous?”

I laugh a short laugh. “Ah, yeah.”

“That I don’t get,” she says.

“What is fame, anyway? People knowing who you are, seeing your face on the cover of some rag tabloid with whatever skeleton you happen to have in your closet peeking out?”

CeCe laughs. “Success, I get. That just means you get to do what you love because you’ve found a following of people who love the same thing.”

“Which is not that easy, apparently.”

“No one ever said it would be easy.”

“But we’re here, anyway.”

“Yeah. We’re here.”

She’s looking at me again with that look in her eyes, and I feel something low inside of me shift, like I might have crossed a line I’m going to have a whole lot of trouble stepping back from. I rub my thumb across the back of her hand, and then let go.

She slides off the hood and jumps to the ground. I follow, glancing over my shoulder. Hank Junior and Patsy are sitting in the middle of the seat, her head resting against his shoulder. “They look like a couple,” I say.

CeCe smiles. “Yeah, they do.”

“We better get them home.”

She nods, and I like knowing that word includes all of us. Home.

♪

14

CeCe

It’s almost eight a.m. by the time we park the truck in the back lot of the apartment complex. We get out and let Hank Junior and Patsy have a few minutes in the grass before we head up the stairs.

I’m so tired I feel like I can barely stand and at the same time so wired with feeling that I hardly know what to do with it. Has it really been less than eight hours since we left here last night looking for Hank? It seems like a lifetime has taken place since then.

Hank and I follow Holden and Patsy up the stairs, and I can’t help but stare at his wide shoulders. My lips tingle with the memory of his kiss, and I have to stop myself from reaching for his shirt tail and pulling him to me.

At the apartment door, he sticks the key in the lock, then turns to me. “Weird as this sounds,” he says, “it was kind of great being with you last night.”

“Yeah,” I say, “you, too.”

He leans in, and I start to close my eyes in anticipation of his kiss. Just then, the door jerks open, and we both jump back from one another.

“Hey, you two,” Thomas says in a tight voice I don’t recognize. “Been wondering when you were gonna get back.”

From behind him, a girl steps out, the look on her face clearly one of confusion. “Surprise,” she says, only the word is flat, like a balloon someone has just let all the air out of.

“Sarah,” Holden says, sounding as stunned as he looks.

“She drove all night to get here,” Thomas says. “Isn’t that something?”

“Is everything all right?” Holden asks.

Sarah glances from Holden to me, and her blue, very blue, eyes start to well with tears. “I thought it was,” she says.

“You got a dog,” Thomas throws out, as if looking for a diversion.

“Yeah,” Holden says. “Her name’s Patsy.”

“A dog,” Sarah says. “Wow. I didn’t know you were–”

“It was kind of spur of the moment,” he explains.

We all stand there for a few seconds like frozen popsicles, none of us sure what to do or say next. Holden moves first, stepping in to the apartment to put his arms around Sarah and hug her.

I watch, unable to move. Hank Junior whines and looks up at me, as if asking what this means. I don’t dare look at him, sure I’ll burst into tears if I do.

Holden steps back from the hug and waves a hand at me. “Sarah, this is CeCe. CeCe, Sarah.”

We look at each other and smile, and I feel sure mine is as wobbly as hers. “Nice to meet you,” we both say at the same time.

“So,” Thomas says, “what a night, huh?”

“Yeah,” Holden agrees, running a hand across the back of his hair.

“I bet Sarah would like to hear all about it,” Thomas says. “Why don’t y’all take the bedroom for some privacy, and I’ll get the lowdown from CeCe out here?”

Holden looks at me, and I immediately glance away since I have no idea what to do with any of this. I feel as if a wrecking ball just landed in the center of my stomach.

“Ah, okay,” Holden says. “Anything you need me to get out of your car, Sarah?”

She shakes her head. “Thomas already brought it in for me.”

“You mind feeding Patsy when you feed Hank?” Holden directs the question to me.

“Sure,” I say, super cheerful. “No problem.”

Holden nods and walks down the hall to the bedroom. Sarah follows him. I stand perfectly still until I hear the click of the lock. Only then do I unhook Hank’s leash and let out all the air in my chest.

“I’m real sorry, CeCe,” Thomas says.

“You don’t need to be,” I say, assuming he’s talking about Hank Junior, but suspecting the apology encompasses Sarah’s arrival as well. “It all worked out.”

“Tell me about it?” he asks, heading for the kitchen where he pulls two bowls from the cabinet and gets the dog food out of the pantry.

While Hank Junior and Patsy scarf up their food, I lay out everything that happened at the pound, including Holden’s adopting Patsy at the last minute.

“I’m glad,” Thomas says. “She’s a cute little thing.”

“I think she and Hank are in love.”

Thomas smiles and then looks at me, the smile fading, “That got a little awkward out there.”

I start to act like I don’t know what he’s talking about and then just as quickly realize how unbelievable I would be. “Yeah,” I say.

“He really didn’t know she was coming,” Thomas says.

“Apparently.”

He leans against the sink and folds his arms across his chest. “Holden is a lot of things, but he’s never been a player. I think you kind of caught him off guard.”

“Timing has never really been my thing.”

“They’ve been together almost two years. I don’t want to see you hurt, CeCe.”

“She’s beautiful,” I say. “Really beautiful.”

“So are you,” Thomas says.

I start to shake my head, but he adds, “You are. It’s just gonna be that timing thing.”

I feel the tears start to well up, try my best to stop them, but they roll down my face like a faucet’s been turned on inside of me.

“Hey, now,” Thomas says, walking over and pulling me into his big embrace.

My tears get his t-shirt all wet, and I start to apologize, but he shushes me, rubbing the back of my hair. “I’m sorry for the hurt.”

“I’ll get over it,” I say.

“You’re strong like that,” he agrees.

I want to tell him that I don’t want to be strong. I want to march down the hall to that bedroom, pound on the door and beg Holden to give what we’d both felt this morning and last night a shot.

But I don’t. I just press my lips together and nod. Because, what else, really, is there for me to do?

♪

15

Holden

I stand under the shower spray way longer than I should, considering that Sarah is in my bedroom, waiting for me to come out. I let the water pummel my face into full-out awake until all threads of fatigue have dissolved.

When I can avoid it no more, I get out, dry off, put on sweat pants and a t-shirt, then open the bathroom door.

Sarah is sitting on the bed, her knees against her chest, arms wrapped tight around her legs, as if she is physically trying to hold herself together. She doesn’t look at me, her gaze on her pink toenails. “Can you explain to me what just happened out there?” she finally asks.

“Nothing happened,” I say, hearing the lack of conviction in my own voice.

She looks up at me then, and her blue eyes snap fire. “Holden Ashford, don’t you dare play me. I deserve better than that from you. Who is she?”

“A girl hoping to make it in Nashville just like Thomas and me.” I blow out a sigh and sit down on the edge of the bed. “Her car burned up on the side of the interstate. We stopped to help her, and that’s how we met. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Sarah repeats, incredulous. “She’s living in your apartment. How is that it?”

“She lost everything in her car. It made sense for us to help her out.”

“I get that. And why were you out all last night with her?”

“Waiting at the pound to get Hank Junior out. Her dog. Thomas lost him while we were at work.”

“We?”

“We got a job at the same restaurant.”

Sarah folds her arms across her chest and stares at me hard. “I see. Wow. It sure didn’t take long for you to forget all about me.”

“That’s not true.”

“It seems like you’re well on your way,” she says, tears welling in her eyes.

My heart suddenly feels like it’s been wrapped in one big rubber band, and I know I’m coming across as a jerk. Which considering what’s been happening between CeCe and me, I guess I am. “Why did you change your mind about coming?” I ask, meeting her tearful gaze.

“I missed you,” she says, and the words are so broken, so heartfelt that the wall of resistance inside me starts to crumble.

“I can’t believe you drove through the night. You hate driving at night.”

She nods. “Don’t worry. I know it was stupid.”

I feel like such an ass. I am an ass. “It wasn’t stupid. I just wish you’d let me know you were comng.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

And I can see that’s exactly what she’d hoped to do. Just forty-eight hours ago, that would have made me ecstatic. Forty-eight hours ago, we would have already been in bed, making up for lost time.

But we’re not. And we both know something feels different.

“I’m sorry, Sarah. It’s been a long night. I’m just beat. I need some sleep.”

“Do you want me to go?” she asks, her voice cracking a little.

I hear the question, and yet my response doesn’t come immediately, as it should.

“Of course not,” I say, but too many seconds have passed for me to be completely convincing. I know Sarah, and I know what she wants right now is to tell me to go to hell and leave as suddenly as she came. But I guess she’s not ready to throw in the towel just yet, so she bites her lip and nods.

I open the bedroom door and call for Patsy. She trots down the hallway, looking up at me with expectant brown eyes. “Come on, girl,” I say. “Nap time.”

Inside the bedroom, Patsy looks around, walks to the side of the bed and lies down, stretching out with her chin on her paws.

Sarah looks at her like some unidentified object just fell through the roof. “She’s sleeping in here?” she says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“But you know I don’t like–”

“I know you’ve never been around dogs, and you think you don’t like them.”

“That’s not at all fair, Holden,” she says, her voice deliberately even.

“I have a dog now, Sarah,” I say. “I’m hoping you’ll like her once you get to know her.”

“I never should have come here!” Sarah jumps off the bed and stomps into the bathroom, where she promptly slams the door.

I reach down and rub Patsy’s head. I want to call Sarah back and reassure her that she did the right thing in coming. I want to. I just don’t know if it would be the truth.

♪

16

CeCe

I should sleep.

But I can’t. Don’t. Won’t. One of those, anyway. To close my eyes and invite sleep would be to open the current plug on my thoughts and let them come flooding in. And since I’m pretty sure I will drown in them, I opt for staying awake.

I do take a shower, and that helps wash away some of my fatigue. I try not to think about what Holden and Sarah are doing in the next room, and when my mind refuses to blank, I increase the cold water until I’m shivering and nearly blue.

When I walk back into the kitchen wearing jeans and a wet ponytail, Thomas looks up from a bowl of cereal and says, “Aren’t you going to bed?”

“I don’t like to sleep during the day.”

“Me, either. Wanna walk over to Starbucks for a coffee? I’m meeting a couple people there.”

I glance at Hank Junior who’s snoozing on the sofa. “I don’t really want to leave him yet.”

“He can go with us. We can sit outside.”

At this, I immediately agree, since the last thing I want is to stay in the apartment alone with Holden and Sarah. “If you’re sure we won’t be in the way.”

“Course not. I think you’ll like them, anyhow.”

The Starbucks is only three blocks over from the apartment. We walk the short distance with Hank Junior on full sniff alert. He meets up with an elderly Pug and a regal Great Dane who both greet him like they’re old friends.

We get there at just after ten and find a table on the outside patio where students from Vanderbilt sit in front of laptops, and a variety of music types talk on cell phones and text in between sips of the morning’s blend.

Thomas waves at a girl standing by the main entrance. She waves back and walks over. “Hey,” Thomas says while they hug.

“Adrienne Langley, this is CeCe MacKenzie,” he says. “And her boy Hank Junior.”

“Hey, CeCe,” Adrienne says. “Hey, Hank.” She bends down to rub him under the chin, and the look in her eyes tells me she’s a dog-lover. I can’t help but instantly like her.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

“You, too,” she says, standing again. “Where’s Holden?”

“He got a little detained this morning,” Thomas says by way  of explanation.

“Oh, I was hoping he would be here,” Adrienne says, and I can see she’s a verified member of Holden’s ever-increasing female fan club.

A tall, dark-haired guy walks up behind her and hands her a coffee. “Tall, medium roast, sis.”

“Thanks,” she says, smiling at him. “Thomas, this is my brother J.B. J.B, Thomas and his friend CeCe.”

J.B. shakes Thomas’s hand and then settles his gaze on me. “Nice to meet you both.”

He’s about as good-looking as any guy I’ve ever met. If he were trying out for a movie role, he’d probably get it just because he’s got that kind of longish, wavy hair that says box office instant success. I can’t stop myself from blushing under his assessment. “You, too,” I say.

“This table okay?” We pull out chairs, while Hank Junior settles himself in a slice of shade from a nearby tree, then stretches out like he’s got sleep to catch up on.

“What’s your pleasure, CeCe?” Thomas asks. “I’ll go in and get us a cup.”

“Tall blonde,” I say.

“We are talking about coffee, right?” J.B. says with a grin.

“We are,” Thomas says, giving him a look. “Be right back.”

Adrienne pulls out a chair, and J. B. steps around to take the one between the two of us. He waits for us each to sit before sitting down.

“Where are you from, CeCe?” Adrienne looks at me and then takes a sip of her coffee.

“Virginia.”

“All right,” J.B. says.

“How ‘bout y’all?” I ask, attempting to ignore the suggestive edge in his voice.

“North Carolina,” Adrienne answers.

“How long have you been here?”

“Six months.”

“And three days,” J.B. adds.

“Made any headway?” I ask.

“Some, I think,” Adrienne says. “We’re playing out most nights. Audiences are getting bigger. Youtube hits for our videos are increasing. And we’re getting ready to record a song that we’re releasing under our own label.”

“Cool,” I say, feeling more than a little like the new guppy in the pond. “What’s the song like?”

“It’s actually one we wrote with Thomas’s buddy Holden the last time they were in town. I’m so in love with it.”

My stomach does an automatic dip at the sound of Holden’s name, and my head is filled with an instant vision of Sarah stretched out alongside him in bed, their legs entwined–

“You know him?” J.B. asks, jerking my attention back to the present.

“He and Thomas kind of rescued me from the side of the Interstate a few days ago.”

“Lucky them,” J.B. says, flirtation at the edges of the comment.

“I’m not so sure they saw it that way.”

“They’re good guys,” Adrienne says. “If you need rescuing, they’re the ones you want riding up on the white horse.”

J.B. rolls his eyes and slides down in his chair, crossing his arms across his nicely muscled chest. “That white hat thing can get kind of boring, don’tcha think?”

Adrienne looks at me and shakes her head. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He likes bad girls.”

“Hey now. Dissing your brother like that.”

Adrienne pins him with a look. “You know it’s true.”

Before J.B. can answer, Thomas returns with the coffee, setting mine down in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say, pulling out the chair beside me so he can sit down.

“I got Hank Junior a little cup of whipped cream,” he says, and puts the cup down in front of him. Hank starts to lick, tentatively at first, and then with total enthusiasm. Thomas grins. “Thought you’d like that.”

“He’s going to be totally ruined,” I say, even as I can’t deny loving Thomas a little more each time he does something like this.

“He’s yours?” J.B. directs the question to me.

“Yes,” I say.

“Which one of you sings?” J.B. teases.

“He’s got a good howl,” I answer. “Sometimes, I’d say he’s the better of the two of us.”

“She’s being modest,” Thomas throws in. “She sings like an angel.”

“Really?” Adrienne asks, and despite her smile, I hear the competitive lilt in the question.

“As you know you do, too, Adrienne,” Thomas says, tipping his coffee cup at her in mock salute.

“Why, thank you, sir,” she says, perking back up.

“So what is it you two wanted to talk about this morning?” Thomas asks, stretching his legs out in front of his chair.

“I was hoping Holden would be with you so we could all talk,” Adrienne says, “but what we wanted to discuss was pitching both our acts to venues, kind of as a double header thing. J.B. and I think we draw a similar crowd and that we might make more of an impact that way.”

“And we were hoping to write some more songs together,” J.B. throws in.

“How far out are y’all booked?” Thomas asks.

“A week,” Adrienne and J.B. say in unison.

“Nothing like job security, is there?” Thomas asks, and we all smile.

“We’re booked over at the Cocky Cow tonight. If y’all want to play before us, we’ve already cleared it with the manager.”

“Cool,” Thomas says. “I’ll check with Holden. Text you in a bit?”

“Sure,” Adrienne says. “We’ve got an appointment with a publisher in an hour. And I need to go spiff up.”

“All right, then,” Thomas says. “Check you later.”

Adrienne and J.B. push back their chairs and stand. Thomas and I do the same, and I wake up Hank Junior who yawns and then follows me through the maze of tables.

Adrienne and Thomas step aside to say something to one another, and J.B. turns to me with a smile. “Would you be free for a drink after our gig tonight?”

Given my no doubt accurate impression of J.B. as a player, I start to say no. But then I get an instant visual of Sarah with Holden and wonder how I can possibly stay in the apartment with them. “Maybe,” I hedge.

“How do I get that changed to a yes?” he asks, looking down at me with a grin that I am sure rarely fails him.

“Do you like dogs?” I ask.

He laughs then. “Not as much as girls. But yeah, I like dogs. Is that a prerequisite?”

“Definitely,” I say.

“Not a problem,” he says, still grinning. “So I’ll see you tonight then?”

“Sure,” I answer.

“Good.” He waves and gets in the convertible VW Adrienne is driving.

During our walk back to the apartment, Thomas looks at me and says, “You gotta watch that guy.”

“How so?” I ask.

“His own sister won’t let her friends date him.”

“Ouch.”

“Did he ask you out?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I said I’d have a drink with him.”

“He’s not your type, CeCe.”

“I don’t know if I have a type yet,” I say.

“And if you’re doing this to get back at Holden–”

“Holden has a girl friend,” I interrupt.

“I can’t deny that,” he says. “But don’t let that make you do something you’ll regret.”

“It’s just a drink,” I say.

“Most mistakes start out that way,” he says. “Let me ask you this. Would you go out with him if Sarah hadn’t shown up?”

I’d like to prove him wrong by answering with an immediate yes, but we both know I’d be lying. So I don’t say anything. What would be the point?

♪

17

Holden

We get to the Cocky Cow at just before eight. Thomas had woken me up around four so we could practice before our set. Sarah’s upset with me because she wanted to have dinner alone and talk, but talking is about the last thing I want to do with Sarah since I have no idea what to say.

She’s sitting at a corner table now, nursing a diet Coke and looking as if she’s sorry the idea of coming to Nashville ever occurred to her.

CeCe is helping us get set up, and we’re avoiding each other as if both our lives depend on it. I’m trying not to notice the way J.B. is openly flirting with her, or the way she’s smiling back at him as if she likes it.

Adrienne comes over and gives me a hug, telling me how much she loves the song we wrote together. “I can’t wait to hear you sing it,” I say.

“Be happy to give you a private show,” she says with just enough teasing in her voice to call the offer a joke if pride needs saving.

I stop short of an answer when Thomas walks over and shakes his head. “I ain’t envying your position, man.”

I don’t bother to ask him what he means. “I had no idea she was coming,” I say.

“Yeah, but didn’t she have the right to?”

“I’m not saying she didn’t,” I admit.

“You just weren’t expecting CeCe,” Thomas says.

“No. I wasn’t expecting CeCe.”

Thunder claps outside the building, loud enough to make itself heard above the pre-show music playing in the bar.

“Whoa,” Thomas says. “They’re calling for some serious storms.”

Thomas taps his phone screen, looks at it for a moment and then says, “Weather.com shows a tornado watch for this area.”

CeCe walks up, deliberately not looking at me. “Tornado watch?” she repeats.

“That ain’t no good,” Thomas says.

“It’s just a watch,” I say. “Probably nothing.”

I meet eyes with CeCe then for the first time since this morning when Sarah had greeted us at the front door. Our gazes snag for a moment, and it feels like both of us have trouble glancing away.

“You got a song in you tonight, CeCe?” Thomas asks.

She looks at him and starts to shake her head.

“Aw, come on. Just one.” He names a couple her uncle wrote.

“What about Sarah?” CeCe says. “She might want to sing with you tonight.”

“We’ll ask her,” Thomas says, “but I’m not sure she’s in a singing mood.”

I give him a look that makes him duck and throw an air punch at me. CeCe looks uncomfortable and says, “You should ask her.”

“This a private meeting, or can I sit in?”

J.B. strolls over, one thumb hooked through the belt loop of his jeans, his gaze focused solely on CeCe.

“We’re just trying to talk her into singing a song with us tonight.”

“I’d sure like to hear you sing, CeCe,” J.B. says, standing closer to her than seems necessary. “We still on for that drink tonight?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “If we don’t get hit by a tornado.”

“Whhhhaat?” J.B. says.

“There’s a watch,” Thomas throws out.

“This place got a cellar?” J.B. asks, and from the look on his face, I’m thinking he’s really worried about it.

“Shouldn’t we be hitting the stage?” I say to Thomas.

“Eight o’clock. I reckon so,” Thomas says.

“CeCe, you wanna hang out until Adrienne and I go on?” J.B. says.

“Sure,” she answers, and if you ask me, her voice is a little too bright to be believable. Even so, her answer leaves me wishing I could remove the satisfied grin from J.B. Langley’s mouth.

♪

18

CeCe

I know Holden and Sarah aren’t talking. She’s sitting at the back of the room, alternating staring at me with staring at him.

I’d like to go on and decide that I just plain don’t like her, but then I think what it must be like to come all this way to see your boyfriend only to get here and realize that something’s changed in the few days you’ve been apart.

I’m not saying that I think I’m responsible for that change. Maybe I’m just the bump in the road that’s making Holden question whether he and Sarah are right for one another. But even I can see that he’s questioning it.

I’m alternating between feeling like a rotten, relationship-wrecker and a hopeful, crush-stricken adolescent.

I sit at a table near the front of the room with J.B., nursing a Coke while Holden and Thomas bring the crowd of people in the room to life. Just about every person there is listening with the kind of intensity you only get when people really like what you’re doing.

Without doubt, Thomas was born to be on stage. There’s a natural ease to the way he tells something funny or revealing about himself and then segues into a song Holden has written about that exact thing. I could listen to them all night. Not just Thomas’s voice but the way Holden plays the guitar as if it is the only thing he was ever meant to do. As if he feels every note. Every word. I find myself waiting for the moments when he comes in with a background vocal, his voice the perfect accompaniment to Thomas’s thick, country twang.

I try not to meet eyes with them throughout the performance, but it’s like there’s a magnet between us. Every time I feel him looking at me, I can’t help myself from letting my gaze bump his.

J.B. is apparently aware of this because every time it happens, he leans forward and says something in my ear. I get the impression that he’s doing it as much to rile Holden as he is to sweet talk me.

Thomas is talking to the crowd again. I pull my thoughts back to his voice, telling myself I’m not going to look at Holden again.

“This next number, folks,” Thomas says, “is a song Holden wrote one night when we both decided we didn’t really care what we had to do to support our love for this business, singing and writing songs. Short of armed robbery, of course.”

Laughter ripples through the crowd.

“Aside from that, anything we did, whether it’s building a house or waiting tables would just be the means to the freedom to do what we love. This here’s called A Hammer and a Song.”

I listen to the words, and I hear Holden in each and every one of them. He has a real gift, and it’s clear that this life means everything to him. I can only imagine how hard that must have been for Sarah to accept. If she has.

When the song is over, a few beats of silence follow the moment when Thomas lays down his microphone. The applause erupts all at once, punctuated by whistles and whoops. I glance at J.B. whose clapping is tentative to say the least, his voice a little clipped when he says, “That’s good stuff.”

“It is,” I say, and then before I know it, Thomas is taking my hand and pulling me up on the stage. My heart is beating a thousand miles an hour and my hands are suddenly clammy. Thomas tells the audience about my Uncle Dobie and the great songs he had written.

“We’re gonna do one of those for you, folks,” he says, nodding at me.

I close my eyes and wait for Holden’s intro, and then Thomas and I dip into the song together. For the next three minutes, I’m in that other place where all that matters is the music. It’s a place I sometimes wish I could stay in, that sweet spot where the notes and the words all come together to create something wonderful, magical.

When it’s over, the crowd gives us their approval with gratifying applause. My heart is no longer racing, and I just feel grateful to Thomas for his generosity. I hug him. He hugs me back while the audience claps harder, and I force myself not to look at Holden.

We’re about to leave the stage when a sudden noise rises above the clapping. Everyone goes silent, and the sudden wail of an alarm fills the room, the noise clogging our ears like smoke in the lungs.

A man in a white shirt and black pants runs over to the stage and takes the microphone from Thomas. “Folks, I’m the manager here. A tornado has just been spotted in the downtown area. We have been advised by public safety officials to immediately take cover in the downstairs part of the building. Let’s all keep our cool. Single file if you would, and follow me to the stairwell.”

His voice is even and reassuring as if this is something he does every night. He steps off the stage then and heads for the main entrance to the bar.

“Seriously?” Thomas says, looking at me and then Holden.

Holden glances at the back of the room and says, “I’ll get Sarah. Meet you two downstairs.”

He steps down from the stage and begins winding his way through the crowd to the back of the room where Sarah stands waiting, with a panicked look on her face.

I remember then that Hank Junior and Patsy are at the apartment alone.

“The dogs, Thomas,” I say, feeling a well of panic. “I need to get home.”

“CeCe, that siren means we need to do what they say. I’ll drive you myself as soon as we get the all clear.” Thomas takes my hand, and I follow him through the lobby to the stairwell where people are hurrying downstairs.

“They’ll be all right,” he says over his shoulder. “And look at it this way. This will probably give us something to write about.”

“Then I hope it’s a song with a happy ending,” I say, tears welling up.

The alarm is loud, and I’d like to cover my ears as we head down, but I’m afraid to let go of Thomas’s hand. My heart is throbbing in time with the siren’s wail, and I say a silent prayer that this will be over soon.

The room we’re filing into is large and dimly lit. The alarm has lost its knife edge blare, and I feel like I can again think a little more clearly. We find a spot in a far corner and sit on the floor against the wall.

I see Holden come through the door, Sarah holding onto his arm. I wish for a moment that they would sit at the opposite end of the room from us, but Thomas waves them over.

Holden looks at me and says, “Think the dogs will be all right?”

“I hope so,” I say, not quite able to meet his concerned gaze.

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Sarah asks. “They’re inside, aren’t they?”

No one answers her. I’m certainly not going to since what I want to say isn’t likely to make us fast friends.

Holden takes the spot next to me, leaning back against the wall. Sarah studies him for a moment, then wilts onto the floor beside him, as if it is the last place on earth she wants to be.

“How long do we have to stay here?” she asks, the words sounding like those of a petulant seven-year-old.

“Until the threat of a tornado passes, I would imagine,” Thomas says, and I can hear the disapproval in his voice.

The lights in the room, already dim, flicker and extinguish all together as if someone has just blown out a candle.

Voices rise up in protest, and then that of the manager calling out for everyone to please listen. “Sorry about that, folks. Looks like we’ve lost our power. I know none of you came out expecting this tonight. But for the moment, it is what it is. I doubt the lights will be out for long. Let’s sit tight, and give this cloud a chance to pass on over. Oh, and keep your hands to yourself, please.”

This actually pulls forth a chuckle from the crowd, although I notice Sarah doesn’t laugh.

From our basement haven, the wind is muffled, but its fury is still evident. I can hear something flapping at the top of the stairs.

“Sounds like a door,” Thomas says.

The sounds stops, and for a second, it’s silent. And then out of nowhere, another sound hits, like a train speeding through the darkness. The roar is so loud I put my hands to my ears and squeeze hard. I scream and realize I’m not the only one. An arm encircles me from either side, both Thomas and Holden are holding onto me. I feel Sarah’s arms bolt around Holden’s waist, the four of us linked together like a human chain of fear.

I press my face into Holden’s shoulder and bite back the terror that yanks me under like a sudden, unexpected riptide.

I want to melt into him, and here in the dark, I let myself imagine we are the only two here. I remember what it felt like to be in his arms, his mouth on mine, his hands–

But we’re not alone. Sarah is crying now, and Holden is soothing her with his voice, telling her it’ll be over soon, that everything is going to be all right.

I pull myself out of the half circle of his arm, and Thomas hooks me up against him, comforting me with his big embrace.

I’m not sure how long we sit there. It really seems like hours, but it might just be minutes. Or even seconds.

As quickly as the roar descended, it is gone. Just like that. In the snap of a finger. And the room is terrifyingly quiet.

“Is everyone all right?” the manager speaks up, his voice by now familiar even though we can’t see him. He sounds shaken, as if he’s not sure what to do next.

A chorus of yes, yes, yes rises up, followed by sighs of relief. As if in unspoken agreement, everyone stays seated for a couple of minutes. No alarms. No wind. Just silence.

And then footsteps sound on the stairs, followed by an official-sounding voice. “Anyone need help down here?”

“I think we’re all okay,” the manager answers back. “Is it all right to come out?”

“Yes. Your building held up well. But it’s a mess outside. Y’all be careful now. I brought some flashlights for you.”

“Thanks,” the manager says. He turns one on and shines it across the room.

I squint at the light, my eyes already adjusting to the dark. Thomas stands and offers me a hand. I get to my feet and say, “Can we go home now?” And I’m praying the tornado didn’t hit our apartment building.

Thomas flicks on the flashlight someone just handed him and says, “Let’s go.”

Holden and Sarah follow us up the stairs. It’s slow going with all the people in front of us, but we finally reach the top and walk out into the night.

A few street lights are on, others hanging limply from their poles as if they’d just taken a left hook. But that’s the least of it. The four of us stand staring at the wreckage around us. Cars that had been parallel parked in front of the bar now sit on their sides, front end, and some are even rolled over on their tops.

It’s like a giant lumbered down the street and picked them each up the way a toddler picks up toy cars, dropping them where he pleases when they cease to interest him.

No one says anything for a full minute, and then Thomas utters, “Good day in the mornin’.”

“Let’s go see if the truck is in one piece,” Holden says.

We weave our way down the sidewalk to the side parking lot where Thomas had parked earlier. Amazingly enough, every car in the square lot is exactly as it had been left. The funnel cloud had made a line of carnage straight down the street, taking complete mercy on anything to either side of it.

“Thank goodness,” I say.

“The only question,” Holden says, “is will we be able to get out of here?”

Thomas glances around and nods once. “I didn’t get her in four wheel drive for nothing.”

“You can’t just roll over other cars,” Sarah says, sounding a little dazed.

“Y’all hop on in, and leave the driving to me,” Thomas advises. And since we don’t have any other choice, we do.

♪

19

Holden

CeCe and Sarah sit between Thomas and me, Sarah’s back ramrod straight. I can see CeCe’s trying her best not to touch shoulders with Sarah, but that’s pretty much impossible since we’re packed in here like books on a library shelf.

Sarah has her fingers entwined tightly with mine. I’m not sure if it’s because she needs the security of my touch or if she’s making a statement.

Not that CeCe appears to notice. She hasn’t looked at me once since we came out of the basement. Even so, there’s a cord of electricity between us that I feel and somehow know she does, too.

Thomas navigates the truck out of the parking lot and then rides with two tires on the sidewalk for a couple of blocks or so until we get around some of the vehicles that have been tossed along the street like toys.

A few people are standing outside shop doors looking shell-shocked. Thomas rolls down his window and throws out, “Y’all need any help?”

“We’re good,” a man answers back.

Most of the street lights are out, and it feels like a scene from one of those apocalyptic movies. The sky is still a heavy, gunmetal grey. We make decent headway until we’re a couple of miles or so from the apartment. A Range Rover sits at an odd angle in the middle of the street, the driver’s side door open. There’s no one else anywhere in sight.

Thomas brakes the truck to a stop, and we both jump out and run to the car. There’s a woman in the driver’s seat. She’s slumped to one side, unconscious. I realize then that it’s Lauren, my boss at the restaurant.

Sarah and CeCe run over to the car. “What happened?” CeCe asks.

Before I can answer, CeCe spots Lauren and says, “Oh, no.”

“Who is she?” Sarah asks.

“She owns the restaurant where we work,” I answer. I lean in to feel for a pulse in her neck, my own heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

The beat is there, and I feel a quick jab of relief.

“Should we try to get her out?” Thomas asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, pulling my phone from my back pocket and dialing 911. An operator answers immediately and asks what my emergency is. I tell her, and she tells me the wait may be fifteen minutes or more because of the tornado and the number of emergency calls it has generated. She asks if we can get Lauren to the hospital.

“Yes,” I say. “Or at least I think so.”

“Call back if you can’t,” she says, and she’s gone.

I look at Thomas and CeCe. “We need to get her to the emergency room.”

“Can you take her vehicle, and I’ll head for the apartment to check on the dogs?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Let’s put her in the back,” Thomas says. He leans in and lifts Lauren out like she’s nothing more than a cotton ball and places her gently on the leather seat.

“CeCe, can you ride with her?” I ask. “At least if she wakes up, she’ll know you.”

“I’m going with Thomas,” Sarah says, folding her arms and walking stiff-backed to the truck.

I start to go after her, tell her to come with us, but I honestly don’t feel like arguing right now. And I’m also afraid of what might happen if we don’t get Lauren to the hospital asap.

“Y’all get going. I’ll take care of her,” Thomas says, giving me a sympathetic look.

I get in the driver’s seat, glance over my shoulder at CeCe who is looking a little too pale, then throw the Rover into gear. I gun it for the hospital, reminding myself how to get there.

An iPhone is lying on the passenger seat. I pick it up and check the recent calls. There’s Case Phillips’s name and number.

I hold it up and flash the screen at CeCe. “Think we ought to call him?”

“Can’t hurt. Maybe he’ll know what might be wrong.”

I hit send, and put it on speaker, unable to believe I’m actually calling Case Phillips.

He answers on the first ring. “Hey, baby. Are you okay? I’ve been trying to call you.”

I clear my throat and say, “Mr. Phillips. This is Holden Ashford. I work for Lauren at the restaurant. We found her in her car, unconscious. My friend and I are driving her to the hospital, but we thought you might have an idea what could be wrong.”

“She’s diabetic,” he says with quick urgency. “She’s passed out before. There should be a kit in her purse.”

“I already looked for her purse,” CeCe says from the back seat. “There isn’t one in the car.”

“She never goes anywhere without it,” Case says, disbelieving. “Could she have been mugged?”

“It’s possible,” I say. “The door was open when we pulled up.”

Case lets out a string of curses and then says, “Keep me on the phone until you reach the hospital.”

“Okay,” I agree, and then put my attention on getting us there without wrecking.

I drive well over the speed limit, deciding I’ll take my chances with an explanation if I get pulled over. Right now, all I care about is getting Lauren to the ER where someone will know how to help her.

We’re there in minutes, and I pull up to the main door, hopping out and running inside. I’m still holding Lauren’s phone, and I let Case know we made it.

“I’m driving now. I’ll meet you there,” he says. “Oh, and thank you. Thank you so much.”

I click off the phone, realizing that he really loves her, the fear in his voice proof of it.

I flag down a nurse and tell her what’s happened and that Lauren is diabetic.

She grabs a gurney and follows me back outside where I lift Lauren out of the seat and place her carefully on it.

“Are you family?” the nurse asks me.

“No,” I say. “We found her like this in her car.”

“Is there someone who can give us a history?”

“Her—Case Phillips,” I say. “He’s on his way.”

The woman’s eyes widen a little before professionalism slips back into place. “Please direct him to the registration desk when he gets here,” she says, and then she’s wheeling Lauren toward the ER doors marked Restricted.

I let myself look at CeCe then. She’s still looking a little panicky.

“Will she be all right?” she asks, clearly needing me to say yes.

“I hope so,” I say and realize that’s the best I can do.

We find a parking place for the Rover and then walk back inside the hospital where we wait by a vending machine. In less than five minutes, Case Phillips runs through the main doors. I wave at him, and he walks over, his face drawn with worry.

“We’re the ones who brought Lauren in,” I say.

“Oh. Thank you. Thank you so much. Where is she?”

I point to the restricted door. “They took her in there. The nurse asked me to tell you they’ll need whatever information you can give them.”

“Of course.” He glances at CeCe and then back at me again. “You both look familiar. Have we met?”

“Sort of,” I say, not wanting to elaborate.

But his face lights with recognition and then slight embarrassment. He glances at CeCe and says, “Ah, sorry about that.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

By now, people are starting to recognize him. There’s some pointing and murmuring, a couple of giggles.

“Do you two have a ride?” he asks.

“We can get a cab,” I say.

“No need. Take the Rover. We’ll get it later.”

“No, really.”

“I insist,” he says. “And Lauren would as well.”

“All right,” I say, still reluctant.

“I better get them what they need so I can see her.”

“Sure.”

“Thank you both again.”

He heads for the registration desk, stares and smiles following him. And if it weren’t a hospital, I’m sure people would be asking for autographs.

CeCe and I walk to the parking lot with a few feet of space between us, silent.

I unlock the Rover and slide into the driver’s side. For a moment, I think she’s going to get in the back again, but she opens the passenger door with some reluctance.

“I don’t bite,” I say.

“Hm,” she says on a note of disagreement.

I back out of the parking lot and pull onto the street, the Rover engine an expensive sounding low rumble.

“I hope she’ll be okay,” CeCe says, looking out the window. “My mom nearly died once like that.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, glancing at her. “Were you there?”

“I found her when I got home from school.”

“That must have been scary.”

“It was,” she says.

“Do you miss her?”

“A lot.”

“What about your dad?” I ask.

“He’s never been in the picture.”

For some reason, this surprises me.

“Your parents?”

“Divorced. My mom actually lives in London.”

“Do you see her often?”

“Not very.”

“And your dad?”

“He’s in Georgia. We pretty much try to avoid each other.”

“That’s sad,” CeCe says and then looks as if she wants to take it back.

“Yeah, it is,” I agree.

“Is it anything that can’t be fixed?”

“Probably.”

She wants to ask more. I can feel it. But I guess she senses I don’t want to talk about it. We’re quiet for a few moments, and then I say, “CeCe?”

“Hmm?”

“About Sarah.”

“Don’t. Please,” she says, holding up a hand. “You don’t need to. It’s not like I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” I say. “I’m not a guy who does that kind of thing.”

“And I’m not a girl who does that kind of thing. So we need to forget about it.”

“I want to,” I say. “I just don’t know if I can.”

She looks at me then, and I see the quick flash of longing. It echoes inside me, and I swing the Rover off the street into a parking place. I turn off the engine, and we sit like this, staring straight ahead while I tell myself I’m being an idiot. That I should drive us both home. Now.

That doesn’t explain why I turn to her, slip my hand to the back of her neck and pull her to me. I don’t know who kisses who first. But it doesn’t really matter. I can’t think of anything else. I don’t want anything else. Just her mouth beneath mine. And those sweet, soft sounds she’s making, blocking out any other thoughts.

She slips her arms around my neck, and even with the gear shift between us, we manage to melt into one another. I’ve never wanted anyone in my life the way I want her now. I can’t separate the want from my heartbeat, my breathing; it’s so much a part of me.

It’s no surprise that she’s the one to pull away first. She opens the Rover door and jumps out as if it’s the only sure ticket to safety. I sit for a moment, my eyes closed as I force myself to rational thought.

I let a few moments pass, then get out and walk around the vehicle where CeCe is leaning against a big round oak tree.

“We know better,” she says.

“I don’t deny that.”

“That won’t happen again,” she adds, and I can’t tell if she’s trying to convince me or herself.

“CeCe–”

“You have someone in your life,” she goes on as if I haven’t spoken. “As long as that’s the case, we can’t be.”

I know she’s right. I want to argue, disagree, throw out excuses. But there really aren’t any. “I’m sorry,” I say, the words limp and meaningless.

We stare at each other for a string of seconds, and I feel like I’m about to lose something I never knew I was looking for. I jab the toe of my boot into the sidewalk, and wish I had an argument to stand on. But I don’t. And we both know it.

“Can you give me a little time?” I ask.

“To what? Figure out how to break her heart into a hundred pieces instead of a thousand.”

“No–”

“Yes, Holden. She loves you. And you probably still love her, too.”

I’d like to deny it outright, tell her she’s wrong. A few days ago, though, I did love her. Or thought I did.

“I don’t want to be the reason you hurt her, Holden. If what you have isn’t real, then it shouldn’t take me to help you figure that out. And if it is real, well, it’s real.”

She stares at me for a few heartbeats, and I know I could sway her. Just by reaching out and pulling her to me. I also know that would make me the biggest kind of jerk. And probably a fool as well. Because she’s right.

CeCe gets back in the Rover, buckles her seat belt.

I walk around and slide in the driver’s side, pulling out onto the street. I hit the Satellite radio button, and music fills the interior. It’s loud, and I like it that way. It keeps what I’m thinking inside of me. Silent. As it should be.

♪

20

CeCe

It’s after one a.m. when we let ourselves in the door of the apartment.

Hank Junior greets us in his usual way, jumping down from the sofa and trotting to the door to first nudge me with his nose and then Holden. Loyalty keeps him from going to Holden first, even though I suspect, if he had his way, he would.

Ever since we sprang him from the pound, Hank Junior looks at Holden the way he’s always looked at me. Like he knows most of the secrets to the universe.

Patsy’s still more cautious. She waits for Holden to walk over to the couch and rub her under the chin. With this reminder that he’s one of the nice guys, she’s suddenly all wiggles and wags, hopping down to trot into the kitchen after him and Hank Junior.

I hear the refrigerator door open and the rustling of the plastic wrapping that holds the sliced turkey Holden gives Hank Junior and Patsy every night when we get home from the restaurant.

“Holden?”

I jump at the sound of Sarah’s voice from the end of the hall, and reality comes crashing back like a cold ocean wave.

I call for Hank Junior and head for my room, my only regret that I have to pass Sarah on the way. She avoids my eyes on the way to the kitchen, and I step into the bedroom, wait for Hank to pad in behind me and close the door. I flip on the light and spot Thomas sprawled on the floor next to the bed in a sleeping bag.

“Hey,” he says, raising up on one elbow. “Hope you don’t mind me crashing in here.”

“Of course not,” I say. “You take the bed, Thomas. I’ll be fine on the floor.”

“Not necessary. Unless you wanna share it?” he says with a teasing grin.

His hair is all messed up, and there’s a smile in his eyes. It occurs to me then that some girl is going to fall madly in love with him. For a second, I wish it were me. “You would so regret that in the morning,” I say, heading into the bathroom.

“I’m thinking you might be wrong about that.”

“You’re just being nice to me,” I say, putting toothpaste on my toothbrush.

“How you figure?”

“Because I was dumb enough to fall for Holden.”

“Apparently, you’re not aware of your obvious charms, sweetheart,” he says.

I smile. “Thanks. My ego could use the boost right about now.”

“He’s not rejecting you, CeCe. It’s just–”

“Sarah was there first,” I finish for him.

“Yeah. I guess,” he says.

“I get it.”

“Doesn’t make it hurt less though, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” I reach for my nightgown where it hangs on a hook behind the door. I push the door closed and slip out of my clothes.

I flick off the bedroom light before making my way to the bed, sliding under the covers, Hank already curled up at the foot.

A car drives by on the street outside the bedroom window, and then the room is silent again.

“Have you ever been in love, Thomas?”

“I thought it was love,” he says.

“It wasn’t?”

“If it doesn’t last, I don’t guess you can call it love.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Felt good at the time though,” he adds. “And I got a pretty good tune out of it. Holden got tired of seeing me mope around, so he made me write a song with him about her.”

I laugh softly. “What was it called?”

“Fifty Acres and a Tractor.”

“Seriously?”

He laughs. “Holden has a way of clarifying the picture.”

At the mention of his name, I picture Sarah and him in the other room. I wonder if he’s making love to her, and the thought is so painful, I squeeze my eyes closed tight to disrupt the image. “Thomas?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I come down there with you?”

“Well, sure. We’ll both the do the sleeping bag thing. Let Hank have the bed.”

I never had a brother. Never imagined what it would feel like to have someone in my life who might have my back the way a brother would. But I’d like to think he would have been like Thomas if I did have one.

I slide out of bed and scoot into the bag beside him. He raises up so I can rest my head on his shoulder. He rubs his thumb across my hair, and I know he’s guessed what I’m thinking about.

“You know it’ll work out how it’s meant to,” he says.

I nod, unable to force any words past the lump in my throat.

“Meanwhile, you got a singing career to work on.”

“And starting tomorrow morning, that’s all I’m going to think about. Forget this love stuff.”

“There you go. It just gets in the way, anyhow.”

Hank starts to snore, and we both laugh.

“I’m glad I met you, Thomas,” I say.

“I’m glad I met you, CeCe,” he agrees.

He gives me a kiss on the top of my head, and we let ourselves fall asleep.

♪

THE KNOCK THAT wakes us up is sharp and a little angry-sounding.

I raise up on one elbow at the same time Thomas does, and we knock heads, both of us muttering a groggy, “Ouch.”

“Yeah?” Thomas barks out.

The door opens a crack, and Holden sticks his head inside. He looks from one of us to the other, his eyes going wide, before he says, “Seriously?”

Thomas rakes a hand over his face, and gives him a glare. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, man. What do you want?”

Holden looks as if he wants to slam the door and rewind these last few moments. “Lauren called, CeCe. She wants us to bring the Rover over to her house.”

“When?” I ask, sleep still at the edges of my voice.

“Now.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can’t you take it without me?”

“She specifically said to make sure you come, too. If we want a  job to go to tonight, we probably oughta do as she asks.”

I roll over on my knees, arch my back like a cat and shake loose the threads of fatigue. When I flop back over, Holden is staring at me like I’m the glass of water he’s crossed a desert for.

“I’m going back to sleep,” Thomas says and yanks the sleeping bag over his head, leaving me bare-legged and exposed to Holden’s caught-in-the-headlights stare.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

He closes the door without responding. I scramble to my feet, yank a t-shirt on over my head and hook a leash to Hank Junior’s collar.

We head outside into the cool morning air, and goosebumps instantly break across my arms. Hank makes short work of his business. I’m ready to go back in when Holden comes out with Patsy.

Awkward doesn’t begin to describe the cloud that instantly descends over the two of us. He walks Patsy over to a spot of grass near Hank and me. He’s dying to ask. I can see it in his face. I have no desire to rid him of his misery, but even so, I say, “You know your best friend better than that, don’t you?”

Red tints his cheeks before he says, “Yeah.”

“Then why would you even think.  . . .”

“Who you sleep with really isn’t any of my business anyway, is it?” he asks, his voice sharp.

“As a matter of fact, no, it isn’t,” I say.

“With Sarah in your bed, I don’t know why you would care who’s in mine.” The words aren’t nearly as neutral sounding as I’d intended them to be.

I don’t wait for him to respond. I hightail it back up the stairs and into the apartment, slapping the door closed behind me. I let the shower water run a little extra cold this morning, more to cool my anger than to wake me up. In a few short minutes, I’m dressed, and waiting outside by the Range Rover, my hair pulled back in a wet ponytail.

When Holden comes out, he’s wearing a lime green shirt that makes him look so darn good I could cry at the realization that I have fallen for a guy I am never going to have.

He walks – strides or stomps might be more accurate – around to the driver’s side, hits the remote and slides in. I get in, too, and we ride the first couple of miles without speaking.

“Coffee?” he says in a neutral voice.

I nod.

He swings into a Starbucks drive-through and orders two tall breakfast blends, remembering to ask for mine the way I like it. The consideration dings my anger, and I feel it leak out of me like helium from a week old balloon.

I hand him money for my coffee. When he ignores me, I drop it in the cupholder and look out the window. We sip in silence.

Holden drives away from the city, and it isn’t long before the urban roads become rural. Enormous houses begin to appear on either side of the road, wide green pastures defined by white board fencing. Horses graze the fields with lazy selectivity, as if food is plentiful and they are merely indulging their host. It’s as beautiful a place as any I’ve ever seen anywhere. I wish the mail boxes had names on them and imagine they would read like Urban, Paisley, Parton, and Keith.

I want to comment on how amazing they are but force myself not to since we seem to be in a contest of who can hold out the silence the longest. But when the GPS on Holden’s phone indicates we should make a right turn onto an asphalt driveway lined by white fencing that stretches out as far as we can see, I can’t help but gasp my delight.

“Incredible!” I say.

“Yeah,” Holden agrees.

A half mile or so, and a house comes into sight. It sits on a high knoll, golf course green grass cascading down to meet the pasture fencing.

“Is this Lauren’s house?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Holden says. “All she told me was the address.”

We pull into the circular driveway, and Holden cuts the engine. The massive wood front door opens, and Case Phillips steps out. Holden and I both glance at each other like tongue-tied teenagers.

He steps out onto the stoop in bare feet and blue jeans, a t-shirt that reads Country Boys Get the Row Hoed stretching the width of his impressively honed chest. I’m starstruck, no point in denying it. I was lucky enough to see him in concert on my sixteenth birthday, and my mama had spent a good portion of her week’s paycheck to get us on the third row. I’d sat there in a near trance-like state, listening to him woo every female in the place – including my mama – with the voice that had given him number one single after number one single.

And now I’m sitting here in front of his house. Whoa.

Case waves us out of the vehicle. We open the doors and get out our respective sides.

“Y’all come on in,” he says and disappears back inside the house.

Holden and I look at each other with wide eyes, and I can tell he’s as awed as I am. We bump shoulders going through the front door. Holden steps to one side and then closes it behind us.

There’s music playing from a room ahead of us. Surprisingly, it’s not country. It’s pop with a heavy beat. A giant winding staircase sits to our right. The ceiling is high and open, and oil paintings line the walls that curve around and up.

I feel a little like Alice in Wonderland and have to force myself not to sidle up next to Holden as I would like to. He leads the way through the foyer toward the music, and we end up at the entrance to a very large room lined with bookcases on one wall and four big screen TVs on the opposite one.

There must be a dozen oversize leather chairs with matching ottomans scattered across the room. Sitting in one with her feet tucked up beneath her is Lauren.

She has a mug in one hand, a book in the other. “Hey,” she says, looking up at us.

Case walks over to a wall unit and turns a button. The music lowers to barely audible.

“How are you?” I ask, thinking she still looks a little pale.

“Good,” she says. “Thanks to the both of you.”

Holden and I glance at each other, neither of us comfortable with the praise.

“Would y’all like some coffee or something?” Case asks, dropping down into the leather chair next to Lauren.

“No, thank you,” we say in unison, and I think maybe we’re starting to look and sound like twin puppets.

“Y’all sit down then,” Case says and waves a hand at two chairs opposite theirs.

Holden and I sit, again puppet-like.

“So what’s your story?” Case asks, his blue eyes direct on us both.

“Ah, I’m not sure what–” Holden begins.

“Why are you two in Nashville?” Case says. “Music I’m assuming.”

We both nod, and Case and Lauren smile.

“Relax, y’all,” Lauren says. “I know you two aren’t this uptight at the restaurant.”

I make an effort to do exactly that just because I feel so foolish sitting here like a bowling pin. I let my shoulders dip in and sit back in the chair.

“What’s your plan for making it here?” Case asks. “You write? Sing? Play?”

“I write,” Holden replies. “Sing a little.”

“I sing,” I say.

“I have a partner I play with,” Holden adds.

“Look, the reason we called y’all over this morning,” Case says, “is first to thank you for what you did for Lauren.” He reaches over and takes her hand in his. I realize then that in spite of the scene we witnessed in Lauren’s office, the two of them are no casual thing. They have real feelings for one another. That actually makes me happy for Lauren, even though I am one of the countless thousands of females who have no doubt had illicit dreams about him.

“If you hadn’t stopped to help her–” He breaks off, squeezes her hand and then looks at us again. “Thank you.”

I nod.

“I’m glad we could,” Holden says.

“So when Lauren said you were both wanting to get into the music business, I thought I’d put this in front of you first. No guarantees it’ll work or you’ll be what I’m looking for, but even a shot is hard to come by in this town.”

My heart kicks up to a level I can hear in my ears. Thrump-ush. Thrump-ush.

“I’m looking to develop a young group. Three or four members, raw talent in place but with the ability to still be shaped. That fit y’all at all?”

I’m actually holding my breath. Waiting for Holden to say I’m not part of his and Thomas’s gig. But that’s not what he says. “Absolutely,” he answers, and I feel my chest release like an air valve has just been turned. I look at him with the most neutral expression I can muster, waiting to hear what he’s going to say next. “We’d be really grateful to have the chance to play for you, Mr. Phillips.”

“It’s Case,” he says. And then, “Two guys and two girls is what I’d planned to look at putting together. You got someone in mind for that?”

Holden answers without hesitating. “We do.”

“All right then,” Case says, slapping his hands on his thighs and standing. “Y’all come back around five this afternoon. I’ve got a studio here. We’ll see what we come up with.”

“I’ll call the restaurant and get someone to take your shifts for tonight,” Lauren says. “It won’t be a problem.”

“Thank you,” I say, standing.

Holden gets to his feet and says, “Yeah, thank you so much. Both of you.”

Case walks us to the door, pulls it open and once we’ve stepped outside, says, “Really. You have no idea how much I appreciate what you did for her last night. I can’t imagine–”

“It was our pleasure,” Holden says. “And you know, you don’t have to do this for us just because–”

“I know I don’t,” he says. “But I want to.”

There’s a cab waiting out front by the Rover, and I realize he must have already had that arranged.

“The fare’s taken care of,” he says. “See you at five.”

And with that, he goes back inside the house.

♪

21

Holden

“What exactly just happened?” I ask as we roll down the long driveway toward the main road.

“I’m still wondering myself,” CeCe says. “Did we just get the kind of break that people wait years for?”

“I think we did.”

“But we’re not actually a group,” I say, starting to panic, “and how are we going to become one before five o’clock this afternoon?”

“I don’t know, but we are,” I say.

“Are you talking about Sarah as the fourth person?” CeCe asks.

“Yeah,” I say, and just saying it out loud makes me realize how ridiculous it is to think that she’ll even consider doing it. After the argument we’d had this morning before I left, it’ll be amazing to me if she hasn’t already left to drive back to Atlanta.

“Do you think she will?” CeCe asks.

“She has to,” I say.

“What if she won’t?”

“Let’s not even think that right now.”

“I really don’t see her wanting to be on a stage with me.”

She’s right, but how can I admit that? We’ve just been handed an opportunity that we might never get again. Just to be heard by Case Phillips, not to mention being considered as a project he’s willing to develop.

“Shouldn’t you call Thomas?” CeCe asks.

I pull my phone from my pocket and tap the screen for his number. He answers with a groggy, “Hello?”

“Are you still in the sleeping bag?”

“What? You’re speaking to me now?”

“Not out of choice,” I say.

“Maturity never was your thing,” he grumbles.

“You’re not going to believe this, but Case Phillips just asked us to play for him this afternoon at five o’clock.”

“What?”

Thomas is awake now. I smile. “He’s looking to put together a group. The only thing we have to do before this afternoon is talk Sarah into auditioning with us.”

“Oh, no problem,” Thomas says, blowing out a sigh. “I’ll run on over to Music Row and see if I can hunt down Miranda Lambert while I’m at it.”

“She’s still there, right?” I ask.

“Somebody’s running the shower in your room.”

“Good. Don’t let her leave, okay. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“We’ve never all played together,” CeCe says as I drop my phone in my shirt pocket.

“We’ve never all had an opportunity like this,” I say. “It’s like winning the lottery. How many times do you win the lottery?”

“Odds are never.”

“Exactly,” I say. I just hope I can convince Sarah of this.

♪

SHE’S AT THE DOOR with her suitcase when we get back.

“Where are you going?” I ask, as if I don’t already know.

“Back to Atlanta,” she says, glancing at CeCe and then forcing her gaze on me.

“Did Thomas tell you what just happened?” I ask.

“Yes. And I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“We need you to audition with us, Sarah. He’s looking for a group. Two guys. Two girls.”

Sarah tightens her grip on her purse strap and says, “This has always been your dream. It was never mine. And I came here for you. Not to be part of some ridiculous rainbow-chasing.”

The words cut. I can’t deny it. I’m sure the wound shows on my face, and I can feel CeCe and Thomas both looking at me with resignation, like they know she’s never going to agree.

“Maybe it is, Sarah,” I say. “But this is a chance that comes along about as often as the pot of gold. What do we have to lose in going for it? What do you have to lose?”

She looks at me for a long moment, and tears well in her eyes. “You,” she says.

♪

22

CeCe

I’m not sure if I should clap or cry.

Holden doesn’t look at me before he follows Sarah into the bedroom. Hank Junior and Patsy stare at me from the couch. Hank Junior jumps off and trots over to greet me with a body wag. Patsy thumps her tail but doesn’t get down.

“You gonna consider that a victory or a defeat?” Thomas throws out from the kitchen where he’s unloading the dishwasher.

“Victory,” I say, walking over to help him.

“For the audition, yeah. Your heart, not so much.”

“I’m taking my heart out of the equation.”

“Easy said.”

I want to say not really, but choose silence as a better alternative.

Within five minutes, Holden and Sarah walk into the kitchen. Her eyes are dry, and she looks resigned if not happy.

“We’ve got the rest of the day,” Holden says, “to get three songs down dead and figure out how we’re going to look like we’ve been playing together forever. Let’s get on it.”

♪

IF I WERE AN OUTSIDER looking in, I would have to give the four of us credit.

We do exactly what Holden said we would need to do and get down to business. We set up in the living room, Hank Junior and Patsy watching from their perch on the couch. Except for a couple breaks to take them outside and grab something to eat, we don’t stop practicing.

We decide to go with two covers that everybody knows, a Rascal Flatts and a Faith Hill. On the Rascal Flatts, Thomas takes the lead, while Sarah and I do harmony. On the Faith Hill, I take a verse, Sarah takes another and Thomas joins us on the chorus.

The third song is an original of Holden’s, and both he and Thomas decide that I should do the lead vocal. I feel the needles in Sarah’s glare, but she actually doesn’t say anything. She just goes along with every indication of being a team player. That is, until I butcher the fourth line of the first verse for the seventh or so time.

“Seriously?” She throws her hands up in the air, turns to Holden and says, “I know this song. Why is she singing it?”

She glances at me and then back at Holden. “You think she’s better than I am?”

“You know that’s not it,” Holden says, rubbing the guitar pick between his thumb and index finger.

“Then what is it?” she asks.

Thomas shakes his head and starts to laugh. “Here’s how I see it. By some stroke of good fortune,” he says, nodding at me and then at Holden, “these two have managed to get us an opportunity that few people would ever get no matter how hard they worked their tails off in this town. Case Phillips wants to pay them back for pretty much saving the life of the woman he loves. And I for one am not gonna laugh in the face of that. I am totally content to ride shotgun on this one. Sarah. If I were you, I would be, too.”

Sarah’s fluster is immediately apparent in the red stain on her cheeks and the way her lips part as if she wants to say something, but is trying desperately hard to stop herself from doing so.

“If we get past this audition,” Thomas says, “then we can look at shaking out some of the kinks that might be bothering either of us. But until then, I say spit shine the heck out of the pair of boots we’ve been offered to walk in. All in favor, say aye!”

No one actually gives a verbal assent, but we all nod our agreement. Sarah appears to put on emotional blinders for the rest of the session.

Three hours later, I can’t believe where we are. We actually sound really good. Holden makes a recording on his computer and plays back what we have so far. I’m amazed at how we sound. Like we’ve been playing and singing together for ages. I’m not sure how that could actually be possible, but we do.

Even with all the undercurrents working so hard to pull us under, we somehow manage to rise above them, and our sound has something fresh and unique to it. I’m suddenly in love with it.

Sarah’s voice is like honey, smooth and golden, fluid and flowing. My voice has grit to it, an edginess I’ve been told by some, that somehow synchs with Sarah’s. Thomas has his own thing, a voice so big and rooted in country that the truth is he doesn’t need either one of us to own the stage. I love listening to him, especially when he drops the melody for a Georgia infused rap that catches and holds the ear.

And I love the song itself.

Holden loves sound, and every line of music holds something so catchy that I know listeners will want to hear more.

It is four-fifteen by the time we put the last bit of polish on the song. We’re supposed to be at Case Phillips’s house at five, and neither of us has showered or changed yet.

I for one feel in need of a few minutes under the faucet to regroup and get a handle on the flutters of panic intent on welling up inside me.

We talk for a few moments about what to wear, agree that Sarah and I should opt for something simple and basic. I’m glad since I don’t have a lot to choose from. Holden and Thomas agree on a light blue shirt and jeans.

In my room, I stand in front of the mirror and give myself a long hard look. From the corner of my eye, I catch Hank Junior staring at me from his spot on the bed. I shrug at him and say, “You know how I get before I sing. Well, this is like a million times more nervewracking than all the other times put together.”

My sweet dog cocks his head to the right, his long Hound ear lifting like a question mark. “I know all the logical stuff. I’ve sung in front of people before. It’s a waste of energy. You’re right. But I can’t help it.”

I go over to the bed and sit down next to him, rubbing under his chin the way he likes me to. “This could be it, you know. This could be the only shot I get here. What if I’m not ready? I thought I would have all kinds of time to get better before anyone was really looking.”

Hank lifts his head to lick my cheek. I lean over to give him a fierce hug. “I wish you could be there. That would make me feel better.”

Hank rolls over on his side and bats me with one of his big paws as if to say, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I know,” I agree. “Suck it up, right?”

In the shower, I think about a book I read not too long ago on focus and how it can be the determining factor between people who are good at something and people who are great at something.

I admit it. I want to be great at singing.

I would never say this out loud because I know how it would sound. But deep down inside, I feel like I already am. Intellectually, I know how much growth I have ahead of me. But the depth and breadth and scope of my love for singing is so immeasurable that it feels like the very best part of me. Something that’s good and pure. I’ve actually worried about what would happen to my love for music if I don’t make it here. If I reach a point where I have to admit I’m never going to be able to make a living with my music. Concede defeat.

I haven’t let myself think this very often because it’s really too painful to consider. But I know it happens all the time. Every day in places like this, in L.A. and New York City. Kids who are drawn to the lure of fame, giving the dream everything they have. Only to find that the dream was only that. A dream.

Realizing that my thoughts are not exactly fuel for focus, I drop my head back and let the water pummel my face, beating the negativity out of me. I force myself to look at this as a gift, dropped from above, at random, perhaps, Holden and I the lucky recipients.

Something my pastor had said once in the church Mama and I went to when I was a little girl comes to me then. A gift is a wondrous thing. But it’s the ways in which we share it that can give it wings.

I think about this in light of all the reasons why Holden, Thomas, Sarah, and I are such an unlikely match. And I know that if I let myself think about that for even a second longer, I’m going to waste something I may never be offered again.

And that’s when I decide that no matter what happens on anyone else’s part tonight, I’m going to give this everything I’ve got. If we fail, at least I’ll know I gave it the very best I am currently capable of giving.

♪

AS A GROUP, we clean up pretty well.

We leave the dogs at the apartment and the four of us ride church-pew style out of Nashville central and into the countryside.

Thomas is driving and I’m sitting next to him, Sarah wedged in between Holden and me.

We’re breaking the seat belt law. Holden had insisted he be the one to go without, even though I had argued without success to share one with Thomas. Admittedly, it would have been an interesting position necessary to make that work. Thomas and Holden had both laughed while Sarah merely rolled her eyes.

Once we table the seat belt discussion, we drive the remainder of the way to Case’s house in silence. I think we’re each doing what we need to do to get our best game on.

Again, we roll by estate after estate, and Thomas offers up several whistles of appreciation. Sarah’s expression indicates she sees such magnificence every day of her life. Either that, or she doesn’t want to let on she’s impressed.

Thomas pulls up in the circular driveway, and we slide out, silent and solemn-faced. Holden lifts his guitar case from the truck bed. We walk in a straight line to the front door, Holden in the front, Thomas in the back, Sarah and I sandwiched in between.

Holden rings the doorbell, and a housekeeper answers. Dressed in a white uniform, her instant smile welcomes us. She’s round-faced, round-hipped and warm as a butter biscuit. “Y’all come on in,” she says. “Mr. Case is expecting you. Right this way.”

She leads us through the enormous house, wood floors echoing our footsteps. At the far back right corner, she opens a heavy door behind which sits the most incredible recording studio I never thought to imagine. Red leather chairs are scattered about, dark walnut walls a backdrop to soundproofing boards disguised as artwork.

Behind an enormous recording desk sits Case Phillips and a man I don’t recognize. Case stands, waves a hand at us and says, “Welcome. This is my producer Rhys Anderson. Rhys, I’ll let these folks do their own introductions.”

Holden shakes the other man’s hand and says, “I’m Holden Ashford. This is Thomas Franklin. CeCe MacKenzie and Sarah Saxon.”

The man shakes each of their hands, his smile genuine and also welcoming. “How y’all doing?” He looks smart, like someone who’s been very successful in this business. His clothes agree with the assumption, his shirt and jeans carrying the stamp of some exclusive men’s department.

“This here’s my band,” Case says, indicating the other five people in the room. “And that over there in the corner is my son Beck. He’s sitting in for one of our guitar players tonight who’s out sick. He might look young, but don’t worry, he can hold his own.”

We all smile, and Beck drops us a nod of greeting. He looks so much like his dad. No one would need to be told they were father and son. He meets my gaze and smiles, and I smile back.

“What’d y’all bring to sing tonight?” Case asks.

“Two covers and another song that I wrote,” Holden says, his tone respectful and a little uncertain.

“How about we hear the original?” Case asks. “I’m lookin’ to see who y’all are without the instant comparison to someone who might have sung a song before. Y’all come on in and get set up. You got a chord chart for these guys?”

“I do,” Holden says, reaching inside his guitar case and pulling out the sheets.

“Good man,” Case says.

The players glance at the sheets and almost immediately start to strum at the chords. Under their expertise, the song is instantly recognizable, and I notice the pleased look on Holden’s face. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to him, hearing people of this caliber playing a song he wrote.

“You’ll be playing with them?” Rhys directs to Holden.

“Yeah, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, it is.”

In less than fifteen minutes, Cases’s guys have the song nailed and Rhys directs Sarah, Thomas, and me into the sound booth that runs along the outer wall of the room.

Sarah whispers something in Holden’s ear, clinging to his arm like he’s a buoy in the middle of a raging ocean. I almost feel sorry for her. It’s clear that she’s out of her element. Not that I’m brimming over with confidence. But maybe the difference is that I want this to be a success. And maybe she just wants to get through it.

Holden leans down and says something to her. She walks to the microphone, her expression set and uneasy.

The band runs through the song once without stopping, and I’m amazed at how it sounds like they’ve played it a hundred times before. Thomas, Sarah, and I wade into the melody with tentative effort. I feel their unease as part of my own. I will myself to block out everything except my role in this.

The band starts the song up again, and the three of us are a  little more confident, but not much.

Case stands and holds up a hand, motioning for us to stop.

The music drops to silence, and we stop singing.

“Hey, look y’all,” Case says, running a hand around the back of his neck. “The only way this is going to turn out worth a hoot is if you forget where you are. You’re just singing in church back home with all your aunts and uncles. That’s the you I want to hear. Okay?”

The three of us nod, mute, and I force the knot of pressure in between my shoulder blades to relent. I can’t think about Thomas or Sarah and their own batch of nerves. I can only control my own. I close my eyes and picture what Case just described. The little Southern Baptist church where I grew up. The tiny pulpit from which our choir belted out old-fashioned gospel hymns every Sunday morning.

And I see myself performing solos when I was nine, the familiar faces of the congregation smiling up at me, the smell of the coffee brewing in the church kitchen wafting up into the sanctuary. The way rain pinged off the tin roof of the old building and how that sound became part of whatever music we were singing.

By going there, I forget all about the here and now. I’m just me. Singing like I always have. For the pure love of it. For the joy it makes me feel.

That’s how the next several hours pass. I can hear that Thomas, and even Sarah, have found their own ways to shake off the stage fright and just sing.

It’s nearly eleven p.m. when Rhys raises a hand and says, “I think we got it.”

He sounds pleased, and relief washes through me.

Only then do I let myself come back to the present, the laughter and good-natured ribbing of the band members seeping into my awareness. I step out of the booth, and Cases’s son, Beck, walks over and says, “Y’all rocked that.”

I smile and shake my head. “Y’all made us look good.”

“It seems like you’ve really got something,” he says, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, the smile on his face less confident than I would have expected from someone who’d grown up with a country music star as his father.

“Thanks,” I say. “It’s really an incredible opportunity.”

“Yeah, well, my dad doesn’t waste his time. So if he brought you here, he thought he had good reason.”

I start to bring up the thing about Lauren, but decide against it since she isn’t here tonight, and I’m not sure how public their relationship is.

Case walks over to the stainless steel refrigerator in one corner of the room, opens the door and starts passing out bottled beer. “If you’re not old enough to legally drink this,” he says, “then don’t. Honor system here.”

“That leaves me out,” Beck says.

“Me, too,” I say, shrugging.

“Can I get you something else?”

“Water would be great,” I say.

“Coming right up.” He turns and crosses the room, grabs a couple bottles from the refrigerator and walks back over to hand one to me.

Holden, Sarah, and Thomas are talking together several yards away. I can feel Holden’s gaze on me, but I refuse to look at him.

“So what’s your story?” Beck asks.

“Story?”

“Yeah. How’d you get to Nashville?”

“Wing and a prayer?”

He smiles. “How long have you been singing?”

“Longer than I can remember.”

“Sounds like it,” he says.

Warmth colors my cheeks. I glance down and say, “Thanks. That’s nice.”

“And true.”

“When did you learn to play guitar?”

“When I was still sitting on my daddy’s knee. He would hold me on his lap and put my fingers in position. It’s kind of like breathing. Probably like singing for you.”

“You’re amazing with that guitar,” I say and mean it.

“Thanks,” he says, and he sounds almost shy. Again, not what I would have expected. “Hey, there’s a party down the road some friends of mine are having tonight. You wanna go?”

My immediate inclination is to refuse, but then out of the corner of my eye, I see Sarah lean in and whisper something in Holden’s ear and realize what a fool I would be to say no. “Ah, yeah,” I say. “That sounds great.”

“Cool. Let me see if we’re about done here.” He walks over to his dad and Rhys, leans down, and they talk for a minute or two.

Case slides his chair back, his long, denim-clad legs stretched out in front of him, his arms folded across his chest. “I think we got some good stuff here tonight, y’all. Rhys, you think you’ll have something to listen to maybe tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Rhys says. “Late afternoon?”

“All right then, I guess we can call it a night,” Case says.

“We really can’t thank you enough, man,” Holden says. “This has been incredible to say the least.”

“Paying it forward and all that.” Case says, nodding at Holden. “Have y’all come up with a name yet?”

“Barefoot Outlook,” Holden says without hesitating.

That was quick, I think to myself. But I actually really like it.

“Cool,” Case says. “I’ll touch base with you tomorrow, okay?”

Holden, Thomas, and Sarah gather up their things and walk over to where I’m still standing with Beck.

“Ready?” Thomas asks, looking at me.

“Ah, actually, I’m going to this thing with Beck.” I purposely don’t look at Holden, but keep my eyes focused on Thomas.

“What thing?” Holden says.

“Party down the road,” Beck says. “Y’all oughta come.”

“I’ve got a budding migraine,” Sarah says.

“I’m working in the morning,” Thomas adds, “but thanks, man.”

Holden doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me with a question in his eyes that I wonder if anyone else can read.

I glance away and Beck says, “I’ll get her home safely.”

“All right. Y’all have fun, man,” Thomas says, and they leave the room.

“We’re going to that party I told you about earlier, Dad,” Beck says, taking my arm and leading me to the door.

“Y’all be careful, son,” Case says, his deep, rich voice following us from the room.

“We will, Dad,” Beck says. He ducks his head back around the corner and adds, “Can I take your car?”

“As long as you and it both come back in one piece.”

“Will do.”

We walk through the house, down a long hall lined with framed music awards and a glass cabinet full of gold statues.

“Are you amazed by this like every day?” I ask.

Beck laughs. “I probably should be. But you know, he’s my dad.”

I laugh then, thinking how unbelievable it is that I am actually here in this house, getting ready to go to a party with Beck Phillips, the only son of a country music legend I’ve had a crush on most of my life. “This is nuts,” I say.

“What?”

“Just this. Me being here. You. Nuts.”

He takes my hand and lets me precede him through the door that leads from the kitchen to the garage.

“We’re not seriously taking this, are we?” I ask, spotting the Ferrari.

“You heard him.”

“Oh. My. Gosh.”

He laughs then, opens the door, and I slide inside, pinching myself just for good measure. Yep, I’m really here.

He goes around to the driver’s side, hits the remote to the garage door and backs out. The engine sounds like pure, spun money. That Italian roar that is unique to wealth in its Nth degree.

He guns the car down the driveway, the board fences on either side rolling by in a blur of white. A beep signals the gate and the wrought iron opens at the end of the driveway like Alladin’s cave.

Beck swings the car onto the road, and although I glance over to see that we’re staying with the speed limit, it feels like we’re flying. He lets back the sunroof, and the night air tousles our hair and cools the heat in my cheeks.

“So whose party?” I ask above the wind.

“Macey Canterwood,” he answers. “She’s kind of getting to be a big deal with Sony.”

“Ah,” I say. “I heard her new song on the radio yesterday.”

“It’s pretty cool.”

I stop myself from countering with, “It’s frigging awesome.” Figuring that might come across as gushing, I say nothing.

“Most everyone here tonight will be pretty cool. I won’t lie though. Some of the girls can have claws.”

“Hm. Anyone in particular I should look out for?”

“I’ll let them dig their own hole. Who knows? Maybe everyone will be on good behavior.”

If I’m supposed to feel reassured by this, I don’t. Butterflies waft up in my stomach and perch in my throat.

My phone vibrates. I pull it from my pocket. It’s a text from Holden.

You okay?

Yeah. How’s Sarah?

I took Hank Junior out with Patsy.

Thanks. Sorry about the Sarah question.

Is that why you went with him?

What?

To get back at me?

There’s nothing to get back at you for. You have a girlfriend. Case closed.

“Everything all right?” Beck asks.

I click off my phone, realizing how rude I’m being. “Yeah,” I say. “Sorry. The guys were just letting me know they’d walked my dog for me.”

“What kind of dog?”

“Walker Hound.”

Beck gives me a long, considering look. “You’re not exactly what you first appear to be, are you?”

“What is that?” I ask.

“Like you oughta be on a walkway somewhere. In five inch heels and a mini skirt.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Actually, yeah. But it’s kinda killer that you look so girly and yet you’ve got a hound.”

“He’s my best buddy.”

“Lucky guy.”

“The truth is I doubt I’ll ever find a guy who gets me the way he does.”

Beck downshifts and swings the car onto an asphalt drive. We roar up the hill, the headlights glinting off horses night-grazing a lush pasture.

The house at the top of the driveway is every bit as enormous as the one we just left. The style is different, kind of California contemporary. I would have imagined it looking out of place in this setting. But it doesn’t somehow.

Beck pulls the car into a parking spot and cuts the engine. “Let’s go have some fun,” he says.

We walk into the house with his arm draped loosely around my shoulder. It seems a little weird to me at first because we just met. And, yeah, because he’s not Holden.

But once I catch a glimpse of all the hip, young people milling about, relaxing on cushy leather sofas, talking intently by a bar, laughing at someone who’s just jumped in the pool, I’m actually glad to have his arm there. It makes me feel like less of an outsider.

He introduces me around. I recognize faces, managing to contain an oh-my-gosh moment when I find myself shaking hands with one of the band members for Keith Urban. Beck throws me a grin as if he’s aware of how hard it is for me not to gush.

A very tall, very gorgeous girl walks up to us, leans in and kisses Beck on the cheek. “Hey, gorgeous,” she says.

“Hey, Macey,” he says.

“I thought you’d decided not to come,” she says, her full lips pouting.

“I sat in on a session with my dad tonight. We just finished up a little while ago.”

“Cool,” she says. “Who for?”

“CeCe here and a band she’s singing with. CeCe, this is Macey Canterwood. Macey, CeCe MacKenzie.”

“Hey,” she says, offering a hand set off with perfectly manicured nails.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” I say, shaking her hand and noticing her smile feels a little less than genuine. “I really like your music.”

“Thanks,” she says, her smile now mega bright. “What kind of band are you in?”

“Little country. Little pop,” I answer.

“They’ve got a cool sound,” Beck says. I hear an undercurrent between the two and suspect there is more going on here than I first realized.

Macey’s smile now appears to have a razor’s edge. “Super,” she says, and I wonder who the heck says super these days.

Thinking maybe they need a few moments, I excuse myself for the ladies room, winding my way through group after group of ultra-hip looking twenty-something’s.

In the bathroom, I check my phone and find the rest of Holden’s text message from earlier.

Be careful, okay?

All is well, I type in even as I picture him in bed with Sarah, her arms wrapped around his waist, her legs entwined with his. I touch up my lipstick and do my best to blank my thoughts of the image.

Beck is waiting for me outside the bathroom door. “Wanna dance?” he asks.

The music has changed from laid back and conversational to upbeat and thumping. I take his hand and follow him outside where people are dancing alongside the pool. He loops an arm around my waist and hooks me up close.

“Those aren’t Nashville moves,” I say. “More like South Beach.”

He grins and says, “I like all kinds of music.”

“Me, too, actually.”

“I like your moves,” he says, ducking his head near my ear.

I smile up at him, wondering if I’m ready to open this door. Is it even fair to him? My heart is tied up in knots over Holden, and yet I know that’s a dead end road. Here I am at a hot party in Nashville, dancing with a hot guy. What is there to think about?

The music goes slow, and he swoops me in even closer. His body is fit and hard, but the first thing I register is the differences between him and Holden. Holden is broader, and I can’t shake the memory of how we felt together.

I squeeze my eyes shut, wanting so very much to be here, in this moment.

“What are you thinking?” Beck says, tipping my chin up so that I am forced to look into his eyes.

“Nothing,” I say, forcing a smile.

“It’s that guy, isn’t it?”

“Who?”

“Holden.”

“Has a girlfriend.”

“Does your heart know that?”

“Yes. It does,” I say, my tone conceding even as I try to sound indifferent.

“I’ve kinda been there,” Beck says, trailing his thumb across my jawline. “I know what it feels like.”

I tip my head back a little farther and let a little of my pain show on my face.

“When something doesn’t work, you have to move on. I’d be more than happy to help you with that.” He leans in and butterfly kisses me. “I’d really like to help you with that.”

“Mind if I have a turn?”

Macey Canterwood has her hand on my shoulder, the smile on her face suggesting she has no intention of taking no for an answer.

“We’re kind of in the middle of something, Mace,” Beck says.

“I can see that,” she says, “but I have something to share with you. Just one song.”

“It’s fine,” I say, backing away. “I’ll go catch my breath.”

“He’s quite the dancer, isn’t he?” Macey says, her smile now nowhere near reaching her eyes.

“Don’t go far,” Beck tells me. “This won’t take long.”

I make my way back inside the party, stand in line for the restroom and then use the ninety seconds before someone starts knocking to run a brush through my hair and touch up my long-gone lipstick.

Back at the bar, I ask for a bottle of water, but just as the nose-ringed bartender starts to hand it to me, a voice behind me says, “Hold off on that! Girl, if you’re planning to hang with the likes of Beck Phillips, you gotta learn how to party at least a little.”

I turn to find Macey smiling at me. She shakes a finger at the bartender and says, “We’ll have two of what you made me earlier.”

The bartender looks at Macey and raises an eyebrow, which also happens to have a ring in it. “New friend?” he asks.

“Yes,” Macey answers. “CeCe, meet Huxton. Huxton, CeCe.”

“Hey,” he says. “Any friend of Macey’s–”

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m fine with the water. I should go find Beck.”

“He asked me to tell you he’s grabbing a game of ping pong downstairs. Why don’t we grab a chat and get to know each other a bit?”

You know that little voice that dings inside you when something isn’t quite right, but you can’t pinpoint it closely enough to act on it? I’m hearing the ding, but she is Macey Canterwood. Her music is being played all over the radio, and what do I have to lose by trying to leave here tonight with her as something closer to a friend than an enemy?

“Go snag that sofa for us,” Macey says. “I’ll get our drinks.”

I push away from the bar and do exactly that, even as I ask myself what the two of us could possibly have in common. Except Beck, of course. And the fact that she obviously wants him, and sees me as a threat.

The couch is cushy and comfortable. I sink onto it with a sudden awareness of fatigue and exactly how long this day has been. What I really want is to go home and curl up in bed with Hank Junior.

Macey strides over in her four-inch heels – she must wear them all the time to be that competent in them – and hands me a glass that at least looks appealing. “A little something I like before a show – nothing crazy – just knocks the edge off.”

“What’s in it?”

“Pineapple and Goji berry juice. Which is really good for you, by the way. I’ll let you guess the rest.”

I’ve never been one to feel peer pressure. It’s not something I ever bought into in high school. I had my thing – music – other kids had their thing. I didn’t yearn to be someone that I wasn’t.

But here, in this place, in Nashville, I realize just how far at the bottom of the totem pole I am. How high the climb is. And when someone from way on up the ladder, reaches down and offers you a hand past some of those rungs, it’s pretty tempting to take it.

I sip the drink tentatively, expecting somehow that it will taste gosh-awful. Only it doesn’t. “Um, good,” I say.

“Told you you’d like it,” she says, turning up her own glass and then stretching back on the couch. She crosses her incredibly long legs in front of her. Next to her, I definitely feel like the country mouse. “What are your goals, CeCe?”

“To sing,” I answer.

She laughs. “But where?”

“Wherever anyone will listen, I guess,” I answer simply but truthfully.

“I remember that feeling,” she says. “But you probably shouldn’t say it out loud. It has a hint of desperation to it.”

“But aren’t you here because you love to sing?” I ask her.

“Yes. But other things go with it that I also love.”

“Such as?”

“Recognition. Adoration.” She laughs. “I get how that sounds. But if you’re here, trying to make it in this business, you like those things, too. Maybe you’re not willing to admit it yet, but you do.”

I take another sip of my drink and wonder if it’s true. “I’ve never thought about that part of it.”

“We’re all a little narcissistic at heart. At least when we get the chance to be. Don’t you think we’re always looking for that chance?”

The edges of my vision start to fuzz, and I blink to clear it away. “I like to think I’m looking for the chance to do what I love to do.”

“At the risk of someone else getting to do what they love to do though, right?”

I’m not sure how I’ve waded into this conversation, but it’s starting to feel like quicksand, and I’d like to back out. Only my legs feel heavy and weighted, or is that my thoughts? “I don’t know. I don’t feel exactly–”

“What’s wrong?” Macey asks, her voice sounding like it’s coming to me remixed with heavy bass.

I try to stand. My legs feel as though the bones have been removed, and they won’t hold me upright. I drop back onto the couch, grabbing a cushion to right myself.

Macey stands, staring down at me from what seems like a thousand feet up. I can barely hear her voice when she says, “Good luck with your ambitions, CeCe. Just don’t let them get in the way of common sense, okay?”

She turns and walks away. I raise a hand to stop her, to ask her to get Beck. Only I realize I can’t make the words come out. I slump back against the sofa, trying to hold my eyelids open. They’re so heavy, weighted with stone. Maybe I can let them close for just a minute. Just long enough for me to work up enough energy to fight back to the surface.

But it feels so good to give in. Float along with the current carrying me away. Warm sun. Ocean breeze. Oblivion.

♪

23

Holden

I can’t sleep.

I try, staying to my side of the bed, Sarah to hers. She’s been asleep for a while as far as I can tell, but I don’t think either of us wants to talk to each other, so she could be pretending, I guess.

I look at the clock. 1:15.

CeCe’s not home yet. I’ve been listening for the door, and if I’m honest with myself, that’s why I’m still awake.

I can’t quit thinking about her with him. Can’t quit wondering what they’re doing. If he’s tried to kiss her yet. If she’s let him.

That last thought catapults me out of bed. I grab a t-shirt, shrug into it and leave the room. Patsy and Hank Junior are hunkered together on the sofa. They raise their heads and look at me with sleepy eyes. “Anyone up for a walk?” I ask.

Patsy ducks her head behind the pillow, giving me her answer. Hank Junior hops down and trots over.

I pick up his leash, grab my keys and cell phone from the table by the door, and we head outside. The night air is cool. At the bottom of the stairs, I hook on his leash. We walk fast down the sidewalk, and when Hank Junior clearly wants to go faster, I decide to run.

Hank’s couch potato lounging could fool you about his athletic ability. The dog can run. He’s made for it, and he loves it. I love it, too. We let it rip for a couple of blocks, Hank sprinting in pure joy, me trying to drain the battery of my imagination.

And it works, until we both start to tire. We drop to a jog for several blocks, and then a walk during which Hank is intent on letting others know we were here.

I’m breathing hard and heavy, but I’m right back to thinking about CeCe, wondering why she’s not home yet.

“Should I call her, Hank?”

He turns to look at me with a raised ear and wags his tail.

“That a yes?”

He barks once.

“All right, then.”

I tap her name under recent calls and wait while it rings. Twice. Three times. Four. Voice mail picks up.

“No answer,” I direct to Hank. He looks up at me and whines.

“Yeah, me, too,” I say.  We turn around at the end of the block and start walking back.

It’s not my place to worry about CeCe, but I am worried. About her safety or what she might be doing with Beck? Both, I guess.

Everything about what I’m feeling is so messed up. She has every right to be out with Beck Phillips or whoever else she wants to be out with. I’m the one without that right.

We’re just short of the apartment building when a black Ferrari turns into the parking lot. I recognize it as belonging to Case Phillips and assume Beck drove it tonight.

The car pulls in front of the building, and the engine goes silent. I stop before they spot me, wondering if I’m going to have to wait here in the shadows while Beck Phillips makes out with CeCe.

The driver’s side door opens with a wachunk. Beck slides out and jogs around to the passenger door. He opens it, then disappears from sight. I see him squat down, wait for him to stand back up. A minute. Two. Four. Okay, seems weird.

Deciding I’ m not waiting any longer, I lead Hank through the parking lot and past the car. He turns around and barks, then starts tugging at the lead.

Beck stands and calls out, “Hey, man.”

His voice doesn’t sound quite right. I turn, glimpse the concern on his face.

“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

“CeCe’s kind of out of it,” he says, raking a hand through his hair.

I jog over behind a still tugging Hank Junior who wedges in between Beck and the car to plant two paws on the seat and begin licking CeCe’s cheek.

I look past Beck to see CeCe out cold, not responding at all to Hank’s licking. “What the–” I start, shoving Beck around to look at me. “What did you do to her?”

Beck holds up two hands, backing away. “Hold on, man. It wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t you what?” I hear my voice rising and force myself not to go ahead and punch his country-music-star-rich-kid-ass all the way back to his daddy’s estate.

“A girl at the party put something in her drink to make her sleep.”

“Why?” I ask, biting out the word.

“We used to date,” he says, to his credit, sounding miserably sorry. “I never should have left CeCe alone with her.”

“What did she give her?”

“Sleeping pill.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“Because I told her I’d tell my dad what she’d done if she didn’t tell me, and I would ask him to tell everybody he knows in the music business.”

I believe him. I can see he’s telling the truth, and that he feels guilty as all get out.

“Let’s get her upstairs,” I say.

“Yeah,” Beck agrees.

We both lean in at the same time to lift her out and knock foreheads.

“Crap!”

“Ow!”

We jump back, glaring at one another while Hank Junior looks up at us like we’re the two biggest dufusses he’s ever had the misfortune to run across. And he might be right.

“I’ll get her,” I say.

Beck stands back, two hands in the air, as if in concession to the fact that I have some unspoken right to being in charge from here on out. I’m not about to tell him I don’t.

I swing CeCe up in my arms and head for the stairs, Hank Junior at my heels. I hear the car door thunk closed, look over my shoulder to see Beck striding after me. “You should go home,” I say.

“I’m not leaving until I know she’s okay,” he shoots back, and I can hear him digging in his heels.

I decide at that point to ignore him and head up the stairway with CeCe tight against my chest. I dig my key out of my pocket and decide to make use of Tag-Along, after all. I hand it to him, then barely wait for him to get the door open, before pushing past him into the living room.

I lower CeCe onto the sofa, propping her head up with a pillow. I sit down beside her then, rubbing my thumb across her jawline. “Hey, CeCe, wake up. CeCe?”

“I’ll get a glass of water,” Beck says, heading for the kitchen.

Hank Junior jumps up on the couch and starts licking CeCe’s face.

Realizing he has a better chance at being Prince Charming than I do, I don’t ask him to stop.

She moans a little, and I feel a ping of relief at the sound. She flops the back of her hand across her face in response to Hank’s kissing. He wags his tail and licks harder.

But she’s not responding now, and I get that sick feeling of worry in my stomach again.

Beck returns with the water, and he holds the back of her head up while I try to get her to take a sip. But she won’t, and it trails down the side of her face instead.

“We could put her in the shower,” Beck says.

I glance up at him with enough dagger to make him take a step back.

“With her clothes on, of course,” Beck says quickly.

“I assumed as much,” I say, giving him a square look.

I pick her up from the couch and carry her down the hall to her room. As soon as I open the door, the scent of her perfume meets my nose, sending a curl of memory up from somewhere inside me. And then I’m thinking about the last time I smelled this scent on her neck and how I would forever associate it with the taste of her kiss.

Hank Junior follows us into the room and hops up on the bed to survey our intentions, I would guess. I leave the bathroom door open and ease her onto the shower floor.

Beck tests the water and makes sure it’s warm enough before turning on the spray. We point the nozzle at the top of her head and wait for it to work. It takes a surprisingly long time. Maybe it’s seconds, but it seems like minutes. Several. I’m holding my breath, and only realize it when she begins to shake her head, batting a hand at the spray.

She moans and says, “Stop. What is that–”

“CeCe,” I say. “It’s me. Holden. You’re back at the apartment. In the shower. We’re trying to wake you up. You’ve kind of been out of it.”

“What happened?” she asks, her voice groggy and a little slurred.

“Someone spiked your drink,” Beck says, stepping into view.

She looks up, her eyelids so heavy she can barely hold them open. “Who would do that?”

I turn to look at Beck, admittedly feeling a little pleased with the guilt he feels.

“Maybe we should talk about it when you’re feeling better,” he says.

“Are you all right, CeCe?” I ask. “I can take you to the ER and get you checked out if you want.”

“No, no,” she says. “I’m okay. I’m just. . .really sleepy.”

“What’s going on in here?”

I turn to find Thomas standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of polka dot boxers and running his hand through sleep-wild hair.

I raise an eyebrow and drop a look at the boxers. “Seriously?”

“Gift from Mama,” he says, sheepish.

“Scary,” I say.

Thomas peers around me. “What the heck happened to CeCe?”

Beck hangs his head and says. “Victim of one of my messed up friends.”

“You all right, CeCe?” Thomas asks.

“Yeah. Can I just go to bed?” she says. “Alone.”

The three of us guys look at each other, and take a step back.

“Sure,” I say. “If you need some help getting–”

“I don’t. I’m all good. Really.”

“All right if I call you in the morning?” Beck throws out behind me. “I have some serious apologizing to do.”

“She’s working tomorrow. Today.” Whatever. Anything to get him to leave.

“Can I drive you?” he asks, peering over my shoulder and trying to make eye contact with CeCe.

Sarah appears in the doorway then. She’s wearing a strappy pink nightgown, and her hair is tousled from sleep. “What’s going on in here?”

CeCe looks at her and then glances back at me. “Nothing,” she says. “Everybody go back to bed.”

She starts to get up, falters a little, and grabs on to the side of the shower.

“Here,” I say, reaching out a hand to steady her.

But she avoids my touch and says, “Please. Can everyone just leave?”

We back out of the bathroom, Sarah asking, “What happened to her?”

Thomas takes Sarah’s arm and says, “Come on. Let’s go.”

They leave the room. CeCe reaches for a robe on the back of the door, pressing it to her chest, and without either looking at Beck or me, says, “Goodnight.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” I start.

“Yes. Please. Go.”

“I’m really sorry, CeCe,” Beck says. “I’ll check on you in the morning.”

“Thanks,” she says.

He turns and walks out of the room then.

Once he’s gone, I look at CeCe and say, “I can stay. Just to make sure–”

“I don’t want you to,” she says. “Sarah’s waiting for you. In your room. Go.”

I hear the frustration in her voice. “What happened tonight, CeCe?” I ask.

“A jealous girl. That’s all that happened.”

“She drugged you. That’s all that happened?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “I just want to go to bed.”

“CeCe. We need to talk.”

“No. We don’t. We really don’t. There’s nothing to talk about.”

“But I want to explain something.”

She bites her lip and looks at me with eyes on the verge of tears.

“He’s not a guy you should be hanging out with, CeCe.”

Her eyes go wide, and she laughs abruptly. “And you are? You have a girlfriend, Holden. A serious girlfriend. One who drove all the way from Atlanta to be here with you. A girlfriend who seems to want to move here to be with you. What in that equation allows anything at all for you and me?”

I want to tell her that none of that is true. Only it is. “CeCe.”

“What?” she asks. “Can you deny any of that?”

“No,” I say.

“Then why are you not in there with her where you belong?”

I look at her for several long drawn out moments. I think about all the things I could say. All the things I should say. But I don’t want to say any of them. I just want to say the truth. “Because I want to be in here with you.”

She presses her lips together, and again, I see how close she is to tears. “You don’t have that right,” she says.

I want to deny it, to argue with her, to bring up all the ifs, and the buts, and the maybes, but she’s right. All I can say that is absolutely true is that I want her.

“Holden, I’m wet. I’m cold. I’m tired. Please.”

I try to stop myself from asking this question, but I can’t. The words come rolling out. “Did you go with him tonight because of me?”

Her eyes widen a little, and I can see her considering the answer. “Do you mean did I go to make you jealous?”

I shrug. I somehow know what she’s going to say. And how arrogant is it of me anyway to think that would be the reason she went.

She folds her arms across her chest and sets her gaze somewhere just to the right of mine. “No,” she says. “He’s a nice guy. I went because I wanted to go.”

Her words slam into me like baseballs being hurled from a major league pitcher. I guess I didn’t want to believe that was true, but how stupid could I be? He’s Beck Phillips. His father’s a major country music star. What girl wouldn’t want to go out with him? “Okay,” I say, backing out of the room. “Goodnight, CeCe.”

“Goodnight,” she says.

And I don’t let myself look back. Only a fool would look back.

♪

24

CeCe

I’ve never been a good liar.

But my lie is the first thing I think about when I wake up at just after ten. That and the look on Holden’s face.

Considering how I’ve had to watch him with Sarah and act as if it doesn’t bother me a single iota – the way she holds onto him, the way she looks at him as if there’s no question that he is hers.

But then doesn’t she have that right?

Hank snuggles up against me, and I know I need to get up and take him out. My head throbs dully. I feel like I haven’t had a glass of water in two years.

Did I go with Beck last night to make Holden jealous? The question pops up like a red flag.

Not entirely.

But somewhat?

Maybe.

I throw on some running clothes, grab Hank’s leash and slip out of the apartment without seeing anyone.

I know Thomas had to work this morning, but the last thing I want to think about is whether Holden and Sarah are sleeping in and what they might be doing if they are.

Since I’m already in my running clothes, I decide to pound some of last night’s toxins out of me and take off at a good pace. Hank Junior is always up for a run of any kind and needs no encouragement.

We go out about two miles and I turn back. A half-mile or so from the apartment, we walk. A car pulls up alongside us, beeping its horn. I glance over and spot Beck in a convertible BMW, an uncertain look on his face.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say.

“You’re doing pretty well to already have a run under your belt.”

“Figured my body could use it,” I say.

“Yeah, about that–”

“Let’s not,” I say. “Better to leave it alone.”

“Buy you a coffee.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“What if I said I want to?”

“I’ve got Hank.”

“He’ll fit nicely in the back seat.”

“He’s not used to rides this nice.”

“It’s a car. Four wheels. Come on.”

“I could use the coffee. That much is true,” I say.

He reaches over to open the passenger door for me. Hank hops over the seat and into the back, sitting straight as if he’s prepared to enjoy the view.

Starbucks is packed with Vanderbilt students, sitting at the outside tables with laptops poised in front of them.

“Drive through okay?” Beck asks.

“Sure.”

He asks me what I’d like, and I tell him a tall Veranda with one sugar. He goes for a black Pikes Peak. The girl at the drive-through window smiles big at him and asks if it’s okay if Hank has a treat. I nod, and she hands Beck a cookie.

He holds it back for Hank to take, and he sits munching in happiness.

We sip our coffee in silence as we pull away from the Starbucks. We’re a few blocks from the apartment when he says, “I didn’t sleep last night, thinking about what could have happened.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Actually, I should have known better than to leave you with her.”

“You didn’t. Look, everything worked out all right. I won’t be buying her latest single though.”

Beck laughs. “Me, either. You could press charges against her or something if you wanted to.”

“I don’t want to. I just want to forget it. Maybe take it as a lesson learned about being a naïve, gullible–”

“Hey,” he says. “You’re not gullible. She’s just bad.”

We pull into the parking lot of the apartment building. Beck cuts the engine. He angles toward me in his seat and says, “I’d really like to make it up to you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Please. Let me.”

I sigh, reach back to rub Hank Junior under his chin. “So what do you have in mind?”

“Dad’s writing with Bobby Jenkins later this afternoon. He’s one of the top writers in town.”

“I know who he is. That’s great.”

“I’m going with him. I thought maybe you’d like to come, too.”

“Sit in on a session with Bobby Jenkins?”

“Yeah. He’s a cool guy. He writes amazing songs.”

“Wow. You don’t have to do this.”

“I know. I want to.”

“I’m supposed to work tonight.”

“Maybe you could get someone to take your shift.”

“Maybe,” I say. “I’ll try. Give me your number, and I’ll call you in a bit to let you know if I can get off.”

He tells me the number, and I punch it into my phone. “Send me yours?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks for the coffee.” I get out of the car, motion for Hank Junior to follow me and then shut the door, stepping onto the curb.

Footsteps sound on the stairway behind us. I glance over my shoulder to spot Holden and Sarah walking toward us. Sarah has her hand tucked inside his arm. He spots us, and maybe it’s only me who notices the way his eyes go a deeper blue.

“Hey,” Beck says.

“Y’all are out early,” Sarah says.

“Figured I owed her a coffee at the very least,” Beck says.

“Yeah, I’ve yet to hear the real story of what happened last night,” she says, looking at me with raised eyebrows. “That must have been some party.”

“A little more than we bargained for,” Beck replies.

“Had to have been fun if you two are already at it again,” Sarah adds.

Holden is yet to speak, and the response on the tip of my tongue isn’t one that would make Sarah and me friends. “Thanks again, Beck,” I say.

“See you later this afternoon.”

“I’ll try.”

“You better,” he adds.

Hank and I cross the parking lot and make for the stairwell. I can feel Holden’s eyes on us, but I just keep walking.

♪

AS IT TURNS OUT, I am able to switch shifts with Ainsley, one of the other waitresses at the restaurant. She’s glad to do it, she says, since I offer to take her shift tomorrow night and there was something she wanted to do anyway.

I text Beck and let him know.

I feed Hank Junior early and leave Holden a note that I’ve fed Patsy, too.

My clothes selection isn’t vast, so it doesn’t take me long to decide on a simple pink sundress and flat sandals.

Beck is driving the BMW again, top down, and it feels good sliding down the Nashville streets with music from his iPhone blasting through the car’s speakers.

“You look great,” he says, glancing over at me, smiling his confident smile, one hand on the steering wheel.

“Thank you,” I say, and feel myself blush a little.

Being with Beck feels different from being with Holden. With Holden, I always feel on the edge of something about to happen. Something I very much want but am also very much afraid of.

Not that I couldn’t be intimidated by Beck. He’s lived a life I know very little about. A life I have dreamed about but don’t know in reality.

And he’s gorgeous. Who wouldn’t be intimidated by that? But he’s also young. My age. And that makes him easier to talk to. Easier to be with in some ways. And then again, there’s that small difference of him not having a girlfriend looming in between us.

“So the studio where we’re going,” Beck says, “is really cool. Bobby can pretty much write with whoever he wants considering his track record. And it’s deserved. At least that’s what my dad says.”

“I think I know every song he’s ever written,” I say. “Are you sure it’s okay if I’m here?”

“Positive. I checked with my dad.”

It takes us twenty minutes or so to get there, the house not as far outside the city as Beck’s house. When we pull into the driveway, I spot the Ferrari, indicating that Case must already be here.

Beck pulls up beside it, gets out and comes around to open my door.

“Thanks,” I say, sliding out and trying to subdue the sudden flutter of butterflies in my stomach. “I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be. Everything’s really laid back here.”

The house isn’t nearly as grand as Case’s, but impressive all the same. It’s a classic brick style with an antiqued wood front door and a mammoth knocker shaped like a guitar.

Beck knocks and a few seconds later, a pretty woman somewhere in her forties answers the door. Her smile is welcoming and we follow her through the house to a studio set up very much like the one at Beck’s house. It’s not as big though, and the equipment seems a little less fancy, more like the workhorse version.

Case and the man I instantly recognize as Bobby Jenkins are sitting together at a round table. I saw him once in an interview on the country music channel. Both men have guitars on their laps. Beck introduces me.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Jenkins.” He’s older than I expect, maybe late fifties.

“So glad you could be here.”

“Thank you so much. Really.”

Case told him about the recording session yesterday and how I’m part of a group called Barefoot Outlook. It sounds strange hearing it as if it’s really happening, and while I’d like to believe it’s true, it feels more like something made of toothpicks than beams.

“Well, good luck to you,” he says.

“You got anything you want to start with, Case?” he asks, picking up the guitar.

“Just a phrase,” Case says. “Don’t have too much attached to it yet.”

“What is it?”

“Wishing time away.”

Bobby nods. “Hmm. Yeah. See what we can do with that.” He throws out some angles, some kind of obvious, some not so much.

I listen to the rally between them, mesmerized at the process and can’t help but think how much Holden would love this. The two of them are like miners, digging, sifting, rinsing, until they find the lines of gold nuggets that begin to form a verse, a chorus, a bridge. The pieces put together with such expertise that I can’t really imagine ever reaching this level of capability.

The music they create fits the words perfectly, like a glove to a fine-boned hand.

Three hours have passed when they push back their chairs and smile at each other.

“Yeah,” Case says. “I like it.”

“Me, too,” Bobby agrees.

Beck and I glance at each other and smile. Neither of us has said a word since the start of the session, and I wonder how many times he has seen this done.

They call it a wrap. We stand, and Case throws an arm around Beck’s shoulders, giving him a hug.

Beck shakes hands with Bobby who looks at me and says, “Really glad you could be here.”

“Thank you,” I say. “So much. It was a priceless experience.”

He smiles at me and nods. When he doesn’t poo poo my extravagant praise, I wonder if someone had once done the same for him, someone who was really great at writing the same as he was.

We’re in the car on the way back into town when I say, “That was really incredible, Beck. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I think I owed you one,” he says. “It was cool for me, too. I haven’t gotten over being amazed by the whole process yet. It’s kind of like magic or something.”

I know what he means. It is like that, watching something amazing being conjured out of thin air, the pieces coming together to form something beautiful and possibly able to resonate with so many people.

“It’s early. You wanna go somewhere and hang out a while? There’s a good band over at Lauren’s place.”

“Can we have an honest moment?”

“Sure,” he says.

“I like you, Beck. I really like you. Who wouldn’t? But my head is kind of somewhere else right now.”

“Holden,” he says.

“It’s not something I won’t get past. I really don’t have a choice. So maybe if you could just give me a little time?”

“That’s more than cool,” he says. “Let’s just hang out. No expectations. No demands. How’s that sound?”

“I don’t know. Like maybe you’re too good to be true?”

He laughs. “Or maybe I just know a good thing when I see it, and I don’t want to blow it.” He reaches out and brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. “Let’s just go have some fun, okay?”

“Okay,” I say. And that sounds like a great idea to me.

♪

THE RESTAURANT IS CRAZY busy. There’s a line flowing out the main door and down the sidewalk several storefronts long.

Beck knows the guy behind the rope and gets waved in, towing me along behind him.

“I feel really funny about that,” I say as we slip inside the low-lit interior.

“Funny enough to go stand at the end of that line?”

“Um. Maybe not?”

The band playing on stage is country with a thumping beat, and you can’t help but instantly feel it in your bones and want to move to it.

Holden isn’t supposed to be working tonight, so I start at the sight of him behind the bar, filling glasses with ice. As if he feels my gaze on him, he looks up and suddenly we’re staring straight at one another, my heart kicking up instantly.

In that moment of blank honesty, I see the flash of hurt in his eyes.

There’s no justification for it. He has no say over who I’m here with, but at the same time, I know that feeling. It’s the same one I get when I see him with Sarah, and I realize that it gives me no pleasure to make him feel that.

He turns his back and smiles at a woman at the bar. I watch its effect on her, the way she leans in and stares up at him. I turn away abruptly as my stomach does a somersault of hurt, unreasonable as it is.

As it turns out, Beck knows a couple of the band members, and we snag a table up close. During the first set, I sit as if anchored to my seat, focusing on absorbing every note of every song. The lead singer is incredible. She’s got a voice that flows from her like warm honey and a range that makes me instantly envious. She also has the kind of looks that make listening to her nearly secondary to watching her.

They take a break after the first set and the singer comes over to our table.

“Hey, Beck,” she says. “Glad y’all could come out.”

“Hey, Tania. You’re rockin’ it tonight.”

“Thanks,” she says with an appreciative smile.

“Tania, this is CeCe MacKenzie.”

“Y’all are great,” I say. “I love your sound.”

“Thanks,” she says, turning her smile to me. “We’ve been working hard at it.”

“No doubt,” Beck says. “Y’all are really getting the polish on it.”

“Thank you.” She looks at Beck, her eyes suddenly teasing. “Is she why you never called me back?”

Most guys would have been embarrassed by that kind of direct arrow, but Beck shrugs and says, “Nooo. But she could be.”

Tania laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m on to greener pastures.”

And for some reason, what’s between them doesn’t feel like anything other than good-natured ribbing. No daggers like there had been with Macey last night.

The rest of the show is great, and Beck seems to know half the people in the place, but I’m relieved when the band plays its last encore, and we head out into the night.

I manage to leave without meeting eyes with Holden again. “That was awesome,” I say as we get in the car. “Thank you for asking me.”

“Yeah, they’re pretty cool.” Beck cranks the music, and we speed down the highway. We both seem content not to talk, and when we get back to the apartment, he cuts the engine, insisting on walking me to the door.

“That was really fun,” I say, sticking my key in the lock and turning to look up at him.

“Thanks for going with me.”

“Thanks for asking.”

“So we’re stuck on that friends thing, huh?” he says, a smile touching the corner of his mouth.

“For now?”

“For now. I think you’re worth it,” he says. “The wait, I mean.”

Footsteps sound on the stairwell, and I look over Beck’s shoulder to see Holden come to an abrupt stop at the sight of us.

“Sorry,” he says, and I can see he’s caught off guard. “Excuse me.” He cuts around us, pulling my key out of the lock and handing it to me. He inserts his own and opens the door. He goes inside without saying another word.

The awkwardness left in his wake is thick and undeniable.

“A little time?” I say.

“A little time,” he agrees. “Goodnight, CeCe. Sleep well, okay?”

“You, too.” And with that, I watch him walk away.

♪

25

Holden

I absolutely HATE this feeling.

Jealous guys suck. I mean, what is jealousy anyway?

Awareness that there’s something you can’t have. Or that someone is better at something than you are. Or has someone you can’t have.

There it is. Large and looming. The truth. Ugly as it is.

Someone I can’t have.

I grab a beer from the refrigerator, pull out a drawer for the opener, pop it off and take a long drink. I head for the shower then just because I don’t want to be standing here when CeCe comes in.

The water is cold but does pretty much nothing to cool my misery. In my room, I wait until I hear her door click closed, and then I step out into the hall and knock.

She doesn’t respond for several moments, which tells me she’s considering not answering. “CeCe?” I say.

The door opens and she stands there looking at me with What? on her face.

“Ainsley asked me to remind you about her shift tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Okay.” Awkward silence, and then I manage, “How was it?”

“It was great. All of it. Great.” She’s quiet for a moment and then, “Where’s Sarah?”

I glance away and then back at her. “She went back to Georgia. We kind of had a fight.”

CeCe steps away, and I can see her blank her expression. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” I ask.

“Yes, I am.”

“Why?”

She throws up her hands. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’re obviously crazy about each other and–”

“Are we?” It’s a question I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help myself.

“Yes! You are!”

“Don’t you want to know what we fought about?”

“No, I don’t think I do.”

“You,” he says. “We fought about you.”

She blinks once. Hard. And then, “Why would you be fighting about me?”

“Because she knows.”

“There’s nothing to know.”

“Knows it’s different. Since I got here. Since. . .since I met you.”

“Holden. Don’t do this. Don’t hang this on me. I don’t want to be responsible for you breaking Sarah’s heart.”

“I’m not hanging anything on you. I’m just telling you the truth.”

“You love her.”

“I did. Yes, I did. Now, I don’t know anymore.”

“She loves you,” CeCe says.

“She says she does. I’m not sure what that means based on the way we’ve been to each other since she got here. And I wonder now if we’ve just been trying to make each other fit what it is we both say we want. People change, don’t they? And when the change comes, how long do you deny it?”

“Holden–”

Her protest is weaker than before, and as if the words are pulled from me, I say, “I can’t stand seeing you with him.”

“We’re friends, Holden.”

“He doesn’t want to be friends with you, CeCe.”

“I’ve told him that right now that’s all we can be.”

“Why?”

She drops her gaze. “Because I’m not ready.”

“Because,” I interrupt. “You think about me the way I think about you. With every breath. Every thought.”

“No, I don’t. I–”

I reach out and loop my arm around her waist, splay my hand across the dip of her lower back. I reel her to me, slowly, steadily, as if the catch is inevitable. She bumps to a stop against my chest, tips her head back and looks up at me.

“Holden, don’t. This is not where we should go.”

“There’s nowhere else I want to go,” I say. “In fact, if we don’t go there, if we don’t go there now–” I swoop in then, finding her mouth with mine. The kiss is deep and so full of longing and want that I instantly feel inebriated by it. My head is buzzing, like I just took a shot of some fine tequila. But this buzz is better. So much better.

I lift her to me, my hands at her waist. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me back, fully, giving in, no longer protesting or coming up with reasons why I shouldn’t be here.

We just kiss. And I feel like we could kiss like this all night long, and I wouldn’t be able to get enough of her.

I pick her up, lifting and carrying her all at the same time to the bed. I both drop her and follow her down at the same time. The feel of her beneath me is like being found when I never knew I was lost.

Hank Junior makes a sound that might be disapproval and heads to a corner of the room.

CeCe and I roll to the middle, still kissing. It’s pretty clear that neither of us has any desire to stop.

I feel something crumple under me and pull a piece of paper out from under my shoulder.

I’m ready to toss it when CeCe grabs my hand and says, “Hank Junior! What have you gotten into now?”

The edges of the paper have been chewed, the top right hand corner completely missing. CeCe glances at it, then pulls it in for a closer look.

Her face goes completely still. She slides up on her knees, her face growing whiter as she reads.

“What is it?” I raise up on my elbow. “What’s wrong?”

She drops the paper, and it flutters back onto the blanket beneath us.

The look on her face has me spooked, and I cautiously pick up the torn page and start to read.

Patient Sarah Saxon

Age: 22

Female

Recommended course of treatment:

Radiation, chemotherapy. Initial course to be followed by reevaluation for surgical candidacy.

I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, elbows on my knees, feeling suddenly and completely sick.

I hold the paper under the lamplight and read it again, just to make sure I hadn’t imagined it.

“Holden,” CeCe says, putting a hand on my back.

“That’s why she came,” I say. “To tell me. She came here to tell me. I didn’t–”

“You didn’t know. You didn’t know.”

“I all but pushed her out the door. Oh, my God.” I really think I am going to be sick. I lean over and cross my arms over my stomach. I can feel the blood pounding in my temples.

CeCe gets up, stands in front of me and drops to her knees, forcing me to look at her. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” she says. “You haven’t.”

I look up at her, and it feels like I’m on one of those crazy amusement park rides that zooms you to a peak and then lets you plummet. This is the plummet part. “How can you say that?”

“Because it’s true,” she says, her voice breaking in the middle of the statement. “She needs you.”

I let myself look directly at her then, at the tears suddenly coursing down her face. I realize they are for Sarah. For us. For it all.

♪

3

PART THREE - WHAT WE FEEL

26

CeCe

19 months later

The Blue Bird is packed for the early show. Thomas and I are third to perform tonight. The fifteen-year-old girl currently on stage will be a tough act to follow. She sings like nobody’s business. I have to wonder how it’s possible for someone that age to have so much stage presence. The song isn’t memorable, but her delivery is.

“Think she was singin’ when she came out of her mama’s womb?” Thomas asks me now.

I shake my head and smile a little. “Maybe. Is it me, or do the newbies get younger every day?”

We’re both standing at the back of the room, me with my guitar, Thomas chewing gum like it’s the fuel for every note he plans to reach when it’s our turn to go on stage.

“They get younger every day,” Thomas says.

The girl’s guitar goes suddenly quiet, and she smacks out a beat below the strings, urging the crowd to follow along. They do while she does a stretch of a cappella that reveals even more fully the sweet tone of her voice.

Thomas starts to clap. “Kinda grows on you, doesn’t she?”

“She’s got what it takes to get her there.”

“Yup.”

If we’ve learned anything at all in the past year and a half of navigating Nashville’s music industry waters, it is that talent is only a piece of it. Talent steps off the bus in this town every single day, and, with equal frequency, talent leaves. Making it here is about way more than just mere ability. “Think she’ll see it through?” I ask.

“Depends on how many dents she gets in that guitar of hers and how quickly they come, I guess. Although I’d say it’s gonna take some hefty whacks to derail that little girl’s mojo.”

I can’t disagree with him. I’ve met some incredible singers in the past year and a half who seemed like they could take the knocks, most having arrived in Nashville full of the confidence built by small-town accolades and family praise. But most people have a vulnerability of some kind, and the music business has a way of unearthing it, even when it’s hidden way down deep.

The girl ends the song, and the crowd responds with enthusiastic applause. She all but glows with it, and I wonder if my time here has already rubbed some of that shine from my enthusiasm.

She introduces Thomas and me then, my stomach plummeting as it always does right before we perform.

“If you’ve been in Nashville any time at all,” she says, “you’ve probably already heard about these two. Good heavens, can they sing! Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Barefoot Outlook!”

“Let’s do this thing,” Thomas says, dropping his gum in a trash can and waving me ahead of him with a gentlemanly bow.

On stage, Thomas does the introductions, his Georgia drawl full tilt. “Hey everybody, I’m Thomas Franklin. This is CeCe MacKenzie. We’re Barefoot Outlook, and we’re pleased as pickle juice to be here with y’all tonight!”

If the girl before us has stage presence, Thomas is the polished version of it. Since we first started performing together, I’ve been in awe of the way he wins the interest and attention of the crowd in front of us before he ever sings a note.

“If y’all came to Nashville to hear some country music,” he says, “then hold on, ‘cause here we go.”

Anyone who’s never seen Thomas perform with Holden wouldn’t realize that he’s different when they’re onstage together. But I do. The two of them had this rapport that translated into something I don’t think Thomas and I will ever have. Maybe it comes from having been best friends for so long and knowing pretty much all there is to know about a person. Like two people who’ve been married for decades and can guess what the other will order in a restaurant before they even open the menu. And like two people who fell in love and got married when they were really young, Thomas and Holden will always be each other’s first for writing music and performing. I have never been under any illusion that I am a replacement for Holden.

Holden. A year and a half since he’s been gone, and he still skitters through my thoughts at random points throughout every single day. He writes songs and sends them to Thomas on a regular basis, but he hasn’t returned to Nashville even once since the night he left to go back to Atlanta, back to Sarah.

Our first song tonight is “Country Boys Don’t Wear Thongs.” Holden sent it to Thomas a couple of weeks ago. It’s upbeat, twangy, and funny and immediately sets the mood for our performance. Thomas sells it like bottled water in the Sahara Desert. By the end of the last chorus, the crowd is fully hooked. It’s what we wait for when we’re onstage, and it’s like searching for the right key and knowing the sound when the lock clicks into place.

When Thomas and I first started playing together after Holden left Nashville, we were like two people on a blind date, unsure of what to say, both letting the other go first,  the result being that a couple of our shows were pretty much a muddled mess.

The next is Holden’s as well, a duet called “Our Back Fence.” The third is “What You Took From Me,” the song Holden wrote about a man who lost his wife to a drunk driving accident. And the last song we perform is one I wrote called “Don’tcha Do That.” It brings the crowd back up, and at the end, Thomas thanks everyone for being here and lets them know we’ll be playing tomorrow night at the Rowdy Howdy.

Just before we leave the stage, he throws out, “Y’all come on down and let us show you a good time!”

The clapping follows us to the back of the room where Thomas gets my guitar case and hands it to me. We chat while I put my guitar away and discuss a couple of moments during the first song we think we could have handled better.

“Hey, there’s someone out here who wants to talk to you two.”

I look up to see the fifteen-year-old who performed before us smiling at me with the kind of smile that makes it clear life has not yet dealt her a single hard blow.

“Who is it?” Thomas asks.

She shrugs. “Some guy in a suit. Want me to tell him to come on back?”

“Sure,” Thomas says. “That’s fine.”

She turns to go and then swings around. “Hey, by the way, y’all were awesome up there. You write your own stuff?”

“CeCe wrote a couple of the songs. The rest were written by a friend of ours.”

“Wow, they’re really good,” she says. “I hope I can write like that some day.”

“Just keep at it,” Thomas says.

“I will. See y’all soon.” She waves once and is gone.

My phone vibrates. I glance at the text. It’s Beck, letting me know he’s running a little late to pick me up.

I text back. “NP. See you in a few.”

“K” is his reply.

“Beck?” Thomas asks.

“Yeah.”

“Where y’all headed tonight?”

“His dad’s having a thing,” I say.

“A thing at Case Phillips’s house is a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I guess I’m tired.”

“Of Beck?”

I look up quickly. “No. Why?”

“Just seems like you haven’t been seeing him as much as you were.”

“We’ve both been busy,” I hedge.

“Okay.”

“We have!” I insist.

“Okay,” Thomas says with a smile. “Me thinks she doth protest too much.”

“Stop,” I say. “And anyway, you’re the one who needs to get your love life out of drought status.”

“Ouch! Low blow.”

“You opened that can of worms.”

A knock sounds against the frame of the doorway. A man in a dark suit steps in and says, “I was told I could find you two back here.”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas says. “What can we do for you?”

“I’m Andrew Seeger.” He walks forward and sticks his hand out to me. We shake, and he pumps Thomas’s hand as well. “I’m hoping I can do something for you.”

During our first months in town, this would have perked our ears up considerably. Fancy guy, fancy suit, do something for us. It’s certainly not the first time we’ve heard it. To date, not much of it has panned out.

“Yeah?” Thomas says. “What’s that?”

Andrew doesn’t appear put off by Thomas’s shortness. “The song you did tonight. “What You Took From Me.” Did one of you write it, or both of you?

Thomas shakes his head. “A buddy of ours wrote it.”

“Oh.” Andrew appears slightly disappointed. “Is he around?”

“Actually, no,” Thomas says. “He lives in Atlanta now.”

Andrew looks more disappointed.

“What exactly is this about?” Thomas asks.

“I’m Hart Holcomb’s manager.”

At the name, my eyes go wide, and I feel Thomas’s surprise as well.

“A friend told us about the song,” he says, his voice soft. “Hart snuck into a club downtown where you two were playing and listened for himself. Hart’s wife was killed in a drunk driving accident five years ago. The message is one he feels a need to put out there, and well, he loved it. He wants to record it.”

I glance at Thomas, see the look of stunned surprise on his face, and realize mine probably mirrors it exactly.

“Did you say Hart Holcomb?” Thomas asks.

“Yeah,” Andrew says with a half-smile. “Hart had just finished up his new record when somebody told him about it. He’s bumping another song to include this. I gotta tell you, if there’s any such thing as a lucky break for a songwriter, this is it. Think you can get your friend down here, like ASAP?”

Under most circumstances, the answer would be an immediate yes, but Thomas had yet to talk Holden into coming back even once. After his last trip to Atlanta to see Holden, Thomas returned with the admission that maybe it was time he accepted that Holden was through. “He said he’d write songs for me as long as I want him to,” he’d admitted, more down than I’d ever heard him, “but anything else, he’s moved on.”

“I’m not really sure,” Thomas says now, and I flash a quick look at him.

Andrew hands Thomas a card. “My number is on there. Ask him to give me a call and let me know when we can meet with Hart.”

“Will do,” Thomas says.

“All right, then.” Andrew drops us a nod and walks out.

Thomas and I look at each other but wait a full sixty seconds before saying a word.

“Did he just say Hart Holcomb wants to record Holden’s song?” Thomas is smiling.

“Yeah, he did.”

“Good friggin’ day! That’s like somebody dropping in to say you won the lottery when you didn’t even buy a ticket.”

“It’s a great song,” I say, deliberately keeping my voice smooth.

“It is.”

“Do you think he’ll come?”

Thomas’s smile fades instantly. “He has to come. If I have to drive down there and drag his butt here myself, he’s coming.”

I don’t doubt Thomas means it, but I also know that Holden has chosen another life and made it clear that this one is behind him. Something flutters low inside me at the thought of seeing him again. It shouldn’t, but it does.

“In fact, I’m calling him right now.” Thomas pulls his phone from his shirt pocket, swipes the screen and then taps his number.

My heart kicks into overdrive now. Which is ridiculous considering I’m not the one calling, and Holden won’t even know I’m in the room. My palms instantly start to sweat. I pick up my guitar and mouth to Thomas, “I’m leaving. Beck is…”

“Hold on a minute,” Thomas says. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Holden answers because Thomas says, “Hey, what are you doing?” A pause and, “You’re still at work? I thought the corporate world went home at five.” Another pause. “Are you sitting down? Well you should. We just finished up a set at the Blue Bird.”

I notice he doesn’t say my name.

“And you’re not gonna believe what’s happened. Hart Holcomb wants to record “What You Took From Me.” Silence and then, “Ah, hold on, maybe you didn’t understand what I said. Hart Holcomb wants to record your song. This is pretty much a once in a lifetime opportunity. Can you come down tomorrow, man?”

A pause before, “Seriously! Two years ago, you would have sold your eyeteeth for a chance like this. . .Yeah, I know things are different now, but do you have to stop living. . .Well, not the life you planned to live.”

Another stretch of awkward silence. Thomas says, “You know what, I’m going to pretend for now that somebody hit you over the head with a two-by-four, and you’re not yourself. I’ll call back in the morning and hope the Holden I used to know will answer the telephone.” And with that he clicks off.

It’s a rare thing to see Thomas angry. I’ve seen him mildly aggravated a couple of times, but this is far beyond that.

“Aliens have taken over his body,” he says, looking at me and shaking his head.

“He made a choice, Thomas.”

“But he said she’s doing well. It’s like he thinks if he resumes his life, she’ll get sick again.”

“Maybe that’s how he’s made peace with it,” I say, even though something at the core of me aches with a deep dull throb. I had made my own peace with it eventually; not right away, because it simply hurt too much. Watching Holden go and not come back was the first time in my life I fully understood the meaning of wanting something heart and soul and not being able to have it. Before that, if I had been asked, I would have said I knew what that felt like. There had been things in my life that I didn’t get, that I yearned for at the time. I didn’t get the puppy I wanted for Christmas when I was seven. I didn’t make the cheerleading squad in tenth grade. And after standing in line for almost two days to audition for American Idol, I came down with the stomach flu and had to leave.

By world standards, those are ridiculously minuscule things, but in nineteen years of life, those events were my measuring stick for disappointment. Maybe it’s their flimsiness that made wanting Holden and not being able to have him all the more excruciating.

On the morning he left, I lay in bed listening to the sounds of his going. The shower starting up in his room. The zip of his luggage. The snap of his guitar case. The squeak of the bedroom door. His footsteps in the hallway. The gush of water from the kitchen faucet. Muffled words between him and Thomas, their tones low and somber. Then the opening of the door and the clicking sound of it closing behind him. I had been holding the tears inside. With that final sound of his leaving, they had gushed up and out of me with the force of a geyser. It was as if my holding them in had only increased the pressure beneath, and I could not stop myself from sobbing. I buried my face in my pillow, but Thomas heard me and came into the room.

Sitting down on the side of the bed, he pulled me up against him. He folded his arms around me like a big, broad band of comfort, and he let me cry. I cried until there wasn’t a single tear left in me. I lay limp and empty against his wide strong chest. He rubbed the back of my hair with one hand and said, “Damn, it sucks.”

“I’m not just crying for me,” I’d said. “I’m crying for all of it. How could someone so young, how could she-”

“I don’t know,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “It’s a wretched fuck of a disease.”

I bit my lower lip and refused to let another dry sob slip past my throat. “Will she be okay?” I asked, like a small child looking to a parent for reassurance of things simply too big to process.

He continued rubbing my hair. “I pray like hell she will.”

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with him,” I said in little more than a whisper.

Thomas said nothing for a bit, and I wondered if he hadn’t heard me. But then he said, “I don’t think he meant to fall in love with you either.”

And that, just that, broke the dam again. Thomas had held me and let me cry. At some point, he slipped us both under the covers, and he stayed there with me until sleep stole my tears and gave me relief. An unbreakable bond was forged between the two of us that night. Our loss was mutual. It would be a while before either of us knew the extent of it, knew that Holden wasn’t coming back for good. Once that became clear, something in Thomas dimmed a little. Holden had not only been like a brother to him, but was probably the only other person in the world who understood what music meant to him and felt the same way about it. They had been on a journey together for a long time, and when Holden’s path had veered off in another direction, Thomas was just kind of lost. Everything he thought he’d wanted to do in this town was now up for question.

He’d been in the living room one night when I got home from working in the restaurant. He was sitting on the couch with Hank Junior nestled up under the crook of his arm, his head on Thomas’s lap. I know my Hank, and I could tell by the look on his face that he was worried about Thomas.

“Everything okay?” I asked, dropping my purse on the coffee table. Hank thumped his tail, looked up, and licked Thomas’s cheek.

“I swear your dog has telepathy,” Thomas said.

I walked over and rubbed Hank’s head. “So what’s wrong?”

“I’ve been thinking. Maybe I ought to hang up this gig too.”

I felt my eyes go wide, my lips part in surprise. “You mean quit music? Leave Nashville?”

“Well, it’s kinda not making much sense now. Without Holden, I’m not sure it will ever work for me.”

I sat down on the sofa next to him. “I know you miss him,” I said.

“I think maybe I never realized quite how much of the driving force he was behind the two of us. Heck, CeCe, I just like to sing. I’m not any good at writing or scheduling gigs. That was Holden’s thing. And it all…well, it feels flat without him.”

I wanted to disagree, but I couldn’t. It was like going on vacation to a place normally completely sunny, only to have your seven days there filled with clouds and rain. Somehow, it wasn’t the same. “Would he want you to leave, to give all this up?”

“Well, no, but that’s not really the point. He doesn’t get to say whether I do or not.”

I studied him for a moment and then said, “I’m not sure you know exactly how much of a gift you have in that voice of yours. People love to hear you sing, Thomas, and you love to do it. I bet, if you asked him, Holden would keep writing for you. He loves to write. I can’t imagine that he would give that up forever.”

“I think he wants to forget all of it.”

“You don’t know until you ask.”

We sat there on the couch for a good long while. Now that I was home to take over soothing duty, Hank Jr. snored softly, his head still resting on Thomas’s leg.

“Assuming that he does want to keep writing,” Thomas said finally, “and that’s a big ‘does,’ what about the two of us going on with the Barefoot Outlook thing? I know you’ve been doing your thing, and I’ve been doing mine but I don’t much like being solo.”

“Me, either,” I said. And even though it wasn’t what I had once imagined for myself, I realized that I did like what we had begun putting together as Barefoot Outlook. Before Sarah’s diagnosis and Holden’s leaving. “Think it will fly with just the two of us?” I asked.

“Won’t know until we try.”

Since that night, that’s what we’ve been doing. Holden did agree to continue writing, and most of the songs he’s sent us were written to include us both. All of our communication went through Thomas. And I hadn’t spoken to him since the morning he left the apartment. I guess it’s better that way because what would there have been for us to say to each other?

Holden did the right thing. I have not questioned this, even at its cost to me. From the moment Sarah’s diagnosis became a reality, I never once thought that he would choose me. I never once thought that he would do anything but the right thing where Sarah was concerned.

A person can only be what they are, and what I know about Holden is this. He’s the guy who’s going to walk the little old lady across the street, pick up the starving dog on the side of the road. He’s the guy who sees right as right, and wrong as wrong, and there’s no in between, no gray. Because if he hadn’t been that guy, it’s as simple as this. I would never have fallen in love with him.

♪

27

Holden

It’s nine-thirty by the time I leave the office and head home. I take Peachtree Road out of downtown Atlanta, choosing traffic over the interstate. The Volvo belongs to Sarah’s father’s company. As an employee there, part of my compensation package includes a vehicle to drive. I had actually put up an argument over being given such an expensive ride for an entry level position, but Dr. Saxon is not a man too many people win an argument against. My job is a good one, a job most college graduates would be thrilled to get just coming out of school. And under any other circumstances, having the opportunity to work with Dr. Saxon would feel like something of a coup.

Sarah’s father is a smart guy. His first invention, over twenty years ago, made him a multimillionaire. He developed a cream for burn victims that accelerated the healing process by as much as thirty percent. From there, he created other medicinal products, mostly rooted in natural sources, that were eventually sold to pharmaceutical companies and put his worth at over two hundred million dollars.

In fact, it is probably Dr. Saxon’s unyielding determination to help Sarah beat her disease that got her to where she is now, in remission, feeling and looking like herself again. I wonder sometimes what would have happened had he not pushed her from clinic to clinic, including one in Mexico, trying countless methods of boosting her body’s immune system. Watching him do everything in his power to help her made me wonder many times if he was fighting not only for Sarah’s life, but his own as well. I really believe that if Sarah had died, he would have too.

That kind of love isn’t something I ever saw growing up in my own home. My father’s love had never been rooted  in selflessness. I’m sure there was a reason for it. Maybe it was my mother’s leaving when I was six and the house suddenly becoming a place where Dad and I basically crossed paths and little more. He saw his role as raising me, preparing me for the world and then pushing me out into it.

I know that’s what a parent is actually supposed to do, but my dad’s efforts always felt as if they were rooted in obligation. As for Sarah’s parents, especially her father, everything he did for her stemmed from the purest kind of love, a love I have often wondered if anyone else in her life will be able to live up to.

Our apartment is in a nice section of Buckhead, in between the Buckhead Diner and Phipps Plaza. It’s actually a condominium that Dr. Saxon bought for Sarah about six months after she got her first clear checkup. It’s in a high-rise, its only drawback being that Patsy absolutely hates the elevator and refuses to get in unless I’m carrying her. I’ve discovered that an older Beagle pretty much personifies stubbornness. When the two of us moved in here with Sarah, I expected Patsy to be a permanent bone of contention between us, but somewhere along the way, Sarah decided that my having a dog wasn’t such a bad thing. Although she still doesn’t like for her to sit on the couch or sleep on our bed, she’s okay with her. I should say they’re okay with each other.

I park in the garage and take the elevator to our floor. As soon as I stick the key in the lock, I hear Patsy click, click, clicking across the tile. She is waiting just inside the door, as she is every night when I get home.

Her tail a wagging blur, she’s so happy to see me that she’s shaking, and I wonder, not for the first time, why anyone would choose to be lonely. All they have to do is get a dog. No one has bothered to tell Patsy that I actually did not hang the sun and the moon, and so she continues to think I did. I have to admit I don’t mind. I reach down and rub under her chin where she likes to be rubbed. “Do you need to go out? Have you been out already?”

She jogs in place like a little foot soldier, and I feel a surge of pride for how good she looks. Her coat is shiny, and although she’s not plump, she looks like a dog who is well-fed and well-loved. In the Davidson County pound, she had looked at least twice as old as she does now. I guess it’s true that while lack of care can age beyond fairness, it is also true that the simple ingredients of kindness and love can peel away those years.

“I took her out about a half hour ago.”

I look up to see Sarah standing in the kitchen doorway, a soft smile on her mouth. She’s thin in skinny jeans and a pink sweater; her hair still very short, but thick and again healthy.

“Thanks,” I say. “I didn’t mean to be this late.”

“That’s okay. We had a nice walk.”

“Smells great in here.”

“I’m roasting some vegetables,” she says. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Get your shower, and I should have everything ready by the time you’re done.”

“Sounds good,” I say. I walk over and give her a kiss on the cheek, patting my leg for Patsy to follow me. Instead, she leads the way, and in the bedroom, heads for the fancy dog bed Sarah bought for her when we moved in.

Fatigue hits me in a wave as I step under the shower spray a few minutes later. I lean against the wall and let it do its best to revive me. It’s not as if my work is physical. It isn’t. I’ve been doing research for Dr. Saxon on hundreds of different topics, compiling the most relevant notes for whatever question he has presented me with. It’s interesting, so I’m not exactly sure why I come home exhausted each night.

But then a thought waves itself in front of me like a white flag vying to be noticed. Round pegs, square hole. The constant forcing of a fit. Trying to make something function in a manner in which it was not designed to function. I try not to think about it, belabor it, question it.

I made a choice. Just over nineteen months ago, I made a choice. It’s not one I can regret, or really ever imagine regretting.

The first weeks after I came back to Atlanta were a complete nightmare, for Sarah, for me, for her family. The diagnosis itself, the suggested forms of treatment. Chemo. Complete mastectomy with reconstruction. The prognosis itself, unwavering in its uncertainty. It wasn’t an if-then proposition. If you take this treatment, then you will be cured. With her cancer, there was nothing definite except for the fact that it had taken her body hostage.

The gratitude on Sarah’s face that first night back in Atlanta told me, as nothing else could, that I’d made the right choice. None of what had happened between us in Nashville mattered at that point. She never brought it up, and I never mentioned it. We went on as before, like I had never left Atlanta to go there in the first place. Like there had never been CeCe.

Her name is like a small electrical shock to my brain, because I don’t let myself think it very often. There’s no point in dwelling on something that can no longer be. It’s not as if I were able to do it in the beginning, put her out of my mind. I think I know now that the heart doesn’t give up what it wants that easily. I have no explanation for how hard I fell or how fast except that it was like finding a part of myself that I never realized was missing until I met her.

Thomas’s call is suddenly front and center, and that’s another thing there’s no point in thinking about. I’m not going back to Nashville. The likelihood of Hart Holcomb actually cutting my song is about as probable as Georgia snow in July. To go back on the off chance that something might come of it doesn’t seem worth what it would feel like to have to leave again. Easier not to go back at all.

I put on sweat pants and a t-shirt and head for the kitchen. Sarah has dinner on the table. We sit down with her telling me about a nutrition class she is taking. In addition to the juicing she’s been doing, she’s considering adapting to a completely raw diet.

“With the way you like salads,” I say, “that shouldn’t be too hard.”

“I  think so too,” she agrees. “Some of the research the professor presented was pretty convincing.”

“Then you definitely should.”

She spears a red pepper, looks at me for a moment and then says, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“You look, I don’t know, a little sad or something.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Daddy over-working you?”

I shake my head. “I probably didn’t sleep great last night.”

“Anything bothering you?”

“No. Everything’s good.” I’d like to think I sound convincing but she doesn’t look convinced.

A couple of hours later when we’re in bed, Sarah reaches across and clasps her fingers in mine. Her touch surprises me. For a long time after her surgery, she did not want me to touch her. Even after her body had completely healed physically, she avoided any opportunity for us to be close.

I’ve let myself think that with time, this part of our relationship would come back. So far it hasn’t. We’ve continued to ignore it, even though it’s begun to loom between us like a big black cloud that we can no longer see through. With her fingers entwined in mine, she says, “Thomas called earlier, right before you got home.”

Something jumps inside my chest, and I realize there’s no point in asking her what he wanted. “Did he?”

“He told me about the song,” she says.

“Yeah, you know the odds of that becoming anything.”

She’s quiet for a minute or more before saying, “Maybe it’s time we talk about some of that.”

“What is there to talk about?” I ask, deliberately nonchalant. “Another time, another place.”

“But it was your dream.”

“Was,” I say.

She sighs, turns over onto her side, and, with a fingertip under my jaw, forces me to look at her. “Dreams don’t really go away, do they?”

“Sometimes they have to,” I answer, my tone ragged enough that I immediately wish I had censored it.

She’s quiet for several moments before saying, “Can we drop the walls and be honest with one another, Holden?”

“Sarah,” I look at the ceiling, “I am being honest with you.”

“I know you think you are. Holden, before I knew I was sick, what I wanted more than anything was for you to come back here because it was where you wanted to be. I never pretended that Nashville was my dream, and I guess I wanted you to decide that it wasn’t yours either. But it was your dream. Still is your dream.”

“You know I’ve put all that behind me,” I say.

“I know you think you have.” She squeezes my hand hard, as if bracing herself. “I want you to go back.”

“What?” I hear the surprise in my voice.

“If you don’t, you’ll regret it,” she says softly, “because you’ll always wonder what might have happened.”

“No, I won’t,” I say, firm.

Sarah turns over on her back and now she is staring at the ceiling as well. Patsy snores softly, one z after another, all that is filling the silence between us.

“Sarah, things are good now. Let’s not mess it up, okay?”

“But are they? Really good? Compared to what they could have been, yes, I think they are. Good as in, I didn’t die.”

I sit up on one elbow. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I could have, it’s true.”

“You didn’t, and you won’t.”

“At least not if Daddy has anything to say about it,” she says, a half-smile on her mouth. “I don’t know, Holden, I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about how I’m different now.”

“What do you mean?”

“How we’re all just one doctor’s visit and diagnosis away from our lives being shattered as we know them. I know now how in a blink it can all change. I was so arrogant about life and what I thought I deserved.”

“You weren’t arrogant,” I say.

“Actually, I was. I wanted you, at whatever cost, even if it meant that you would never really be happy with the life that we made together.”

“Sarah,” I take her hand again, “I am happy. Stop.”

“You made a choice to give up all the things that you wanted. You made a choice to give up your writing and music, and I let you because I was too selfish to let you go.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true,” she insists. “And if I couldn’t let you go and be sure that you would come back, were you ever really mine to begin with?”

I’d like to answer, to reassure her with the words I know she needs to hear, but they’re stuck somewhere in the back of my throat and for the life of me I cannot force them out.

“Now that I’m admitting all of this, I guess I want to be loved by someone else the way I’ve loved you, Holden. I don’t think I want to go through the rest of my life being the one who loves the most.”

“Sarah, please-”

“Let me finish. We both deserve that.”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, feeling as if I’m walking on glass and everything beneath me is going to shatter at any second.

“Because I know you won’t ever do it first.”

Her words fall around us like rain pinging off a roof. I try to absorb their meaning. “Are you saying everything that’s happened in this past year and a half has meant nothing?”

“No,” she says softly. “The opposite. It’s meant everything. What you did for me when you knew that I needed you. . .I don’t have any words to come close to thanking you for being who you are. But there is something I can do to pay you back.”

“What?” I ask, not sure I even want to know the answer.

“Let you go. Without guilt or regret.”

“Sarah-”

“Go and be who you were meant to be, Holden.”

“I don’t know why you’re saying these things. This is a mistake.”

“It isn’t. And I don’t want to think of any of it that way. But to hold onto each other for the wrong reasons, yes. That would be a mistake.”

I slip an arm around her waist and pull her to me, a deep sadness sinking in around me. Because she’s right. I know she’s right.

She presses her face into my chest, and I feel her tears against my skin. “We don’t have to do this,” I say.

She puts a finger to my lips. “There is one more thing.”

Hearing something different in her voice, I pull back to look at her. “What?”

She’s silent until I start to think she’s not going to tell me. “I’ve met someone, Holden.”

The words hang in the space between us, and I see in her expression that she’s not sure what my reaction will be. “A guy?” I ask, the question sounding flat and disbelieving even to my ears.

She nods once, biting her lower lip.

“Who?” I ask, and I don’t think my voice sounds like my own.

She hesitates and then, “He’s one of the doctors I’ve been seeing for my follow-up care. Nothing has happened. But he’s told me he has feelings for me. And I. . .I think I might for him, too.”

I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed, lean forward with my elbows on my knees and pull in a couple of deep breaths. “That is probably the last thing in the world I expected to hear you say.”

“I didn’t go looking for it. And if things were truly right between us, I don’t think it would have found me.”

When I can speak, I say, “Is all of this because of the very unlikely possibility of me getting a cut on my song?”

“No,” she says, placing a hand on my back in what feels like a gesture of comfort. “It’s just the trigger.”

♪

28

CeCe

It’s one a.m., and the party at Beck’s dad’s place looks like it’s just getting started. There are enough famous faces in various parts of this house to keep a paparazzi photographer snapping away in every direction. The pool is shaped like a guitar, and two of the guys in Case’s band are sitting on the diving board, taking requests, one song after another.

I’m in a chair at the opposite end when Beck returns from getting us both a drink. “Here you go,” he says, handing me my glass of San Pellegrino and lime.

“Thanks.” I look up at him with what I can feel is a weak attempt at a smile.

He sits down on the chair beside me, hip bumping me over a bit. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I shrug and take a sip of the fizzy water.

“Beg to differ. You haven’t been yourself all night. Show at the Blue Bird not go well?”

“It went great,” I say, a little too bright even to my own ears. “Everything’s good.”

He puts a finger beneath my chin and forces me to look at him. “Give me credit for knowing you better than that.”

“I guess I’m tired. It’s been kind of a long week.”

“You’re working a lot. Why don’t you cut back on your hours at the restaurant?”

“And eat with what?” I ask with a half-smile.

“You know I want to help you out, babe. You won’t let me.”

“I’m good, Beck. Seriously,” I say, immediately digging in my heels as I do every time he brings this up.

“Just too tired to play,” he says, and for a moment, it feels like I am way older than he is.

“Responsibility calls.” I immediately regret my sharpness.

Beck leans back and gives me a long look. “Whoa. Where did that come from?”

“I’m sorry,” I say instantly, feeling further guilt for something I’m not even sure I can identify. Beck and I have been officially seeing each other for almost a year now, and I’ve never once picked a fight. We’ve never actually had a fight.

“Sorry for what?” he asks, the question sounding a little bruised.

“For being a jerk.”

“You’re not a jerk,” he says, putting an arm around my shoulders and pulling me to him. He presses a kiss to my cheek and then nips my lower lip before kissing me full and deep. I respond as I know I should. Kissing him back and telling myself as I have a dozen times before that I would be an idiot to throw this away.

Beck Phillips is all but an actual commodity in Nashville. The only son of a major country music star. Good-looking beyond fairness. How many times have I waited for him at the end of one of his classes at Vanderbilt and seen the girls following him around like puppies after a treat jar? And every time, I’ve asked myself, why me? Of all the girls he could have in this town, why me?

If I’ve found anything close to an answer, I would say it’s this. Beck doesn’t like losing. He likes winning. Not in an obnoxious, arrogant sort of way. It’s just what he’s used to. Having what he wants. Whether it’s right away. Or eventually. And maybe that’s what fueled his interest in me. I’ve yet to give him all of me. Emotionally or physically.

He kisses my neck now, one hand looped around my waist. “Let’s go up to my room,” he says. “You can take a nap.”

I smile and repeat one of my granny’s favorite sayings. “Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?”

He laughs. “No, I don’t guess you do,” he says, kissing me full on again. He studies me without bothering to hide the need in his eyes. “What if I promise to be good?”

“I need to go home and sleep in my own bed.”

“We could do that.”

This time, I laugh. “No one ever said you’re not persistent.”

He loops an arm around my waist and lifts me onto his lap, kissing me deeply. When he pulls back, he says, “Desperation breeds persistence.”

“All right, lovebirds, this is a public gathering.” Case Phillips ruffles Beck’s hair, saving me from a response.

“Dad,” Beck protests, swatting his hand away. It’s really a weird thing, knowing who Case Phillips the country music star is most of my life and then to see Beck act as if he is any regular dad who irritates him the way most dads irritate their teenage sons.

Case reaches for a chair and pulls it up next to ours. He’s holding a beer in one hand, but it’s nearly full. I’ve noticed he doesn’t drink as much as the people he surrounds himself with. He sits and leans back with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“Dad,” Beck repeats, “we’re kind of busy.”

“I can see you’re working hard in that direction,” Case agrees with a raised eyebrow.

I feel the blush start in my cheeks and level out at my hairline. I slide off Beck’s lap and sit beside him on the lounge chair.

“I didn’t come over to ruin the party,” Case says, an apology in his voice. “I actually have a proposition for you both.”

“What?” Beck struggles to dampen his aggravation.

“My opening act for the upcoming tour seems to be falling apart before everybody’s eyes.”

“Footfalls?” Beck asks.

Case nods.

“Why?” Beck sounds more interested now. “They’re crazy good.”

“Agreed. Which is why a person has to wonder why they want to throw all that away by showing up for rehearsals late and loaded.”

“Drugs?” Beck says, looking surprised.

“Who the hell knows? I would assume. But you know I don’t stand for that crap on tour. They’ve been given three warnings, and it hasn’t made a difference yet. Paula didn’t make it through the first set this afternoon.”

“I know Paula,” I say, unable to hide my surprise. “We’ve written a couple of songs together. I can’t believe she would-”

“No one ever does,” Case says. “Who can figure the human psyche? Sometimes getting what you want comes  with more pressure than some people can handle.”

I get that, but I’ve had several long conversations with Paula about our love for music and the hope that we’ll get to do this our whole lives. She’s a small-town girl from South Carolina who has the support of a family who’ve given their all to help her get where she is. We were writing together the day she got the news that her band had been chosen to tour with Case. I nearly had to peel her off the wall. How could she willingly throw it all away? “That really doesn’t seem like something she would do. Does she know they’re at risk of being asked to leave the tour?”

“I’m afraid we’re already past the at-risk phase. They’re gone. Out of my hands.”

“That sucks,” Beck says.

“Yeah. It does suck to see someone throw away something they’ve worked so hard for.”

My heart actually hurts for Paula and everything I know she has just lost.

“I had a thought this afternoon,” Case says. “Rhys played that demo we did in the studio, what a year, year and a half ago, with you and your friends, CeCe?”

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Wish you’d quit with the sir stuff, hon. You make me feel like a founding member of Mount Rushmore.”

I smile. “Sorry, Case. You’re not, you know.”

His grin says he’s totally aware that he’s still got it as far as most American females are concerned. “I know Holden and Sarah moved back to Atlanta, but you and Thomas have a great thing going. What would you think about Beck joining the group and y’all stepping in as my opening act?”

I hear him say the words, but they don’t completely sink in. I feel sure I must have imagined them. “What? Are you serious?”

“Dead,” he says.

Adrenaline rushes up from the pit of my stomach, and I wish Thomas were here to take this in at the same time I am. I glance at Beck and notice his surprise. Case has pretty much done his best to keep Beck in school and out of the music business.

“Why now, Dad?” he asks, disbelief at the edge of the question.

Case sighs and shoves a hand through his dark hair. “Let’s just say that after this last set of grades, it’s becoming clear to me that you don’t want to be in school any more than I did at your age. I know I’ve forced the issue. Maybe if you get out there and see what it’s like, you’ll want to go back at some point.”

Beck raises his palm and high-fives his dad. “Heck, yeah!” he says. He looks at me then, as if he’s forgotten that I have yet to say anything about his joining Thomas and me. “CeCe? What do you think?”

“I think it’s an amazing opportunity,” I say carefully. “Thank you, Case. I’d like to say yes this very minute, but do you mind if I talk with Thomas first?”

“Of course, that’s how any good team operates,” Case says, standing. “Need to know something by ten tomorrow though. Sorry for the short notice. We’re running on a tight schedule now. Sound good?”

I nod. “Case, thank you again so much. I really don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll do it,” he says with his trademark smile. “That’s thanks enough.”

He leaves then, heading for a group of people chatting on the other side of the pool.

Beck leans back and looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Am I missing something, or am I the only one who thinks what just happened is incredible?”

“It is incredible,” I say.

“Then why the reserve?”

“I didn’t feel like I could really speak for Thomas and me both.”

“I get that. Are you sure it isn’t more about the fact that he wants me included?”

The question catches me off guard. “No. Why would you think that?”

“I guess it’s just the vibe I’m getting.”

“Beck, don’t look for something that’s not there.”

“I’m not looking. But it’s definitely there.”

I want to deny it, but the butterflies in my stomach are telling me I do have some concerns. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m wondering how we go from never having played together other than the demo at your dad’s studio to performing in front of sold-out crowds three weeks from now.”

“We’ll just work our tails off until then.”

“What about finishing up the semester at school? How will you manage that?”

Beck glances away and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “Yeah. That. I think Dad is playing one step ahead of the curveball.”

“What do you mean?”

He blows out a sigh and looks like he doesn’t want to say what he’s going to say. “My grades this semester aren’t going to cut it.”

“Oh,” I say, more than a little surprised. “I’m sorry.”

“Now you think I’m a loser, right?” he says, his voice low and unsure.

“Of course not.”

“The only reason I went there in the first place is because Dad wanted me to. I guess this is his way of throwing me a lifeline.”

“Pretty nice lifeline,” I say, trying for a smile.

He studies me for a moment, and then says, “You don’t think it’s fair, do you?”

“What?”

“Being handed this.”

“Of course it’s fair. He’s your dad. That should count for something.”

“You mean that?”

“I do.”

“A lot of people think I have a silver spoon up my butt.”

This makes me laugh. “Well, if they do, they don’t know you.”

“Thanks.”

“Not necessary.”

His expression goes suddenly serious. “I care what you think about me, CeCe.”

There’s a different note in the admission, one I haven’t heard before. Vulnerability. And I’m not sure I know what to do with that.

♪

BECK TAKES ME home, and we say almost nothing during the drive back into town. With the BMW’s top down, the wind provides a good excuse for silence although the space between us feels thick with Beck’s unusual somberness.

I don’t even know why I’m acting this way, why my response to this completely out-of-left-field opportunity isn’t more of what it should be. As I stare out into the night whipping past us, I realize that my thoughts have been occupied with Holden on some level since Hart Holcomb’s manager came back to see us after the show at the Blue Bird. I’d like to deny it, but then I wouldn’t even be honest with myself.

When we arrive at the apartment, Beck doesn’t turn off the car and get out to walk me up as he usually does.

“Let me know what you and Thomas decide,” he says.

I can hear that his irritation has now melted into something much more like hurt. My guilt is instant. I reach across to cover his hand with mine. “I’m sorry, Beck, for being so difficult tonight.”

“Hey, it is what it is.”

“But it’s not. Exactly.”

He leans back against the seat and pulls his hand out from under mine. “Then what is it, CeCe? No, on second thought, don’t answer that. Maybe what’s happened tonight will serve a couple different purposes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Force your hand, I guess. Look, I think we both know I’m the one who’s been pushing you along in this relationship. Maybe I didn’t want to admit that exactly, but I don’t think I can deny it any longer. So while you’re making up your mind about whether you want this gig with my dad, why don’t you figure out whether you want me or not as well? And it’s not an either or proposition. I want you and the gig. But if I can’t have both-”

I lean over and kiss him, quick and full. I feel his resistance for several long seconds, but then he gives and pulls me to him. I blank my mind of everything except him and the fact that he has been there for me during this past year. He’s made me part of his life, introduced me to everyone he knows in this town. And he has been. . .even as I’m kissing him, I’m searching for the exact description. Then it hits me like a splash of ice cold water: a distraction.

I sit back in my seat just as the last two words slam through me. From Holden.

I press my hand to my lips. They tingle from the intensity of Beck’s kiss.

For the first time in a year and a half, anger blooms inside me. The petals unfold like the pink blooms on Mama’s Rose of Sharon tree in our backyard when spring prods it from its winter hibernation. I’ve imagined many times how those blooms must resist that awakening, especially when warm weather is teasing its way into existence, and there’s no guarantee that nighttime won’t drape them with frost.

I think maybe I’m the Rose of Sharon in this situation, refusing to open my heart fully to Beck because somewhere inside of me, I am frozen with love for Holden. And I realize then that I’m angry with myself for that. Who stays in a holding pattern for this long? Waiting for something that’s already passed? That can never come back? Never be what it might have been. I know now that as surely as I’m sitting here, that’s what I’ve been doing. Waiting.

I don’t want to wait any longer. Everything I’ve been working for, everything Thomas has been working for, is now right in front of us. Within reach. Only a fool would turn away from it.

“I want this, Beck,” I say, linking my fingers through his. “I want you.”

He’s looking at me as if he’s sure I didn’t say what I just said. “What?”

“Don’t act so surprised. You know you’re hot.” This brings a smile to his lips, and I think I may have redeemed myself, at least a little bit anyway. He leans across and kisses me again, and there’s sweetness at the edges. Beck is a cool guy, and it’s not in his playbook to show insecurity. I feel that now and the responsibility of it. An immediate desire not to take advantage of it.

“You won’t regret it,” he says softly. “Any of it. I promise, okay?”

“I know I won’t,” I say. “I’ll talk to Thomas and call you.” I glance at the clock. “It’s already after three. In a few hours.”

“Okay. Goodnight, CeCe.”

“Night, Beck.”

And with the closing of the car door, I feel something close inside me as well. If it’s not gladness that follows the click, maybe acceptance is enough.

♪

HANK JUNIOR IS asleep on the couch when I unlock the door and step inside the apartment. He raises his head and blinks sleepy hound eyes at me then thumps his tail in greeting against the sofa cushion.

“Hey, sweet boy,” I say, going over to sit down beside him. I rub his soft head and velvety ears. “Need to go out?”

He rests his chin on my leg and closes his eyes in answer. I try to talk myself into leaving the conversation with Thomas until morning, but the thought of sleeping with all of this on my mind is an absolute impossibility. I knock on his door and call out, “Thomas?”

A couple of seconds pass before he answers with a groggy, “That you, CeCe?”

“Yeah. Are you alone?”

“Actually, no, I’m not.”

“Oh,” I say, not doing a very good job of hiding my disappointment.

“Everything all right?” he calls out.

“I was hoping we could talk for a minute.”

A pause and then, “You are aware that it’s three o’clock in the morning?”

“Ah, yeah.”

“And this is important?” he asks, as close to grouchy as he gets.

“It is,” I say.

“I’ll be out in a sec.”

I wait for him in the hallway, and when he steps through the door, I try to peer over his shoulder. “Who is it?” I ask.

“None of your business,” he says, turning me around and pushing me toward the living room with his hands on my shoulders.

“If it’s a secret, she must not be very-”

He stops me with, “CeCe, what the devil are you getting me up at this hour for? Just to give me a hard time about who’s in my bed?”

“I’m not,” I say. “I mean, that’s not why I got you up.”

Thomas plops down on the couch beside Hank Junior. I take the chair across from them. He’s wearing light blue boxers with banjos on them. I squint at them and say, “Nice.”

“Do you really need me to go back and put on some britches?”

“No. I’ll keep my eyes chest level or above.”

“Thank you. Much appreciated,” he says. “Are you planning on telling me why you got me up in the middle of the night?”

“Footfalls got fired as the opening act for Case’s tour. He wants us to go in their place.”

If I had just dropped, “Elvis is alive and coming over for dinner,” I don’t think Thomas could’ve looked any more surprised.

“Did you say-” he starts.

“I did,” I interrupt.

A grin breaks his formerly sleepy expression wide open. “For real?”

“For real.”

Several moments pass, during which he looks as if he has no idea where to go from here. And then, “What’s the catch?”

“We have to be ready to perform as an opening act within three weeks.”

He tips his head, considers this. “We’re missing electric guitar, but we ought to be able to get that filled as soon as we put it out there as part of a tour opportunity.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“What else?”

“What do you mean?”

“What other catch? There must be one.”

I hesitate before saying, “He wants Beck to join us.” This one, I can see, he did not expect.

“Ah,” he says. “So what’s behind that?”

“Honestly?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Beck has pretty much let his grades slide this semester. His dad has always discouraged him from getting into the music business but I guess he’s realizing it’s kind of inevitable.”

“Dude can play guitar. No doubt about it.”

“Think it could work?” I ask cautiously.

Thomas rubs Hank Junior’s ears, quiet for a full minute or more. “I expect it’s like this. If you and I have a brain in our heads, we’ll find a way to make it work.”

♪

29

Holden

My flight lands in Nashville at five-thirty-eight p.m. As the wheels touch the runway, my heartbeat kicks up a notch, and doubt pummels through me.

Yesterday at this time I hadn’t even left work. I sure didn’t know that in twenty-four hours, I would have turned my life upside down again, reaching out for a rope to grab onto that might or might not be there.

As I’d done a dozen times in the past several hours, I ask myself if I’m wrong to try to pick up the edges of a dream and roll it back into something recognizable. When I woke up this morning, my first thought was that Sarah would have changed her mind. That our conversation last night would reveal itself to be nothing more than a mistake in judgment.

I think that’s what I was hoping because letting go of something I wanted so badly and coming to terms with that loss hadn’t happened over night. And even if our lives hadn’t turned out to be everything we had once imagined they could be, I did feel extreme gratitude for Sarah’s recovery and the part she had told me I played in it.

She had not decided that it was a mistake in judgment. I’m not even sure the Sarah who helped me pack my things was the same Sarah I’ve known since college. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I could see in her face that she’d already moved on. Wanted something other than me now.

Maybe the only reason it doesn’t hurt more is that I know she’s right to want something else, someone else who will love her with every speck of space in his heart.

The way I wanted to. The way I tried to. It’s pretty clear now that if I hadn’t realized CeCe still occupied a corner of my heart, Sarah had.

A bell chimes, and the stewardess welcomes us to Nashville. Seat belts click their release in unison, and everyone around me stands up, reaching for bags and laptops. I start to stand, but something inside me locks my legs beneath a sudden rush of uncertainty.

It feels a lot like the time Thomas and I went skydiving our freshman year in college. He went first, and I remember standing at the edge of the plane door, watching him torpedo toward the ground. I could not make myself move. It was as if my brain and my legs were no longer synchronized. And as much as I hated the thought of disappointing him, I couldn’t jump.

But then he looked up, waved a hand at me, and his parachute burst open, turning his descent into a graceful sashay through wide-open space.

That was the moment I stepped over the threshold of the plane and began the free fall. As soon as I was out there, dropping through the sky, I knew I wanted to do this a thousand more times. The only thing I’ve ever found to compare it to is music, every phase of it, from the creation of a first note in a new song to playing it on stage in front of an audience for the first time.

If starting out after this dream again is anything like skydiving, I know I’m going to have to take a leap of faith and jump. And so I stand up and join the exodus.

♪

THERE’S A DRIVER waiting at baggage claim with a sign that has my name on it. I walk over and tell him who I am.

“Well, all right,” he says with the friendliness I remember as such a part of Nashville. “I’m Mitchell. Mr. Hart is expecting you, Mr. Ashford. Can I get your bag for you?”

“It’s Holden, and thanks but I’m good.” I follow him out the main doors and to a waiting Hummer limo. This, I hadn’t expected.

He opens the back, takes my guitar and suitcase and puts them inside, then walks around to open the door for me.

“I can ride up front,” I say, feeling about a dozen different kinds of awkward.

Mitchell smiles and shakes his head. “Hey, enjoy it, young man. Clearly, you’ve done something Mr. Hart appreciates. No need to feel guilty. Hop on in.”

I slide inside and he closes the door behind me. The interior of the Hummer is a virtual entertainment playground; big screen TV and a music system that makes what’s coming through the Bose speakers hanging in four corners sound like I’m at the Ryman Auditorium.

The limo glides away from the airport and onto the interstate. Through the tinted glass, I recognize the landscape and for the first time since this morning, I let myself feel happy about the thought of being here. I do, however, feel alone. That part doesn’t seem right. I started this whole journey with my best friend in the world. And I realize I don’t want to have this meeting with Hart Holcomb without him.

I reach forward and press an intercom button. “Mitchell?”

“Yes, Mr. Ashford?”

“Would it be possible for you to pick up a friend of mine on the way? I’d really like for him to come with me if you don’t mind stopping.”

“Of course. Do you have the address?”

I give it to him and sit back in my seat, texting Thomas: Hey. Where are you?

A few seconds pass before my phone beeps.

Home. Where are you?

Nashville.

Are you kidding me?

Would I?

Yes.

Get your boots on. I’m picking you up in   less than ten.

In what?

A stretch Hummer.

Dang.

Yeah.

He’s waiting outside the building when we pull into the parking lot. It feels like we haven’t seen each other in years, and I realize how much I’ve missed him. I open the door and slide out.

“You really are here,” Thomas says, his grin full wattage, throwing me a high-five. “Aw, hell, brother. This deserves a hug.”

He gives me exactly that, squeezing me so hard, I laugh and say, “Your neighbors are gonna get the wrong idea.”

He lets me go, shaking his head, uncharacteristically at a loss for a response. “I can’t believe you’re really here. And in this ride?”

“Crazy, huh? Hart Holcomb sent it to pick me up at the airport.”

“So you’re meeting with him?”

I nod.

“Whoop!” Thomas yells. “Let’s get on over there.”

We climb in the back of the Hummer and Mitchell eases out of the parking lot.

Thomas can’t quit grinning. “So this is what it’s like when you make the big league,” he says.

“I guess.”

“He wants your song bad.”

“I’m not assuming anything,” I say.

“Would he go to all this trouble if he didn’t?”

I shrug and say, “You haven’t gotten any better-looking.”

“And you’re not any less of a smartass.”

“True.”

“Man, it’s good to have you back. How long can you stay?”

I don’t know how to begin explaining what’s happened in the past day so I just start in the middle. “I guess until nobody wants to hear my music anymore.”

Thomas tips his head, looking confused. “You mean you’re here to stay? Like for good?”

I tell him then about Sarah and everything she’d said last night. And how I hadn’t expected any of it. My voice is flat and without emotion, as if I am telling someone else’s story instead of my own. When I finish, we both sit quiet for a minute or more.

“Is she okay?” Thomas asks, sounding a little shocked.

“She’s better than okay. I don’t know. I think it was a relief to her. To get it all said.”

“Is it to you?” he asks, and I can tell he’s not sure where to go with any of it either.

“It’s the right thing for her,” I say.

“And what about you?”

“I would have stayed.”

“I know. Is your heart in one piece?”

“I think so. It’s weird. I pretty much accepted that this life here was something I’d put behind me. I don’t even really know how to start making music a focal point again.”

“You don’t think about it. You just do it. Start living it. You deserve it.” He looks out the window and then back at me with a serious expression. “What you did for Sarah. I know what it cost you. In my book, they don’t come any better than you, friend.”

“Are you counting the part where I let myself fall in love with someone else while I was still officially with Sarah?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice firm. “I’m counting that part.”

I tap a thumb against my jeans and try not to ask the question, but lose the battle. “How is she?”

“Good,” Thomas says. “We’ve been playing somewhere about every night of the week. She’s been working the lunch shift over at Lauren’s.”

“That’s good.”

“I take it you two haven’t talked.”

I shake my head.

“She’s seeing Beck.”

I’m not surprised. I expected it, really. Why wouldn’t she, after all? “You like him?” I ask.

“Not much to dislike about him. But I’m pretty sure as far as she’s concerned, he’s not you.”

“Hey, don’t.” I hold up a hand. “I’m not coming back here expecting anything between CeCe and me to change. If he’s a good guy, good to her, that’s all that matters.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” I say, wondering if I could sound any less convincing.

“If you say so.”

The Hummer has left the interstate and is heading down a series of country roads that feature huge estate after huge estate. I remember that Case Phillips lives down one of the white-fenced lanes and wonder how much time CeCe has spent there with Beck, but then I cut the thought off as a dead end. There is nothing to be gained from going there.

Thomas and I make small talk the rest of the way. He tells me about the gigs they’ve been playing recently, and when I ask him if he’s seeing anyone, he says no one special.

“Mr. Ashford?”

It’s Mitchell on the intercom.

“Mr. Ashford,” Thomas stage whispers, grinning at me.

“Yes?”

“We’ll be arriving within a couple of minutes. Mr. Holcomb asked me to drop you at the horse barn if that’s all right. He likes to ride in the evenings.”

“Ah, sure. That’s fine.”

“Mr. Ashford at the horse barn,” Thomas rap-teases.

“Shut up.”

“Up yours.”

“Nice to be back,” I say.

“Nice to have you back,” Thomas says.

♪

WE PULL INTO the cobblestone courtyard of a barn that looks more like a five-star English hotel than anything horses might live in. Boxwood bushes line each side of wrought iron-hinged sliding doors at the front. The exterior of the barn is stucco, the roof red clay tile. From either side of the entrance, horses peer over Dutch stall doors. One whinnies in our direction as we get out of the Hummer.

Mitchell walks around and says, “I’ll be right out here when you’re finished to give you a ride back into town.”

“Thank you,” I say.

At the sound of footsteps on the cobblestone, we glance up to see Hart Holcomb walking toward us. He’s wearing a Stetson, Wranglers, and work boots. His shirt is wet in places, as if he’s been sweating. He pulls it away from his midsection. “Sorry about the appearance. Working on some fencing out back.”

“Not a problem,” I say, stepping forward and sticking out my hand. “I’m Holden Ashford. This is my friend, Thomas Franklin. It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Holcomb.”

“Hart, please. And thank you. For coming too.” He shakes Thomas’s hand as well and beckons for us to follow him into the barn.

The center aisle is also laid in cobblestone and it’s so clean I’m pretty sure you’d be okay to eat off it. The interior stall doors are black with gold hinges, and they gleam with care and polish. Flies have been frequent visitors to the barns I’ve visited before, but I don’t see one. Or even a single cobweb.

“What kind of horses do you have?” I ask, doing a quick estimate of stalls on either side of the aisle and coming up with a total of twenty-four.

“Quarter horses,” he says. “We do a little cutting. Just for fun, mind you. My wife was a vegetarian, so anything that breathes on this farm isn’t here to get eaten, cows included.”

I hear something painful at the edges of his voice, and I’m not sure what to say to that. “She must have been a kind woman.”

“She was.”

“I’m really sorry for your loss.”

Thomas murmurs his agreement.

“Thank you,” Hart says. He stops in front of a stall to rub one of the horse’s necks. “This was her baby. Whip is short for Whippoorwill. I think this horse might miss her as much as I do.”

All three of us are silent for several moments before he goes on.

“It’s a damn shame for the world to lose someone as fine as she was. And for no reason. When I heard your song, I felt like you might have written it for me,” he says, his voice thickening with emotion.

“I can’t think of a higher compliment than that,” I say, and I realize how lame it sounds in comparison to this man’s life-altering loss.

“I’d like for it to be the title song on my upcoming CD. You okay with that?”

I’m not sure what I had expected him to say when I got here, but it was anything other than this. I can’t seem to find the words to answer him, so I simply nod.

“We’ll need to go in the studio tomorrow. I’ve already thrown everything off schedule by adding this last minute. We’ll be at HGT Recording downtown at ten. You boys want to come in for the session?”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas and I answer in unison.

“Well, good deal,” he says.

We shake hands. I like that his is firm, confirming.

“See you in the morning then. Mitchell will take you back into town.”

He walks us to the barn entrance.

“Thank you, Mr. Holcomb, I mean Hart,” I say. “This is such an honor.”

“For me, too, actually,” he says. “It’s a hell of a song.”

We climb in the back of the Hummer, and Mitchell eases out of the courtyard and down the long lane leading to the main road. Only then do I realize we never talked about money. And I don’t care. If I could pay him to sing it, I would.

♪

30

CeCe

I’m coming up the stairs to our apartment, three Whole Foods bags in each hand when I hear their laughter.

There’s no mistaking it. Thomas’s big baritone. And Holden’s slightly cautious follow-up.

My stomach plummets exactly the way it had on an awful elevator thrill ride I once went on at an amusement park. I can’t recall how many stories it dropped. I remember it felt as if there were no bottom and we would never stop but just keep falling forever.

I pause on the top step now with that same sensation, making me light-headed, fight or flight battling it out inside me.

What is he doing here? In our apartment?

The door opens then and Thomas glances out, spots me and instantly sobers. “Oh. I heard something. Thought you were the pizza guy.”

“I’m not the pizza guy,” I say evenly.

“You sure aren’t.” He jumps forward, taking the bags from me. “Come in. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

I can’t make words come out of my mouth, but I think Thomas can see in my face I do NOT want to come in.

“We’re all grown-ups,” he says in a sympathetic whisper.

Just the implication that I might be acting out of immaturity is enough to send me through the door with an expression of indifference firmly in place.

Holden is sitting on the couch next to Hank Junior, who looks like manna has fallen from the sky in the form of his favorite dog treats. His chin is on Holden’s knee. He glances at me with his big brown eyes, and if he could speak, his message couldn’t have been any clearer. He’s back.

Holden lifts Hank Junior’s head from his knees, stands, and shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “Hi, CeCe.”

“Hey, Holden.” My voice goes hoarse and I clear my throat. “I didn’t know you were coming to town.” My tone is lemonade sweet. I so wish I could erase it and start all over.

“Kind of last minute,” he says.

Thomas walks up behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “He’s got some amazing news.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Hart Holcomb is cutting “What You Took From Me” tomorrow. We just went out and met with him. It’s pretty incredible how he connected with the song.”

“Congratulations,” I say, forcing myself to meet Holden’s sober gaze. “It’s an amazing song.”

“Thanks.”

I try to make myself look away, make an excuse about needing to put away the groceries. But my mouth won’t form the words, and my feet won’t obey my brain. We watch each other like two people unsure of who’s going to make the first move. For a second, his guard drops, and I see in his eyes the Holden who sat outside that pound all night with me, waiting to get in and save Hank Junior. I see the Holden who kissed me that same night the way I’d always imagined being kissed; in a way I’d never been kissed before. I remember clearly how it had felt as if I’d found something I didn’t know I’d been waiting for.

Just as quickly, I remember what it felt like to lose it.

“How is Sarah?” I ask.

“She’s great,” he says. “Actually, really great.”

“That’s wonderful,” I say. Thomas has filled me in on her treatments, some of it good, some of it not, and I’m relieved to hear Holden say she’s doing well now. “How is Patsy?”

“Bossy and opinionated,” he says.

I smile at this. “What Beagle isn’t?”

Holden’s eyes reflect his fondness for the dog, and I’m happy for her.

“Thomas says y’all are playing all over town. Glad to hear it’s going well.” The words sound sincere enough, although there’s a flatness there that makes me wonder if he’s tried to distance himself from thoughts of it.

“We’ve been having fun,” I say, wondering if Thomas has told him about the tour with Case.

But then Thomas says, “Yeah, about that. We’ve actually got some pretty cool news too, Holden. Case Phillips has asked us to replace the opening act for his tour. We’ve got three weeks to look like we know what the heck we’re doing.”

Holden’s face registers surprise. “Whoa. That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, it is,” Thomas agrees. He hesitates before adding, “Beck will be joining us.”

This time the surprise in Holden’s eyes is etched with something else, flashing so quickly that I can’t be sure if it’s admiration or regret. “Cool,” he says. “I didn’t know you’d been playing together.”

“We haven’t,” I say.

“Oh,” he says, as if he suddenly understands, when I’m sure he doesn’t.

“Until now, it’s just been CeCe and me.” Thomas stops there, and then, “Now that you’re here, why don’t you join us? We need an electric guitar. Who better than you?”

The suggestion takes Holden as much by surprise as it does me, if the look on his face is any indication. “Hey, no. This is y’all’s thing. And it’s great. I’m not horning in on your action.”

Thomas looks at me, trying to gauge my reaction. I don’t give him one.

“Man, with the exception of Sarah, we’d have Barefoot Outlook back together. You were part of what we started here.”

“And I left.”

“And you’re back,” Thomas says.

“For good?” I say before I can stop the question from popping out.

“I don’t really know yet,” Holden answers.

“But what about Sarah and-” I stop and immediately apologize. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

“No. It’s okay,” Holden says. “Sarah and I are. . .we’re going to be good friends.”

I absorb this explanation the way I imagine a mountainside might work at absorbing a sudden deluge of rain. It is simply too much to take in so unexpectedly, and I nod once as if I understand, when I do not at all.

“Things are different now,” Thomas says, in an obvious attempt to bridge a gap that cannot or will not be clearly defined at the moment. “I want you with us.”

Holden and I aren’t looking at each other. We both have our gazes hooked on Thomas, who’s wearing a stubborn expression I recognize all too well.

“Look,” he adds, “we all came here for the music. We’ve hit a few speed bumps and taken a couple of detours, but it still comes back to the fact that we live it, breathe it, love it. We’re getting a break here with this tour. And we all know how hard those are to come by. We’ll have a far better shot at going somewhere with this if you’re part of it.”

I let myself look at Holden, and it’s clear Thomas’s words mean something to him. I imagine then how it must have felt to be away from all of this for the past year and a half. To put the dream in a drawer and walk away from it, never intending to open it up again. And now. Another chance. Am I going to be the one to stand in his way? If so, what will that really accomplish?

One thing and one thing only. The protection of my own heart. My own pride. Getting over Holden, if I ever did actually reach a point where it qualified as that, took every bit of will I could scrape up from the bottom of my determination to accept something I could not change. I built a wall around my heart and told myself I never wanted to fall like that again. And I don’t. The thought of being around Holden and not letting that happen is more than a little terrifying.

Even so, I remember how Holden had been against me joining up with Thomas and him when we’d first gotten to Nashville. He’d changed his mind, and I’d been grateful for the chance.

How can I be the one to close him out now?

I can’t.

Not even when I’m aware of exactly how high a price I’m going to pay for making this choice.

♪

THOMAS KNOCKS ON my door at seven the next morning. I know his knock by now, and I consider pretending not to have heard it, but I lift up and mumble, “Come in.”

He steps in the room, walks over and sits down on the edge of the bed. Hank Junior cracks an eye open, then puts his head back on my pillow and ignores him.

“CeCe?” Thomas says.

“Yeah?” I answer, my gaze on the wall.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know what.”

“I figure I owe you both for picking me up on the side of the highway.”

“That was no biggie.”

“Yeah, it was. I very well could have turned around and walked Hank and me back home at that point. If I believed in signs, I would have. So we’re even.”

“That’s not a debt I would’ve called in.”

“I know.”

“I guess you also know Holden tried to do what he thought was right in going back to Atlanta to be there for Sarah. He pretty much gave up everything to do that.”

I nod.

“And I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“I’m a big girl, Thomas. And I have someone in my life. What happened between Holden and me is part of our past. That’s all.”

“You sure about that?”

“Very,” I say. “There is one thing though.”

“What?”

“I’d like for you to be the one to tell Beck about Holden. I think it will sting less.”

“Sure. We really do need him, you know. It’s not like we’re creating a spot for him.”

I want to deny it, but the truth is we’ll be lucky to have him. “We should start working today.”

“As soon as we’re done with the recording, I’ll text you.”

“Beck said we can practice at his house.”

“Cool,” he says, standing. “CeCe?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re awesome.”

“Don’t forget it,” I say, looking up at him with an attempt to stay stern-faced,  and failing.

He leans over and kisses my cheek. “I won’t,” he says.

♪

31

Holden

“You know how you’ve dreamed about something for so long that it starts to feel like if it ever actually happened, it wouldn’t even seem real?”

Thomas asks me the question in a low whisper while we are sitting behind Hart Holcomb’s producer and a recording engineer in a Music Row studio complete with every piece of sound equipment I could ever imagine having access to. Hart is warming up inside the booth, going through parts of the song time and again, and it feels anything but real to hear him singing the words I wrote. “Yeah,” I say. “That’s what I’m thinking right now.”

“It really is like you wrote it for him.”

“Pretty sad though, you know.”

“But maybe someone who hears it will think twice about having another drink and then getting behind the wheel. If one person’s life is saved, that makes you a hero.”

“I’m not the one who’ll be selling it to people.”

“No, but they’re your words.”

I don’t say anything else because hearing Hart sing the last line makes my throat close up. With the fade of the final note, there’s a collective breath blown out around the room.

“Wow, Hart,” the producer says. “That’s just plain powerful.”

Hart clears his throat and takes a swig of water from the bottle next to him. “Thanks. And I’d like to thank Holden for writing it, y’all. He’s never lived the story of this song but the way he wrote it would make you think he has. That’s the mark of a great writer. I expect we’ll be seeing you in big places, Holden.”

Everyone is looking at me now. I don’t have any idea what to say. Thomas claps me on the shoulder, and I finally manage, “Thank you so much. If this is the only song of mine that ever gets cut, I’ll be all right with that. This is an honor. Really.”

Hart smiles at me and through the sadness in his eyes, I glimpse a man I hope will one day know happiness again. Tragedy has clearly taken its toll on him. It’s nice to think that maybe in putting out a song that might stop one person from causing the kind of pain he’s known, there could be some renewal of purpose for him.

They play through it one more time before the producer says, “You ready to do it for real, Hart?”

“Ready,” he says.

The studio is pin-drop quiet throughout the entire song, and I’m amazed that both Hart and the band hit every note perfectly and don’t stop even once.

“Whoa,” Thomas says when they’re done. “Pretty impressive,” I say.

By the time they lay the background vocals, it’s after four o’clock. Just as the producer declares it a wrap, a guy in a jacket and jeans walks into the studio, speaks for a moment with Hart and then comes over to where Thomas and I are getting up to go.

He says hello to Thomas and sticks his hand out to me. “You must be Holden. I’m Andrew Seeger, Hart’s manager. I hear things went incredibly well today.”

“It was amazing to watch,” I say.

“I’m glad it’s all worked out.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a folded pack of papers. “Sorry I didn’t get this over sooner but this is our standard contract. I believe you’ll find the terms extremely appealing. As I’m sure you’ve already figured out, Hart really wanted this song.”

I unfold the papers and glance through the first page, my eyes widening at the numbers there. “Wow. That’s. . .thank you.”

“We’re expecting big things from this. Get ready. I think you’re going to be amazed by the number of knocks you’ll be getting on your door.”

“Thank you,” I say again, because I have no idea what else to add. I sign my name on the places he indicates I should sign. We shake hands and then I walk over and thank Hart again.

Thomas and I say nothing until we’re in his truck and pulling out of the parking lot.

“Did that just happen?” Thomas asks.

“As far as I can tell, it was real.”

“Dang.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna be famous.”

“Shut up.”

Thomas grins. “Don’t go all modest. You earned it. It’s a great song.”

“Thanks, but luck has to play some part in it. You think I ever imagined something like this?”

“No,” Thomas interrupts. “I don’t. You still deserve it.”

“You’re a good friend, Thomas,” I say, suddenly serious and wishing I knew how to say how much it means to me that any success either one of us has is never ruined by resentment or jealousy.

“Speaking of which,” he segues, “I called Beck when you were talking with Hart after we first got to the studio.”

“How’d that go?” I ask, suddenly sure I know what the answer will be.

“He was totally cool with it,” Thomas says. “I gotta say, it’s not what I was expecting.”

“That’s kind of a surprise.”

“Just so you know, I don’t think he’s worried about you sweeping CeCe off her feet.”

I consider this, weigh my conflicting responses and decide on, “He doesn’t need to be.”

“Doesn’t he?” Thomas asks, looking over at me, dead serious.

“No.”

“Can we have an honest moment here?”

“Thomas, I-”

“Hear me out, okay. I think it needs to be said.” He taps a thumb against the steering wheel and then goes on with, “It took a long time for CeCe to start acting like herself again. You put a pretty big dent in her heart, friend.”

There’s no criticism in the statement, just flat truth. “I never meant to hurt her,” I say.

“I know. If we’re playing together, maybe it really would be best for things to stay the way they are. Everybody knows it’s difficult for groups to stay together. And for whatever reason, Case wants Beck in on this gig. War between you two would pretty much dump the whole thing in the landfill.”

“Thanks, friend.”

“You can’t deny it, can you?”

I want to but I actually don’t think I can. “No,” I say.

“It seems like Beck is good to her,” Thomas says, clearly not enjoying this.

“That’s good.”

“It really is.” He looks out the window as if thinking twice about what he’s about to say. “You two could have been really good together. There’s a lot of water under that particular bridge, and I’d hate to see either one of you-”

“Drown?”

“Something like that.”

“You don’t need to say anything else. I get it.”

“Then why do I feel like such a jerk?”

♪

WE GET TO BECK’S place just as an enormous storm cloud breaks open and dumps rain so fast and hard that the driveway looks like a small river. We pull in at the front of the house behind a BMW. Beck slides out of the driver’s side and runs around with an umbrella to open the passenger door. CeCe gets out and ducks under it, laughing as they run inside.

I watch them with a sense of loss that I know I have no right to feel. But it’s there anyway, like a kick to the gut.

“You sure you’re gonna be able to do this?” Thomas asks.

“I’m good,” I say, the question prodding me to slide out of the truck. I grab my guitar case from its spot between us. Thomas walks around, and I follow him to the door. He rings the bell.

The door swings open, and Beck says, “Y’all get in out of the rain.”

“Hey, man,” Thomas says, walking inside.

I walk in behind him and stick a hand out to Beck. “Hey. Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Beck says with what looks like a genuine smile. “Glad it worked out that you can hook up with us on the tour. Dad was psyched about it.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I really appreciate the chance to be here.” I want to be suspicious of his friendliness. I mean, why would he want me back here? If I were him, I wouldn’t let me within fifty miles of CeCe. But then, maybe he’s that confident of what they have going.

We follow him through the long hallway that I remember as leading to his dad’s studio. CeCe is already there, warming up when we walk in. I haven’t heard her sing since leaving here – correction – haven’t let myself hear her sing since leaving here. Her voice has taken on new dimension and power. She sounds amazing.

She smiles at Beck and Thomas but stops short of meeting eyes with me. “Y’all ready to do this thing?”

“Let’s jump on it,” Thomas says. “Should we go through a playlist first?”

“Sure,” Beck says.

“CeCe and I can highlight the songs we’ve been doing. Holden, you got any good new stuff?”

“I’ve got new stuff. Not sure if it’s any good or not.”

“Check the modesty,” Thomas says. “Ladies and gents, you’re looking at Hart Holcomb’s prediction for one of this town’s up and coming hit songwriters.”

Both Beck and CeCe glance at me with a look of surprise. It’s CeCe who speaks first.

“So it went well?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He’s an incredible singer.”

“Congratulations,” Beck says. “That’s big stuff. Sounds like you’ve impressed him. I’ve heard my dad say that’s not an easy thing to do.”

“I think I got a lucky break,” I say. “Right song. Right place.”

We all pull up a chair at the round table in one corner of the room. From there, we start talking about songs, compiling a list of the best we have and then working out the playlist.

Beck knows all of the songs CeCe and Thomas have been singing from having been at so many of their shows. They ask me to play some of my new stuff. I put my thoughts on the individual songs and try not to think about the fact that Beck has entwined his fingers with CeCe’s as if she’s just been taken under by an unexpected current and it is up to him to save her.

And I wonder if he’s that sure of her, after all.

♪

32

CeCe

We spend the next five hours practicing song after song, perfecting some Thomas and I already know well and then working on several new ones Holden says he wrote over the past year.

The songs are really good, and I’m relieved to see that he has continued to write. Our upbeat songs outnumber the ballads six to one, and we all agree that as the opening act, we want to get the audience up and ready to have a good time.

At first, I’m so nervous that I forget lines to songs I know by heart. I actually feel every single time Holden glances at me, but I manage not to look back. I know it’s crazy. After all, how can I expect to get through an entire tour without looking at him? Whatever it is holding in place all of my determination to make this work feels about as fragile as baby grass under an April frost.

It’s almost ten when we call it a wrap. I’m as tired from the effort of smiling and trying to act normal as I am from the rehearsing.

Once we’ve packed up all our things, Beck says he’ll take me home.

“We’re headed back to the apartment, CeCe, if you want to ride with us,” Thomas offers.

I don’t want to but it would be a little silly for Beck to drive all the way into town just to drop me off. And since I’m too tired to do anything other than go to bed, going out isn’t an option. “Okay,” I say. “That will save you a trip, Beck.”

“I’m happy to take you.”

I hear the edge in his voice and know we will end up talking about things I don’t want to talk about right now. I take the coward’s way out. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Call me in the morning?”

“Sure.” He walks over to kiss me full on the mouth. He takes his time in a statement to Holden. I start to pull away, but force myself not to. Can I blame him for feeling insecure? Wouldn’t I, if the circumstances were reversed?

I wait for him to end the kiss and press my palm to his cheek. “Please tell your dad thank you for letting us rehearse here.”

“I will,” he says. “Goodnight.”

“’Night,” I say and follow Thomas and Holden from the room.

In the truck, I sit to the left of the middle so that my shoulder is touching Thomas’s, putting two inches of space between Holden and me.

“I thought it went great,” Thomas says as he pulls out of the long driveway onto the main road headed back to the city. “What did you two think?”

Neither of us answers for a few moments, both obviously waiting the other out. I give first.

“We’ve got some polishing to do, but I like where we’re going.”

“I agree,” Holden says, his gaze set outside the window.

“CeCe, I really like what you did with the bridge on that last song. That’s gonna get you a lot of fans, girl.”

“Thanks, Thomas,” I say, feeling a familiar tenderness toward him. If anyone in this world has my back now, it’s Thomas.

We talk about different issues we need to address with certain parts of the songs. It makes the drive go quickly and keeps me from focusing on how close I am to touching Holden.

At the apartment, I take Hank Junior for a walk and deliberately stay out long enough that I hope to avoid seeing Holden again tonight. Hank sniffs every tree we pass and protests my turning back toward home by locking his legs and giving me a visual declaration of his displeasure.

“Come on,” I say. “You’d stay out here all night if I  let you.”

To make up for not letting him have his way, I give him a cookie when we get back inside. He wags his tail in forgiveness and licks my hand.

“I see he still knows how to work the system.”

I jump at the sound of Holden’s voice and turn to look at him with what I hope comes across as mild interest. “I try not to let him get too big a head.”

“Kind of a benevolent dictator, isn’t he?”

It pretty much nails Hank’s role in life, and I can’t stop myself from smiling. “Sadly, I don’t mind.”

“He has that effect, doesn’t he?”

I nod, making a pretense of wiping crumbs off the kitchen counter and putting the treat jar back in place. “Thomas already in bed?”

“Yeah. I think we wore him out.”

“Well,” I say, “I’m tired too. Goodnight, Holden.”

I start past him, Hank Junior at my heels. Holden reaches out and stops me with a hand on my arm. “CeCe?”

I stop, as if instantly frozen in place. I try to say something but my voice is locked in my throat.

“Can we talk for a minute?” he asks.

“About what?” I finally manage. “There isn’t anything-”

“Actually, there is.”

“Holden-”

“Please.”

I force myself to turn and face him then, saying nothing, waiting for him to go on.

“I want to say I’m sorry for everything that happened.”

His eyes are fully sincere and something in me gives a little. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.” And I really do. “We never should have. . .we were wrong to-”

“I was wrong to,” he finishes for me. “I wasn’t free to let myself have feelings for you.”

With those words, the urge to cry hits me so hard and so insistently that the tears are spilling from my eyes before I even try to hold them back. “Holden, don’t,” I say. “This is not a place either of us can afford to go.”

“I still need to say it.”

“Is that what’s most important then?” I ask on a flurry of anger. “What you need?”

He blinks once but not fast enough to hide the flash of hurt. “That’s not what I meant,” he says.

“Maybe not,” I say quickly. “What I need is to forget that we ever felt anything more than friendship for each other. That is the only way I can be on a stage with you every night for six weeks.”

I turn abruptly then and start out of the kitchen for my room. Holden reaches out and reels me back to him. I stop only after hitting the wall of his chest.

I look up at him just as outrage surges through me. “Don’t. Touch. Me. Holden.”

But he doesn’t remove his hand from my arm. With his gaze locked on mine, he gently pulls me forward until I am fully encircled in his embrace. I hold myself as if I have been cast in ice.

We stand that way for countless seconds. The refrigerator hums. The air conditioning kicks on. A cat meows somewhere outside and Hank Junior pads over to the window to investigate.

And then, slowly, slowly, Holden eases me in, folding me into the circle of his arms until I just melt against him.

Everything inside of me goes liquid and warm. I close my eyes and yield to the irresistible need to breathe him in, to let myself remember how I feel magnetized next to him. Completely unable to resist the pull between us.

I want to protest. My brain is telling me to protest. But my body isn’t listening.

Instead, I let my arms wrap him up and I press my face to his chest. His warm, hard chest. Time falls away. I don’t let myself think of anything except what is here, what is now.

He puts his cheek against my hair, and I feel him sigh, a release of breath, as if he, too, has been holding it since the last time we were in each other’s arms like this.

We stay this way for a very long while. I can feel the pain and hurt of these past eighteen months absorb into the air around us and fade to acceptance.

“What was it like?” I ask, my voice little more than a whisper.

“What?” he answers, the question rough at the edges.

“Seeing her go through all of that.”

“Terrifying.” He’s quiet for several moments and then, “I never imagined so many people having their lives destroyed by that awful disease. Going with her to the treatments, seeing others who were even sicker than she was . . . some days, I didn’t think I could go back.”

“It must have been hard,” I say softly.

“Seeing the hope and courage of those people, and how fragile it all is, I swear, sometimes I wanted to change places with them just so their hopes weren’t for nothing.”

Tears fill my eyes. I bite my lower lip before saying, “I’m sorry.”

“I saw things that made me realize what I take for granted in my life. Little kids who’d lost all their hair, who couldn’t eat. And their parents, trying to act if everything would be all right.”

He stops there, and I can feel his grief like a wall that is crumbling inside him. I tighten my arms around his waist and hold onto him as if I am the only thing that will keep him from collapsing under its weight.

I’m not sure how much time passes with the two of us standing here, holding each other. I wish that we never had to move, that we could stay like this forever.

But I know we can’t; there are people in our lives who have not asked to be hurt by us. I ease away from him, looking up into his eyes. “Sarah. She’s going to be okay?”

“I think so,” Holden says. “The doctors have said she’s clear, and she works at the nutrition end of it. Really at doing anything she can to stay healthy.”

“I’m glad,” I say, and with this picture of her, I step back, loosen my hold on him. “Will she . . . is she planning to move here?”

He doesn’t say anything for a few moments and I start to wonder if I’ve asked more than I should have.

“No,” he says then. “Sarah and I, we’re not going to be together.”

The admission takes me by such surprise that I am sure I must have misheard him. “Oh. I thought. . .what?”

“We’re not.”

“But why?”

He looks away and then back at me. “Maybe she saw us through new eyes and didn’t like what was there.”

I don’t know what to say so I don’t say anything.

“There was something else,” he adds. “She met someone who might have made her realize what she did want.”

“Holden. I. . .I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m pretty sure she’s going to be happy. That’s what matters.”

I take in the words with a feeling of disbelief. And all of a sudden, I feel the dissolving of a barrier between us. With it comes an awkwardness I have no idea what to do with. “I don’t know what to say, Holden.”

“You don’t have to say anything, CeCe. You’ve moved on. I get it. I understand. And I’m not here to mess up things with you and Beck.”

I know I should feel relieved. Because he’s right. I have moved on. It took a long time but I’ve moved on. And now someone else’s heart is involved. Beck’s heart is involved. My heart is involved.

There’s no unraveling all of that. Even if I wanted to.

“I’m sorry, Holden. For everything you’ve been through. For-”

He places a fingertip against my lips and says, “Shh. It’s okay. We’ll be okay. All of us.”

And I want to believe him. I really do. I’m just not sure how to start.

♪

FOR THE NEXT three weeks, we practice as hard as I’ve ever imagined working. Thomas and I give notice at our jobs and, thankfully, neither place insists that we work it out. When Thomas asks me if I’m okay with Holden moving back in, I have no good reason to say no. He drives to Atlanta two days after our talk in the kitchen and arrives back in a rental car twenty-four hours later with Patsy in the front seat next to him.

Hank Junior is so happy to see her I don’t think he quits wagging his tail for a week. He follows her everywhere, as if he’s afraid if he lets her out of his sight, she’ll disappear again.

We rehearse twelve to fourteen hours a day, polishing our performance until we’re nailing every song, word for word, note for note.

And for those three weeks, Holden is right about everything being okay. No one has time to think about anything other than eating, sleeping, and getting ready for the tour. When we get home every night, I fall in bed and sleep like Rip Van Winkle.

My biggest worry is what to do with Hank Junior when we’re gone. Since Holden has the same concern about Patsy, he, Thomas and I brainstorm options one morning while we’re waiting for Beck in his dad’s studio.

“We can’t leave them in a kennel for six weeks,” Holden says, taking a sip from the coffee the housekeeper, Nelda, made for us when we arrived.

Thomas makes a choking sound. “Yeah, right. CeCe would check herself into a kennel for six weeks before she’d leave Hank there.”

I raise an eyebrow at him but there’s no point in denying the accusation. We all know it’s true.

Beck walks in, his hair still wet from the shower. He kisses me on the cheek and says, “What’s up with the pow-wow?”

“Just trying to figure out what we’re going to do with Hank Junior and Patsy while we’re away.” I hear the worry in my own voice because with every passing day, I’m more stressed by my lack of a solution.

Beck sits down next to me and pours a cup of coffee. “They could stay here with Nelda.”

I lean back and look at him, not sure if he means it. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She loves dogs.”

“But what about your dad?”

“He won’t mind. They’ll give Nelda someone to cook for. When dad’s gone anyone left here gets overfed and then some.”

“That would be amazing,” I say, leaning forward to give him a hug.

Holden gets up from the table to pour another cup of coffee, his back to us. “That’s incredibly nice. Thanks, man. Really.”

“No skin,” Beck says.

“All right then,” Thomas says. “Let’s get to work.”

♪

33

Holden

The tour begins in San Francisco. Three days on the bus across country, and we’re all ready to be there. I’ve spent most of those miles trying to focus on anything but the fact that Beck can’t keep his hands off CeCe.

I get a lot of reading done.

Keeping my eyes on the page and my head in someone else’s story is about the only distraction that works.

We arrive in the city on the morning of the first show. After grabbing a few hours of sleep in an actual bed, we leave for the venue where we can practice on stage and get a feel for the acoustics.

The place feels absolutely enormous. We’ve never played anywhere that would hold half this many people, and looking out at the thousands of empty chairs, I start to wonder if we’re really up for this.

“I see what you’re thinking.” Thomas walks up behind me and claps a hand on my shoulder. “No reason to go there now.”

“This could be a major fail,” I say.

“Glass half-full, please.”

“Don’t tell me you’re not wondering what we were thinking.”

“Okay, so the thought crossed my mind,” he concedes. “But we’re here. We’ve done our homework.”

“Could I get an infusion of some of your confidence, please?”

Thomas snorts. “Since when do you need confidence?”

“Since we decided we could pull off opening a show for a country music legend.”

“We can. Have you heard us?” He pulls his iPhone out of his shirt pocket, swipes the screen, taps it twice and one of our songs begins playing. Thomas waits a minute and then it turns it off. “That sound good or what?”

I have to admit we sound pretty good. “Let’s just hope we hit that tonight.”

“Faith, man. Where’s your faith?”

“Working on it.”

“Stay away from CeCe until you get it in place. She’s already a bundle of nerves.”

Just then, she and Beck walk onstage. She looks as serious as I’ve ever seen her. She bites her lower lip and glances out at the sea of seats in front of the stage. Her eyes widen.

“Okay,” Thomas says. “I think it’s time for a pep talk. Y’all get on over here.”

He waves us to the end of the stage. We all sit down in a line, facing out to where all those faces will be looking at CeCe and me, and Beck on her other side.

“Anyone here dreamed about this as long as I have?” Thomas asks.

No one says anything for a few moments, and then CeCe admits, “Yes.”

Her voice has a tremble in it. Thomas reaches over and covers her hand with his.

“Anyone else?”

“Yeah,” I say.

Thomas looks at Beck. “How about you?”

“I’ve pretty much wanted to be my dad for as long as I can remember,” he says in a low voice.

The admission surprises me. It’s not something I would expect a guy like Beck to say.

“So, okay,” Thomas says. “We all agree this is important to us. And we don’t want to screw it up. The only way that’s going to happen is if we forget we’re anywhere other than at home in Nashville, practicing the way we’ve been practicing for weeks. We’ve got this. Y’all know we do. Every song. Every word. Every note. We’ve got it. Right?”

No one says anything for a long string of moments. Somewhere behind the stage, I hear equipment being unloaded from the tractor-trailer trucks. The whine of a forklift. The clank of metal cases. Conversation and laughter from the guys working hard and fast to get it all in.

CeCe draws in a deep breath and says, “We’ve got it.”

“Beck?” Thomas says.

“Yeah, man. We’ve got it.”

My best friend looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

“We’ve got it,” I say. “We’ve got it.”

♪

34

CeCe

I am so scared I actually feel my knees trembling.

Two minutes until we’re out there in front of thousands of Case Phillips fans, who will pretty much decide with the first song whether we’re worthy of being on this tour or not.

My heart is pounding so hard I feel its throb like a bass drum in my ears. I wish with everything inside me that my mama could be here tonight. It’s not that I don’t understand why she isn’t. She’s terrified of flying, and driving across country isn’t something I can imagine her doing. She’ll be at the show in Annapolis, Maryland, and that’s good enough. That doesn’t make me crave one of her reassuring hugs right now any less though.

The four of us are standing to the side of the stage and we’re all wearing varying expressions of “Is this really happening?”

The crowd tonight is two thousand or so, one of the smaller venues for the tour, but the largest by far I’ve ever sung in front of.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” I say. Only then do I realize I’ve said it out loud.

Holden steps up and dips his head in close to mine. “Where’s a place you’ve sung that made you the happiest?” he asks, his voice low and calming.

I don’t turn to look at him. I lace my hands together in front of me and think hard. The memory, when it comes, is sweet and poignant. “In church on the Sunday my granny was baptized. She was eighty-three. She asked the pastor if I could do a solo of “Just As I Am”.”

“Yeah?”

I nod, letting myself remember what a wonderful day that had been. “By that point, she couldn’t walk very well, and it took a lot of courage for her to step down into that water. Watching her and singing the words to that song at the same time made me understand what it really meant. I was so proud to have been a part of that day.”

“Don’t you think she’d be proud of you now?” he asks in a low voice.

I let my gaze meet his. “I do,” I say softly.

“Then think about that tonight when you’re out there singing. Nothing else but that.”

“Thanks, Holden,” I say, and for a moment, just a moment, I let myself remember why I fell in love with him so quickly. This way he has of anchoring me in the middle of a storm I am sure is big enough to overtake me. I trust him to know the way, to lead me out. I can’t explain the why of it. I just know it’s true.

“Welcome to the San Francisco Bayside Coliseum and the Case Phillips’ Brand New Me Tour!”

The announcer’s shout-out is loud enough to soften the roar of the crowd.

“This is one ticket you’re going to be so glad you bought. First out tonight, a new group Case has been talking up all over Nashville, and when you hear them, you’ll understand why! Folks, let’s give a big California welcome to Barefoot Outlook!”

“Yee-haw!” Thomas whoops. “Here we go, y’all!”

He leads me across the stage, one fist pounding the air, the other hand clasped in mine as if he knows there’s a good chance I’ll run. From the corner of my eye, I see Beck and Holden taking their places, picking up their guitars.

Thomas and I reach for our microphones, and he dips into the first song of our set – “What We Feel.” I wrote this song and I know it like I know my own face in the mirror. I’m supposed to come in on the chorus but my mind has gone completely blank. I know what Thomas is going to sing before I hear the words but I can’t think of how the first line of the chorus begins. He’s into the pre-chorus now. I feel the impending arrival of my turn to join in like a roller coaster about to reach the top of the first hill, aware that the bottom is going to fall out at any second.

My face feels frozen and I can’t make myself smile. Thomas glances over at me, his eyes questioning. I know he wants to help. There’s nothing he can do.

Someone steps up behind me just then, puts an arm around my shoulders, and I realize it’s Case. I’m sure he’s going to signal me off the stage, take my place, but he starts into the chorus with Thomas, still holding onto me.

The crowd erupts at the sound of his voice, screaming and whooping their surprise at his appearance.

And suddenly the words are coming back to me. Case must feel my relief because he shouts out, “CeCe McKenzie, folks, this girl’s got couuuuntry!”

And as if he’s just handed me the baton in a relay race, I swoop into the second verse with the same level of confidence I had reached during our rehearsals of this song.

The audience begins to clap and stomp out the rhythm as I go, and all of a sudden, I’m having more fun than I’ve ever had on stage. My heart feels like it might burst with gratitude for Case’s generosity.

He joins us on the chorus again.

It’s what we feel

That makes the memories

It’s what we feel

That gives us history

The part that’s real

It’s what we feel

Thomas and I take the bridge, and then all three of us finish it out. At the end, Case kisses my cheek and heads off the stage. The audience is cheering so loudly, I’m not sure they can even hear the beginning of our next song. But it doesn’t matter, I know every word. I sing like I’ve never sung before, giving it heart, mind, soul, me.

♪

AFTER THE SHOW, we sign autographs for fans who received back stage passes through Case’s fan club. It’s a little shocking to see the line of people extending down the hallway outside the room where we’re having a buffet supper set up by a catering company.

The crowd is mostly made up of girls, a few guys here and there who are most likely boyfriends forced to come along. Thomas, Holden, Beck and I are at the start of the line. Case is at the other end so that the fans get to him last.

A young girl who looks to be about thirteen holds out a t-shirt for me to sign. The front says Brand New Me Tour. The back reads Case Phillips and Barefoot Outlook. Every time I see that, my stomach drops as if released from elevator cables.

How we got here, I am still not sure.

“Your voice is amazing,” the girl says, looking up at me with an awe I don’t see myself ever getting used to. “I could listen to you all night.”

“Thank you so much,” I say, smiling at her.

“I sing too,” she says.

“That’s wonderful. What do you like to sing?”

“Anything I can get anybody to listen to,” she admits with a shy smile. “My daddy says I could sing the stripes off a zebra.”

I laugh. “That’s some awfully good singing.”

“Not as good as you though. How long did it take you to sound like you do?”

“I started when I was really young, like you,” I say. “If it’s what you love to do, it’s not even work. For me, I was just always happy to be doing it. Anytime. Anywhere.”

Thomas elbows me. “Hey, how about saving a fan or two for me?”

The girl giggles and says to Thomas, “You’re really good too, you know.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, bestowing a smile on her that lights her cheeks up to apple red. He signs her shirt as well and when she’s moved on to where Beck is standing next to his dad, I shake my head at him.

“What?” he asks, grinning.

“You’re a natural at this,” I say.

“I like making people smile.”

“You sure can do that.” I glance around the room, not for the first time since we’ve been standing here, and add, “Where is Holden?”

“Said he was going to take a shower.”

“He should be signing too.”

“He’s not much on this part,” Thomas says. “Never has been.”

I’m not surprised by this but it still doesn’t seem right that he’s not out here taking some of the credit.

A very tall guy with white-blonde hair stops in front of me and holds out a ticket stub. He looks to be in his late twenties or so. “Could you sign this please?” he asks, his voice smooth, polite.

Smiling, I look up at him. His eyes are the lightest blue I’ve ever seen. He’s smiling back at me but something in his expression makes me instantly want to take a step back. I have to force myself not to. He’s looking at me as if he can see right through me. I actually feel goose bumps shiver across my arms.

“I . . . sure,” I say, taking the ticket and writing, “Happiness is a Barefoot Outlook. CeCe.”

He reads it and smiles again. I can’t explain what it is about him, some weird energy or maybe just my imagination. The way he’s staring at me feels off somehow.

“Looks like you’re living the dream. Touring with Case Phillips. That’s big stuff.”

I feel my heart thump an inexplicable note of alarm. “We’re all grateful to be here,” I say.

“You’re out of Nashville, right?”

I nod. “Yes.” I try to make eye contact with Thomas but he’s talking with someone and not looking my way. Neither is Beck or Case.

“How long before you got your break?”

I start to ask what he means but I don’t want to lengthen the conversation so I say, “I’ve been there almost two years.”

“Two years? Is that all?” He laughs. “I’d like to get your recipe for success.”

Panic flutters through me now and I am certain I need to move away from him. A hand grasps my arm and I jump before I realize it’s Holden. He steps halfway in front of me. The adrenaline of instant relief pumps outward from my chest.

“Hey,” the guy says with a sarcastic lilt.

Holden now turns fully toward him, standing in between us. “You should move on.”

“Should I?”

“You should.”

“What happens if I don’t?”

“I happen.” Holden’s voice is steel.

The guy raises both hands in concession, still holding the ticket I signed. “Chill, dude. You go ballistic every time somebody chats up your chick?”

Holden steps forward, forcing him to move back. Case’s two bodyguards, John and Miles, are now walking toward us, both hulking weightlifters whose muscle is not for show.

“Everything okay here?” John asks, looking directly at the guy.

“I was just leaving,” he says, the words now as neutral as his expression.

“Why don’t we walk you out?” Miles says in a voice that makes it clear his offer isn’t a suggestion.

He gives me one last look, his eyes lit with amusement, before turning to walk toward the door with them.

I turn and head for the dressing room, my pace fast and uneven, my knees so shaky I think they might actually collapse beneath me. I am aware of Holden following me but I don’t stop until I reach the room with my name on it.

He walks in behind me. “Are you okay, CeCe?”

“Will you close it? And lock it? Please.”

He does as I ask, concern on his face. “Hey. You’re okay.”

I sit on the small sofa against one wall, managing a nod, shivering.

“What did he say?”

I shake my head. “It was more like the way he said it.”

Holden sits down beside me and slowly pulls me into the curve of his arm. “He’s gone. Everything is all right.”

I nod, forcing myself to focus on those two words and their ability to melt my panic.

“He really freaked you out,” Holden says, smoothing the back of his hand across my hair. “I admit he was a little creepy, but is there something else going on?”

I want to tell him, except it’s been so long since I’ve let myself think about any of it that I’m not sure I can bring it to life again with words. “I . . . had a bad experience a few years ago. I guess he reminded me of it.”

Holden studies me for a moment and then says, “What happened, CeCe?”

I look down and rub my thumb against the back of one hand. “It was right after I first started going on the road. Weekend stuff. I began noticing this man showing up in the audience, even when the shows were in different places, hours apart. At first, he just watched me and never approached me. But then he began sitting at a front table, and throughout the entire show, he wouldn’t take his eyes off me.”

“Did you call the police?”

“At that point, I didn’t have anything to report. I started to see him in other places. At the grocery store. Parked outside my high school when I got there in the mornings. He even came to my house one night when Mama was at church. I heard a knock and opened the door before I realized-”

I break off there because my voice is shaking and I can’t get the rest of the words out.

Holden puts his arm around me and pulls me into the curve of his shoulder. I hold myself rigid for a few moments but then I close my eyes and sink against him, remembering how safe I feel there.

“Did he hurt you?” he asks, his voice low and laced with anger.

I shake my head. “I was able to slam the door and call the police. There was nothing to arrest him for at that point.”

“What else did he do?”

“Punctured the tires on Mama’s car when I borrowed it one night to go to a show in Raleigh. Surveillance cameras proved that he did it.”

“Did he go to jail?”

“For ninety days.”

“That’s it?” he asks, sounding disgusted.

I nod.

“Has he bothered you since?”

“While he was in jail, someone would call our house and hang up. Eventually, that stopped, and I haven’t heard from him again.”

“You’re sure this isn’t the same guy?”

“I’m sure.”

We sit, quiet for a good while before he says, “I don’t want you to go anywhere by yourself, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“He’s probably some jokester with a bad sense of humor, but there’s no reason to take a chance.”

I pull back a bit and look up at him. “Thank you,” I say.

“For what?”

“Being there.”

“I’m glad I was.”

He brushes his hand across my cheek, and just that light touch snags something low inside me that responds to him in a way I’ve never responded to anyone else. My breathing goes instantly shallow.

“You’re beautiful, CeCe.”

The words are like the lick of a flame along my skin, and I hear in his voice that he knows he shouldn’t have said them.

“I really want you to kiss me,” I say softly, deliberately.

“I really want to kiss you,” he says, equally soft, equally deliberate.

I lean in a little closer. There’s a moment of hesitation in us both. He answers my invitation so suddenly and with such intensity that I forget to breathe, forget everything except the instant memory of how his lips feel against mine. Heated and knowing, familiar and skilled.

I slide my palms up the expanse of his hard-muscled abs and chest, the ripples and contours clearly defined beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt. Touching him, molding myself to him, it’s almost impossible to believe I’m not dreaming. Because I’ve dreamed this dream so many times, only to wake up to daylight and the fact that I would never be held by him like this again, kissed by him like this again.

I feel the tears seeping from beneath my closed lids. I will them to stop, but they don’t, they won’t.

Holden pulls back and brushes his thumb across my cheek. “Do you want me to quit?” he asks, instantly remorseful.

I shake my head, looking down because I can’t make myself meet his gaze.

“But you’re crying.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“Baby, why?” he says, the question sounding as if it has been torn from him.

I do let myself look at him now, and I answer as honestly as I can. “Because I’ve missed you so much. Because I thought we would never be together like this-”

I don’t finish. He is suddenly kissing me into silence. And I am kissing him back. His hands slide under the skirt of my dress and around my bottom to lift me onto his lap so that I am straddling him, my arms winding around his neck and holding him tight. There is no space between us, one heart pounding into the other. And I think if I could melt myself into him, I would. I don’t ever want to feel again what it’s like to know this and lose it.

Call it weakness. Call it acceptance of something I can’t change, but whatever I call it, I can’t deny it.

I run my hands through his hair, kiss one eyelid and then the other, nip his chin with my teeth before sinking my mouth onto his again.

And we kiss without thought of time or any other measuring stick of the world outside this room. I don’t want to think past the next moment, the next sensation spiraling through me, lifting me up and out of myself to a place where there is only this, only us.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks, dropping his head against the back of the sofa, his eyes hazed with the same need I feel.

“I know what you do to me,” I say. “I know that I’ve never felt this way with anyone but you.”

“CeCe. I promised myself I wouldn’t get between you and Beck,” he says, the words infused with apology. “Tell me to get up and leave, and I will.”

“I wish I could,” I say, hearing the broken note in my admission. “I don’t want to hurt him. I never wanted-”

“Me? Is that about right?”

I go completely still at the sound of Beck’s voice, closing my eyes in the hope that I imagined it.

Holden gently slides me off his lap, stands, and pulls me to my feet. We both face Beck with solemn expressions.

“Beck . . . man, we didn’t mean for this to happen,” Holden says. “It wasn’t planned.”

Beck shoves a hand through his hair and laughs, a harsh sound that I don’t recognize in him. “There’s fool and then there’s Fool with a capital F. I guess that’s me.”

“Beck,” I say. “Don’t. It’s not like that.”

“What is it like, CeCe?” he asks, and I see the tears shining in his eyes.

My heart twists. I really hate myself for hurting him this way. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Maybe like this,” he says with an edge in his voice. “Girl likes boy. Boy dumps girl. Girl tries to get over him with sucker boy. But that didn’t work, did it?”

“Beck-”

“Don’t bother, CeCe,” he says. “I already know the ending to this story.” He turns and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him so that the thin walls rattle with the force.

I sink onto the sofa, wondering exactly what I’ve just done.

Holden sits down next to me. “Do you want me to go after him?”

“No. It should be me. I need to talk to him.”

“I don’t want you alone with him when he’s angry at you.”

“It’s okay. That’s not Beck.”

“How do you know?” he asks.

“I just do,” I say, and then because the guilt is starting to choke me, I add, “You should go.”

He watches me while weighing his decision. “I’m not leaving you alone right now.”

“I’m fine. I . . . I need some time to think.”

I can see that he wants to disagree but he finally relents with, “I’ll check in on you in a little while. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

I nod.

He stands then without touching me again. He walks to the door, turns, and looks at me. His eyes are solemn and serious. “Do you want me to go back to pretending that I don’t love you, CeCe?”

The question echoes from my head to my heart. I am at once joyful and stricken.

He loves me.

Oh.

He loves me.

“No,” I say. “I don’t.”

♪

35

CeCe

I don’t sleep.

I try, but the effort amounts to nothing more than rumpled sheets and a comforter that ends up on the floor.

My thoughts bounce back and forth. From Holden and loving every moment of being in his arms, to Beck and the look on his face when he walked in the room.

I feel horrible, and I really don’t know where to begin to try and fix this. There is no fixing it. I can’t erase what happened or the fact that I’ve hurt Beck in the process.

All I can do is apologize.

I give up the fight and get out of bed at four-thirty, heading for the shower where I stand under the spray for a good twenty minutes. I brush my teeth and dry my hair, slide into jeans and a t-shirt. I make myself wait until five-thirty before walking to Beck’s room. It’s still an indecent hour to wake anyone up but I can’t wait any longer.

He’s one floor down from mine. I take the elevator and get off, glancing at the number signs and turning right.

I hear the music from the far end of the hallway. It’s blasting loud enough that I wonder how anybody can be sleeping.

It’s not until I’ve almost reached his door that I realize the music is coming from his room. I stop instantly and decide this is a very bad idea. Just then, a girl stumbles backwards out of the doorway. She is laughing so hard she’s holding her stomach, and she’s having extreme difficulty staying upright on her stiletto heels.

“If three isn’t a crowd, Beck Phillips,” she says, her voice slightly slurred, “four is just getting the party started.” She laughs as if she has nailed the best punch line ever.

I start to back away. She looks around and points at me, staring for a moment as if she’s trying to focus. “Oh, my gosh! You’re CeCe. Beck’s singer. I mean, girlfriend.”

I decide that now is the time to go. But she moves surprisingly fast for someone who would no doubt blow a DUI test. She lurches forward and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the room and then through the half open door.

I stop as if I have hit a concrete wall.

Beck and two girls are in the king-size bed that takes up the middle of the floor. One girl is sitting on top of him, naked. The other girl, also naked, is draped alongside him, one leg entwined with his.

He looks at me, and I can see that he’s trying to focus, as if I am very far away, when actually it’s only a few feet. “CeCe? Is that you?”

His words are every bit as slurred as those of the girl who pulled me into the room. His eyes are like slits, and he’s clearly having trouble keeping them open.

I spot the traces of white powder on the coffee table and the two empty gin bottles.

I’ve never seen Beck with drugs, never known him to even want to be around anyone messing with them.

I start to back away as he says, “Did you think I’d just come down here and cry myself to sleep, CeCe?”

I shake my head, stung by the harsh tone in his voice.

“Or maybe you thought it was okay for you to screw around as long as I didn’t know about it?”

“Beck. Please.”

He vaults off the bed and stumbles to a stop in front of me, wearing black briefs and nothing else. The girls are giggling now, watching us the way they might an episode of their favorite sitcom.

He grabs my arms, holding onto me so tightly that I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want me to go or if it’s the only way he can keep himself upright.

“What did I do wrong?” he asks, staggering backwards a few inches and then swaying forward again. He rights himself when his chest bumps my shoulder.

“Nothing,” I say. “Let’s not do this now. I’ll come back when you-”

“Don’t have company?” he interrupts, waving a hand at the girls on the bed. “What’s wrong with me having company? It’s not like I have a girlfriend or anything.”

I swing around to leave, certain now that things are only going to go downhill from here. But he whirls me back, and I collide with his bare chest, grabbing his arm to keep from falling.

I look up at him then, and my growing anger instantly deflates at the look in his eyes. The hurt I see there takes my breath away. “Beck. Oh, Beck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

“Break my heart?” he finishes softly. “Well, you did.”

“Come back to bed, honey,” one of the girls says, patting the mattress. “We were just about to fix it for you.”

He reaches out and brushes my cheek with his knuckles. “I loved you, CeCe. No. I love you.”

Regret forms a knot in my throat. I try to say something. The words won’t come. I realize I don’t have any that will make this better. “I’m sorry, Beck. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you have. Right?”

I look down at my hands, unable to respond.

“You can’t make your heart feel something it doesn’t feel.”

“Beck, I didn’t plan tonight. I didn’t expect it.”

“Didn’t want it?”

I start to respond. I realize I can’t answer this without hurting him further. Because I did want it.

When I don’t say anything, he raises a hand and drops onto the bed, sliding back in between the two girls who instantly welcome him with open arms.

“Go, CeCe,” he says. “We’re done.”

♪

I DON’T KNOW WHY I’m crying. I have no right to be. I created the situation I am in. I could have asked Holden to leave tonight before anything went as far as it did.

But I didn’t.

I start to go back to my room but turn for Thomas’s instead. I knock on his door with tears streaming down my face. I don’t bother to wipe them away because they are instantly replaced with more.

“Who is it?” he calls out, husky-voiced.

“CeCe,” I say, my sobs refusing to stay silent now.

He pulls the door open and stares at me with alarm on his face. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I think I . . . I might have just ruined everything.”

He takes my hand and leads me in the room. “First, clarify everything.”

“Barefoot Outlook,” I say, the words breaking in half. “The tour.”

“Why would you think that?” he asks, pulling me to the bed where we both sink onto the edge of the mattress. “We had a great first show. It couldn’t have gone any better.”

“It’s what happened after the show.”

“What?”

I honestly don’t know where to start. Finally, I just say, “Holden.”

“And you?”

I nod again, miserable.

“Like that hasn’t been inevitable,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Well, you’d have to be blind not to see it.”

“I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend. Friends tell each other the truth. So what happened, other than you two knocking boots?”

I put my hand over his mouth and say, “We did not knock boots.”

He play-wrestles with my hand for a moment and says, “What exactly did you do?”

“I . . . we were kind of headed in that direction,” I admit in a low voice, “and Beck walked in.”

“Dang,” Thomas says, sounding completely serious now. “That’s bad.”

“He’s really angry with me.”

“Yeah.” He lets out a soft whistle. “Can’t say that I blame him.”

“He has three naked girls in his room right now, and he’s been drinking. That’s probably not all.”

“Girl,” he says, shaking his head, “you sure know how to bring a fella down.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I say, miserable. “I didn’t want to hurt him. What happened with Holden tonight wasn’t supposed to happen. Oh, Thomas, what if I’ve messed it all up?”

“Why would you think you’ve done that?”

“He’s pretty mad.”

“Beck has as much to gain from Barefoot Outlook hitting it as any of us do. From everything he’s said to me, going back to school is the last thing he wants. I doubt he wants to give his dad a reason to say the gig’s up.”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“Want me to talk to him?”

“I’m not sure it will do any good.”

“I think he’ll see the logic. But here’s my one stipulation,” he says, his voice suddenly serious.

I turn my head to look at him. “What?”

“You and Holden cool it until the tour is done.”

I want to argue, tell him what happened tonight won’t happen again, that we both lost it and things can go back to the way they were. I can’t. Because I know that’s a lie.

So I nod. Once. Looking down at my hands. “Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

♪

36

CeCe

I keep my word to Thomas, but the wear of avoiding both Beck and Holden for three weeks is starting to become evident. I’m not sleeping great, and it’s taking more makeup to prevent that fact from showing beneath my eyes.

I’ve been talking to Mama pretty much every night after the show. We talk about normal things, people back home, who’s recently gotten married, had babies, bought a new car, the kind of regular stuff that keeps me from thinking about the strain within our group.

I send her tickets for the Annapolis show, and on the morning she and my Aunt Vera are scheduled to meet me at our hotel, I wake up so excited to see them, I can hardly wait.

I’m standing outside when Aunt Vera’s Suburban turns in the parking lot. As soon as she pulls into an open space, I run to the passenger side door, barely waiting for Mama to slide out before throwing my arms around her and hugging her as if I can absorb every ounce of the comfort I know she will fill me with.

“Hello, honey,” she says with a catch in her voice, her southern Virginia accent music to my ears. “Gracious, it’s good to see you.”

I nod and bury my face in her neck. She smells like home, like the bread she makes almost every day and the basil she grows in a pot by the kitchen sink where it gets lots of sun. All of a sudden, I am crying the way I did when I would go to her as a little girl, certain that whatever was wrong, she’d be able to fix.

“Aw, honey, what is it?” she asks, smoothing her hand over the back of my hair.

“Nothing,” I say as convincingly as I can manage. “It’s just so good to see you.”

Late forties looks more like late thirties on her, and I feel proud of her, proud that she is here. She hugs me even tighter, and Aunt Vera waits a couple of minutes before she gets out and hugs me too.

She pulls back and gives me a long look. “Good gracious, child, could you get any prettier?”

I smile a watery smile and say, “You never did go see that eye doctor, did you, Aunt Vera?”

She and Mama both beam at me, and I think not for the first time how much alike they look. They’re twins, and a lot of people back home can’t tell them apart even though they’ve known them their whole lives.

I wipe my eyes and say, “It’s so good to see you both.”

“It’s good to see you, honey,” Mama says. “We want to hear all about everything you’ve been doing. So much excitement. I’ve been telling everybody in town.”

“We are so overdue a gabfest,” Aunt Vera says.

“There’s a Starbucks down the street,” I say.

“Perfect,” Mama says.

We walk there, Mama and Vera each holding my hand. They set right in on sharing the local gossip. It feels so familiar, so much a part of me that I am deeply homesick. Even so, I feel better already.

♪

“WELL, IT’S NO surprise,” Aunt Vera says. “A girl as pretty as you having two boyfriends.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly what she’s saying, Vera,” Mama says, taking a sip of her house blend.

“Isn’t it?” Aunt Vera says, looking at me with a twinkle in her eyes.

“That was never my intention,” I say.

“Sometimes, these things just happen. I remember when I was young enough and pretty enough to get myself in such fixes,” Aunt Vera says, with the dramatic flair she has been known for my whole life. “Those were the days.”

“Hah,” Mama says. “Those were the days when you’d go out with the first boy who arrived to pick you up, leaving me to deal with the second one you had then stood up.”

I laugh at this image. It’s so typical of their relationship. Mama, the responsible one. Vera, leaning on her to right whatever wrongs she happened to ignite.

“So which one are you standing up, my dear?” Aunt Vera says, looking at me over the rim of her Caramel Frappuccino.

“Neither,” I say, some of my misery evident in the response.

“You’re not seeing either one?” Mama asks, and I can hear that she’s worried about me.

I shake my head. “No, but it’s fine.”

“How can it be fine?” Aunt Vera says with a cluck, cluck. “That’s a losing proposition.”

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“So is being unhappy,” she adds.

“I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do. I have nothing to complain about.”

“The heart usually insists on having what it wants,” Mama says in her calm, common sense way. “Don’t close a door you might later wish you’d left open.”

“If only it were that simple, Mama.”

“The feeling itself is, honey. Sometimes, we just need to get out of its way.”

♪

I SPEND THE rest of the day with them, shopping and laughing at Vera’s funny stories about her own dating life. I decide after a point that if I had ever considered taking advice from her, it would have been a bad idea.

On the way back into the hotel, we run into Holden and Thomas in the lobby. I introduce everyone, and we are all polite and friendly. I try not to give Mama or Aunt Vera any clues about my feelings for Holden, but as soon as we step in the elevator, Mama looks at me and says, “It’ll be hard for your heart to accept no on that one, honey.”

Aunt Vera nods. “Amen to that, sister.”

I’d like to offer up at least some token disagreement, but who would I be kidding?

When it’s time to leave for the show, Mama and Aunt Vera go with me to my dressing room and help me get ready. It is so wonderful having them there that I know I’m going to miss them terribly once they’re gone. We laugh and giggle more like high school best friends than aunt, mother, and daughter. I try to convince Aunt Vera that light blue eye shadow has not yet come back in style. She finally relents but still doesn’t agree.

It’s only a few minutes before I need to leave the room when a knock sounds at the door. Aunt Vera jogs over to see who it is before I can get there. She pulls it open and then stands there as if she has been lasered to the spot.

“Oh. Good. Day.” Aunt Vera utters the words with wide-eyed disbelief. She takes a step back with one hand on her chest.

“Evening, ma’am,” Case says, smiling at her with the very same smile that’s made his CDs bestsellers.

“Hi, Case,” I say. “You might need to take a little pity on Aunt Vera. She’s prone to fainting spells.”

His grin widens. “I heard you had some beautiful women in here with you tonight. Thought I’d stop by and say hey.”

His generosity shouldn’t still surprise me, but it does. Especially in light of the fact that I know he must have heard Beck and I aren’t seeing each other. “This is my mama, Mira MacKenzie. And her sister, my aunt, Vera Nelson.”

“Mira. Vera. Sure is nice to meet you ladies. I can’t tell you how much we think of your lovely CeCe here.”

“Thank you,” Mama says, her smile warm and appreciative. “We think the world of her ourselves.”

“I know CeCe got tickets for you tonight but I was hoping y’all might like to use these two from my VIP section. We’ve created a few perks for special guests, and I’d love for y’all to be a part of it.”

“Case,” I say. “Thank you. Really.”

“Goodness gracious,” Aunt Vera says. “Some days you get up and have absolutely no idea what’s in store for you.”

Case laughs. “I think there’s a song lyric in there somewhere, ma’am.”

“Be happy to work on that with you,” Aunt Vera says.

“That’s mighty kind,” Case says, smiling. He looks at Mama then, and I notice their gazes linger a moment longer than just polite interest.

Mama glances away first, and I see her cheeks brighten with color. I can’t even remember the last time I saw her affected by a man.

“Well,” Case says, “I hope y’all enjoy the show.”

“I am certain we will,” Aunt Vera says.

“Thank you so much,” Mama says.

When he’s gone, Aunt Vera waits ten seconds or so before she starts to dance around the room. “Did that really happen?”

“That really happened, Vera,” Mama says, shaking her head with a smile. “Now settle down before you hurt yourself.”

♪

37

Holden

I’m not sure that I’m old enough to make a conclusion like this yet, but I’m starting to wonder if it’s even possible to be completely content in this life.

I should be. In fact, this should be a high point.

We’re on the fourth week of our tour, and I don’t know that we could have even hoped for the kind of response we’ve been getting from the crowds in pretty much every city we’ve visited.

San Diego. Flagstaff. Denver. Omaha. Springfield. Columbus. Annapolis last night. And now tonight in D.C.

We’re here for the music. And to get the kind of break we’ve been given is like winning the hundred million dollar lottery. It almost never happens.

To do anything other than milk every possible moment of enjoyment from this experience makes no sense at all.

Even so, I feel like I’m living in a state of euphoria combined with one of extreme misery. Thomas was right. Staying away from CeCe, with the exception of the time that we’re actually rehearsing or performing, is the common sense thing to do. I don’t want to blow what we have going with this tour.

It just feels so wrong to put on a show the way we do, smiling, laughing, joking with each other. Beck even manages to pull this off, and I assume that’s the power of Thomas’s persuasiveness.

As soon as we’re off stage though, we go in our separate directions. I’ve heard there are big name groups who lived like this for years while they played out their contracts; a picture of unity and professionalism when they’re on stage, hating each other’s guts and not speaking when they’re off. That doesn’t make me feel any better.

If I could rewind to that night in CeCe’s dressing room and push pause for everything that I wanted to happen between us, I would. We should all be hanging out together, seeing as much of the towns we’re in as we can, but unless I go somewhere with Thomas, I’m alone. The same is true for CeCe. Which means we both spend a lot of time by ourselves.

I’m just getting out of the shower when I hear a knock on the door of my hotel room. I wrap a towel around my waist and answer it.

Thomas is standing in the hall, wearing an enormous Stetson and new cowboy boots. I lean back and give him an appraising look.

“You’ve been shopping,” I say.

“Fruits of my labor,” he says. “We’ve got the whole day to tour the city before we need to be at the arena. I thought you and me and CeCe could see what there is to see.”

I wave him in. “Aren’t you the one who grounded us from being together?”

“I’ll be the chaperone.”

“I don’t know, Thomas. I doubt that CeCe would-”

“I already asked her. She said yes.”

I can’t hide my surprise when I say, “Oh.”

“Well? Get your britches on then.”

“It seems like it’ll be awkward.”

“Probably will since you two have trouble keeping your hands off each other. I’ll sit between you.”

I roll my eyes. “What about Beck?”

“He, apparently, has a date.”

I should feel glad about this but I wonder if it hurts CeCe that he’s obviously not wasting any time in moving on. “Where are we going?”

“Where else? To hear some music.”

♪

WE WALK THE half mile or so from our hotel to the festival in downtown D.C. Thomas keeps his word and walks in between CeCe and me. We both pretend not to notice. I can’t stop myself from stealing glimpses of her out of the corner of my eye. She’s wearing an orange skirt and a pink tank top. She looks like she’s upped her running because her arms are even leaner and more cut than they were at the beginning of the tour.

“Bark-Fest is a fundraiser for a local No-Kill rescue,” Thomas says. “Sounds like they raise a boatload of money every year.”

“That’s great,” CeCe says, but she looks distracted, as if her thoughts are somewhere else.

We’ve arrived at the concession area. Tents and booths are set up all around us, and the smell of funnel cakes and cotton candy permeates the air.

“I need a Coke,” Thomas says, pointing at a stand not too far away. “Anybody want one?”

“I’m good,” I say.

“No, thanks,” CeCe says.

“Be right back,” Thomas says.

“I thought he was going to stay between us,” I say, the words out before I think to stop them.

A small smile touches the corners of CeCe’s mouth. “He did say that, didn’t he?”

I turn to let myself look at her. It’s only then that I realize I haven’t been looking at her full on but turning away whenever I started to take in too much of her. Our gazes catch, and we stare at each other for several long moments.

“How are you?” I ask, the question soft, tentative.

“I’m okay,” she says. “Are you?”

I start to answer with something off-hand, but I can’t make myself be flip. “Sometimes. The other times? Not so much.”

“Kind of a mess, isn’t it?” CeCe says.

“I’m sorry for what happened that night. Beck walking in and everything.”

“I’m not,” she says.

I don’t know how to respond to this so I say, “What do you mean?”

“I’m not sorry for what happened between us. I never wanted to hurt Beck, but I’m not sorry for the way I feel about you.”

“CeCe,” I say, with no idea of where to go from here. I want to pull her to me and kiss her with every drop of need inside me. I’m just about to give in and do exactly that when my phone buzzes. CeCe’s makes its text alert sound a second later.

I glance at the screen, see it’s from Thomas.

She looks at hers. “Thomas.”

We read the message at the same time.

Sorry for the deception, but tired of watching you be miserable. No more middle man. Find your way wherever you need to go. Love you both.

When we’re done, we look at each other as if we’re not sure what to make of it.

“But why would he change his mind?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

We stand there for what feels like a very long time. I hold out my hand. CeCe takes it.

38

CeCe

Holden tugboats me through the crowd, weaving and winding until we reach the edge of the festival and a high stonewall. He pulls me behind it so that we are virtually hidden from anyone passing by.

He presses me against it, one hand on each of my shoulders, looking down at me with the fiercest need I have ever seen in anyone’s eyes.

It is an exact reflection of what I feel. And suddenly, I don’t want to ignore it any longer. I don’t want to turn away from the constant buzz of need inside me, whether I’m next to him or nowhere near. It’s there when I wake up in the morning. When I go to sleep at night. No matter what I do to pretend it isn’t, it never leaves. Never stops. Instead, it just continues to grow like a storm building way out in the ocean, increasing in power until there is no denying its existence, its inevitable crash into shore.

I reach for him then, cup my hand at the back of his neck and pull him in. He comes to me with an urgency that tells me he has simply been waiting for the invitation. His mouth is on mine in full assault, full surrender. I kiss him with a need I have never in my life known. All this time of denying, subduing, turning away from. I think I will surely drown in its sudden pent-up release.

He lifts me and sets me on the stone wall, stepping in between my legs and bringing us as close as it is physically possible to be in broad daylight in a public place.

I lock my arms around his waist, and we kiss each other as if we are living out our last moments on earth, almost out of time.

“CeCe.” My name is ragged on his lips, and I touch his mouth, wanting to feel him say it.

“Is this real?” I ask.

“Nothing in my life has ever felt as real as you,” he says. “If I don’t get you somewhere alone, I think I might actually stop breathing.”

I want to smile, laugh, make light of what he’s just said, but I can’t because I feel the very same way. “Where?” I ask in little more than a whisper.

He lifts me off the wall and, clasping my hand in his, starts pulling me down the street at a near run.

I should protest, tell him this is crazy, that we need to stop, go back. For the life of me, I cannot make myself do anything other than hold onto him and follow.

In less than five minutes, we slow to a walk just before the entrance to a very luxurious hotel front. A discreet sign says The Montgomery Mansion.

I remember reading about it in a magazine once. I stop suddenly and pull on Holden’s hand, protesting, “We can’t go here. It’s a five-star hotel.”

“I want to see you naked on five-star sheets.”

The words send a ripple of heat through me.

That’s crazy. We have to go back. Any of these responses would have been appropriate. But that’s not what comes out.

“Do I get to see you on those sheets?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer but propels me forward through the main door of the hotel and doesn’t stop until we reach the front desk.

An older man with white hair and smart-looking spectacles glances up at us with a welcoming smile. “Good morning. Welcome to the Montgomery Mansion. How may I help you?”

“We’d like a room, please,” Holden says.

“Do you have a reservation, sir?”

“No, we don’t.”

I feel my face turn four different shades of red, one layered over the other. I squeeze Holden’s hand in an attempt to convey that we should leave and forget about this.

But the man smiles and says, “Let me see what I can do.”

He taps on the keyboard in front of him for a minute or more before looking up and saying, “Ah, yes. We do have something available for you.” He states the rate, and I blink at the amount.

Holden hands him a credit card. “We’ll take that.”

“Very good, sir.” The man runs the card and gives it back to Holden along with a room key. “Do you have any bags we can help you with?” His expression remains neutral in the manner of someone who is expected to be discreet.

“No, thank you,” Holden says.

“Enjoy your day then,” the man says, nodding as we turn to leave.

Once we’re alone in the elevator, Holden walks me back against one wall and begins kissing me again. I can’t stop myself from kissing him, even though my cheeks are still burning from the front desk experience.

Just as the elevator dings, I say, “Like he didn’t know why we wanted a room.”

Holden smiles against my mouth. “Do you think we’re the first?”

“That doesn’t make it any less embarrassing.”

“Embarrassed is the very last thing I’m feeling right now,” he says, taking my hand and leading me down the long hallway.

“How many months’ rent did you just spend?” I ask, breathless.

We’re at the door now. He leans in. “Stop talking so I can kiss you.”

I do, and he does. So slowly and thoroughly that my legs weaken beneath me, and I lean into him, not sure of anything except that I want more.

He opens the door, walks us backwards inside, and kicks it closed behind us. From there, he swoops me up as if I weigh nothing. I loop my arms around his neck and kiss him with every ounce of feeling I have for him.

When he reaches the side of the bed, he lets go of my legs and I slide to the floor.

He stares down at me with the most intense seriousness I’ve ever seen in him. “I wake up in the morning, and you’re my first thought,” he says. “When I go to bed at night, it’s your voice I hear right before I fall asleep. I’ve tried to make myself forget you as anything other than a friend. I can’t. And I can’t imagine my life meaning anything near what it would mean if you’re part of it.”

Tears well in my eyes, and I try to blink them back, but it doesn’t work. “I love you, Holden.”

“I love you, baby. So much.”

We fall onto the bed together, arms wrapped tight around one another. And absolutely everything ceases to exist except this need we have for each other.

I unbutton his shirt, slide it from his shoulders and wait for him to shrug out of it. I run my hand across the muscled contours of his chest then down the curve of his left bicep.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” I ask him.

He gives me a very heated look that makes me want to wrap myself around him and never let go.

“You’re the one who’s beautiful,” he says.

“No, I mean it,” I say, tracing one finger down the center of his well-honed abs. “Beautiful like art that I just want to stare at for as long as it takes to absorb every inch of what I see.”

“CeCe,” he starts, but I stop him with a kiss that goes on for quite some time, a slow dance of exploration, of longing, of pleasure.

Holden drops his head back when my lips find his neck. He makes a sound of need that I want to satisfy in every way I possibly can.

He rolls me over then, settles his long body onto mine and lifts my shirt over my head, pulling it off and tossing it onto the floor.

It is the first time we’ve been against each other this way, skin to skin, and I feel as if I’ve been ignited deep inside with a heat so consuming that only he will be able to direct it in a way that does not turn me to vapor.

And we keep kissing. Long, slow, full, deep kisses that both fill me up and drain me. I want to give him everything. Be everything he needs. But I am suddenly swamped with a wave of uncertainty. I have no idea how to tell him I’ve never done this before.

I press a hand to his chest and say his name.

He lifts up to look down at me through eyes hazed with want. “What is it?” he asks, his voice soft and husky.

“Holden . . . I haven’t been with . . . I’ve never done this before.”

He goes completely still above me. I watch his face as he processes what I have just said. When comprehension fully registers, he rolls across the bed and lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling and breathing hard.

“You’ve. . . never. . . been with anyone?”

I shake my head, feeling something well beyond embarrassed now. We lie there like that for a good bit while I wish I could blink and disappear.

Finally, Holden turns over on his side, rising up on one elbow to stare into my eyes. “CeCe?”

“What?” I ask without looking at him, feeling the heat in my face.

“Look at me,” he says gently.

I turn my head, slowly, finally letting myself meet his gaze.

He reaches out and touches my cheek. “I’m glad you told me. I want this to be different,” he says. “I want us to be different.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my stomach suddenly tight with worry that he will say this is a mistake.

“This isn’t casual. And it never could be.”

I nod once. “I know.”

“I love you, CeCe. I want to be with you. Not just here and now, but every single day of my life. Every single night of my life.”

Relieved beyond words, I smile and lace my fingers through his. “I want to be with you.”

“Then let’s make it forever,” he says, taking my hand in his. “CeCe MacKenzie, will you marry me?”

I have to wonder if I’ve actually heard him say this or if I have imagined it. “Do you mean it?” I ask in little more than a whisper.

He loops an arm around my waist and pulls me up close until we are touching, skin to skin. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life.”

Tears well in my eyes, seep out and slip down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand. “Then, yes,” I say. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

♪

39

CeCe

Case’s Fan Appreciation party is wide open by the time I change into jeans and a tank top and make my way to the big white tent set up alongside two of the tour buses. I feel lit up inside with the secret I have yet to share with anyone. Holden wants to tell Thomas after the show tonight. And I am going to tell Beck. As painful as it will be, I have to tell him.

Music is blasting from two enormous stage speakers. I don’t recognize hardly anyone at first, but then I spot Thomas and Beck standing next to a table loaded with trays of sandwiches and platters of fruit and cookies.

My stomach drops and I feel sick at the thought of hurting Beck. I have to be honest with him. I owe him that.

Thomas spots me and waves me over, taking my hand and pulling me in to kiss me on the cheek. “What a show. You were amazing out there tonight.”

“Everyone was,” I say, letting myself glance at Beck then. “I thought it was our best of the tour.”

Beck nods, but doesn’t answer. “Can we talk, Beck?” I ask, my heart pounding so hard I know he can hear it.

“Yeah,” he says.

Thomas looks at both of us with compassion in his eyes. “Y’all go easy on each other, okay?”

And with that he walks away, stopping to talk with some of the crew where they are loading plates with sandwiches.

“Are we doing this here?” Beck asks.

“I’d rather go somewhere else,” I say.

Just then Case comes in and waves for everyone’s attention. The dull roar of conversation lowers and succumbs to silence.

“Thanks y’all,” Case says. “I hope everyone’s having a good time. You’ve sure earned it. I can honestly say that so far this is the best tour I’ve ever been a part of. I want to thank each of you for the role you played in making it happen. It’s no accident that it’s a success. And without the stellar fans who are celebrating with us here tonight, none of this would be possible.”

Cheers start in a wave and crescendo with whistles and clapping. Someone yells out, “You rock, Case!”

Shouts of agreement follow. He raises a hand, smiling and waiting for the volume to lower to a level where he can be heard. “Thank you, again. Every one of you.”

Someone starts opening Champagne and several toasts are made by Rhys, Case’s producer and a few of the band members.

My eyes are drawn to a tall figure standing at the edge of the tent. The white-blonde short-cropped hair triggers instant recognition. It’s the guy from our first concert in San Diego.

He walks over to one of the tables now, picks up a plate, a couple of sandwiches, steps back and starts eating.

I should let someone know the guy is here. But what am I going to say? He was mean to me and he shouldn’t be here?

I’m trying to decide what to do when Case waves Beck forward.

“Come on up here, son,” he calls out. “Thomas, Holden, CeCe, y’all too!”

We walk through the crowd of people to the center of the tent where Case is waiting. Holden and Thomas thread their way in, standing on one side of Case, Beck and I on the other.

“I just want to say how proud I am of these four,” Case says. “They had about three weeks to put together what you’ve seen them do during this tour. It’s clear from the way all you fans have responded to them, you’ll be seeing a lot more of them.”

Whistles and clapping follow. Case hands the microphone to Thomas and asks, “Anything y’all want to say?”

Thomas clears his throat and then, “Thank you for the opportunity, Case. I’m not sure we could ever do justice with words our appreciation for the shot you’ve given us. And how much I admire you for who you are and what you do. You live your life by paying it forward, and if I ever get the chance to do for someone else what you’ve done for us, I hope I’ll be as generous.”

“You could start by paying it forward with me,” a voice calls out from the guests. “Jared Ryner.”

The name rings out in the otherwise silent tent. I look into the crowd and see that it came from the blonde guy from San Diego. My heart starts to pound so hard that I can feel it against my chest.

He drops the now empty plate onto the table, wipes his hands on his jeans. “Do you know how many years I spent in Nashville trying to get someone to give me a shot?”

People start to shift where they stand, uncomfortable and unsure of where this is going.

“Eight,” he says. “Eight years. Playing on street corners. Exit ramps off the interstate. Knocking on doors. Sending songs to record companies and never getting a call back.”

People are now starting to back away from the center of the tent, as if they all sense that something’s not quite right.

Somebody calls out, “Are you supposed to be here, Jared?”

The guy laughs then, as if something hysterically funny has just been said. “No,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “I suppose that’s the punch line to my eight years of working to get a break. I never actually belonged. There must have been some secret pass code no one ever bothered to let me in on.”

Another man’s voice rings out with authority, “Someone call Security and get him out of here.”

But Jared lifts the front of his shirt and pulls a handgun from the waist of his jeans. “I’m afraid it’s a little late for that,” he says, raising it up and firing it once through the top of the tent.

Screams erupt and people start to push and shove to get out. He points the gun at the center of the crowd and fires again. A man in a white shirt standing a few yards away from us tilts forward and then collapses onto the ground, blood spilling from his neck like water from a hose.

All around, women begin screaming. I am frozen where I stand. Holden steps in front of me and calls out, “Jared! Man, this isn’t the way. Put the gun down, and let’s go outside and talk.”

He looks at Holden and laughs. “Talk with you? The big hottie on stage? What would you and I have to talk about? No matter how good my music is, I’m never going to get the same chances as a guy who looks like you. How is that fair?”

“A man may die because of you,” Holden says, his voice calm and even. “That’s the next pressing thing on your list. You still have a chance to turn this around if you want to.”

“There’s no turning anything around now. It took me a while but I finally figured that out.”

I hear the wail of sirens in the distance. Holden steps back and presses against me, his body fully blocking me from seeing where Jared is or what he’s doing.

Case moves away from us and walks toward him. “Son. Come on. Put the gun down. You’ve taken this far enough.”

“I suggest you stop right there,” he says, pointing the weapon at Case.

Case raises his hands, saying, “Like Holden said, let’s go outside and see if we can work this out.”

“Don’t you see, Mr. Country Music Star,” he says, sarcasm underlining every word, “I’ve already got it worked out. Eye for an eye and all that. If I don’t get my dream, then it seems right that I cancel a few others on my way out. Am I the only one that makes sense to?”

Beck reaches out and grabs his dad, pulling him back to where we’re standing. “Get out of here, man! The police will be here any second.”

The sirens scream like they’re right outside the tent now. Car doors slam. I hear the sound of running. I step out from behind Holden and scream, “Go! Just go! End this now!”

Jared Ryner has a look on his face that I’ve never seen on the face of another human being. He’s not leaving this world alone. His eyes say it as clearly as if I have heard him speak the words.

It happens so fast there’s no time to say anything else, to move, or to run. He lifts the gun, fires, and Thomas slumps forward, then drops to the ground. I hear myself screaming, a wail I don’t even recognize.

Another shot, and Case goes down, falling backwards into the people standing behind us. The next shot takes Beck. He staggers and slumps to the ground next to his dad.

It is surreal now. None of this can be happening. I feel the bullet enter my body with the realization that I have been hit, only I have no idea where. My body is instantly infused with white-hot pain, and I drop to my knees. I hear a roar of fury, and realize that it has come from Holden. He is charging the guy, but the gun is lifting and I know what is coming. I hear my scream as if I am a million miles from it. I feel the earth tremble with my fury as Holden stops with the bullet’s impact. He stands for a moment, sways and then collapses.

Police are rushing into the tent, an entire force of them. Panic has taken over, and the screaming I now hear is not my own. I try to get up, lifting myself on one elbow. My face is wet, and I’m not sure if it’s with tears or blood.

I see the policeman body tackle the shooter, taking him down, down, down, but not in time to prevent Jared Ryner from putting the gun to his temple and pulling the trigger.

♪

4

PART FOUR - PLEASURE IN THE RAIN

40

Holden

I can’t wrap my brain around the pain in my left side.

I can’t think beyond it. Speak beyond it. Feel beyond it. It’s as if my entire body is on fire with it.

I don’t know if I am actually drowning in it or suspended above it, looking down at myself, connected only by this tether of savage pain.

I decide I must be above it because I can see the blood pooled on the ground next to me. Bright red soaking into the white of my shirt.

I hear the noise of sirens and screaming and crying. I just can’t see where any of it is coming from. I only see me. I know this can’t be right. I feel this indescribable pull toward awareness of what else I am missing. It’s like I’m at the edges of a dream, but not able to push myself up from the ether of sleep.

I try. Even though there is an enormous weight on my brain, pressing down on the very spot that controls my ability to wake up.

I’m not sure how long it takes. Seconds. Hours. Maybe days. I push against it until I begin to surface. Up, up, up. Breaking through the wall suppressing me.

Then it rushes in. All of it. The screams. The cries. The sirens. Around me, I see people. Some bleeding like me. Standing, bent over, falling.

I feel something on my chest then. Manage to direct my gaze downward and realize that it’s an arm.

Thomas’s arm. Football player bicep and shoulder unmistakable. He’s bleeding, too, his blood spilling onto my chest.

I want to raise up and see how bad it is. But I can’t. I can only look from the corner of my eye. My heart starts to pound because something else is trying to press through.

I struggle to latch onto it. And then her name.

CeCe.

Oh, dear God.

Where is CeCe?

I will myself to get up. But my brain and my body are somehow not connected. I can do nothing but lie here, flat, with Thomas’s arm draped across me.

I start to pray. Pieces of verses float up from the place where they have been stored in my heart so long that I had forgotten they were there. They’re delivered on the voice of a Sunday school teacher who had told our class to memorize such scripture because there would come a day when we might need to call on its comfort. I realize now I doubted the truth of what she’d said. And I had been wrong.

I hear footsteps, heavy booted feet running at me. Two EMTs in rescue worker-clothing dropping down beside me. One directing his attention to me, the other to Thomas.

Their hands are quick and adept, checking my pulse, shining a light into my eyes. I try to form the question, and it takes me several seconds to force it out.

“CeCe? My-”

“Hey, man, don’t try to talk. We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?”

“I need. . .to know where. . . she is.”

“You need to let us take care of you, son. Right now that’s the only thing that matters.”

“It’s not,” I say. Tears start to slide from the corners of my eyes. I see her face as she had looked. . .had it just been this morning? I swear I think I can feel her touch on my skin.

I have to find her.

But my protests to the EMT come out jumbled, and I’m not sure whether I’m speaking them or thinking them. I can’t see through the tears that won’t stop. I feel helpless. And I just pray. Every word a plea that if a life has to be taken here tonight, it will be mine and not hers.

♪

41

CeCe

When I was a little girl, Mama used to tell me about the bomb shelter drills they had when she was in elementary school. I would listen with a kind of half-disbelief. I don’t think I really believed then that anything that bad could ever actually happen.

A bomb dropping on a school full of children?

The world, in my mind at that age, couldn’t be that terrible a place. That kind of thing was limited to scary books and movies that I never had any desire to see because I couldn’t understand why anybody actually wanted to feel fear. Or for that matter, wanted to cause someone else to feel fear.

I see his eyes in my mind now, the look that had been there right before he pulled the trigger. I know that fear is exactly what he wanted me to feel. Wanted everyone in the room to feel.

My heart pounds against the wall of my chest, and the force of it fills my ears with a pressure so intense I think my temples might explode beneath it. This is all I can feel. I have no idea whether I am alive or dead or dreaming or awake.

I try to scream, but no sound comes up from within me. I’m trapped in this bubble of semi-awareness.

I was the only one, wasn’t I?

No, that’s not right. There’s something else. Something more.

More shots. There had been more shots.

Holden. Thomas.

This time, the scream breaks through, piercing my own ears with its wail. The protective bubble of denial surrounding me shatters beneath its jagged edges.

And now, I’m crying. With terror. With grief. I’m not sure which one will tear me apart first.

I feel hands on me, a woman’s voice attempting to offer comfort. “Shh, honey,” she says. “Hold on. Everything is going to be okay.”

A needle pierces my arm, and in what seems like an instant, a soft blanket folds in around me, my vision seeping to nothing more than a pinpoint of light until blackness envelops even that.

And my crying stops.

♪

I RECOGNIZE THE smell, but I can’t place it. It is clipped to a memory that nudges at me without effect.

My eyes are closed. I can’t make myself open them. They are weighted with something too heavy for me to push aside. I hear voices, one abrupt and authoritative.

“Has anyone found an ID for her yet?” the voice asks. “She looks like she’s probably over eighteen, but we need to know next of kin.”

My brain processes the words with foggy edges. And then the source of the smell comes to me. My granny’s long stay in the hospital.

Hospital.

I’m in a hospital.

And next of kin. Why do they need to find my next of kin?

“Blood pressure’s dropping.” This voice belongs to a woman, and she sounds worried.

“What’s taking so long with the blood?” It’s the man’s voice again.

I hear and feel the snipping of scissors simultaneously and realize my clothes are being cut from my body. Heavy footsteps retreat from the room at a quick urgent pace.

The woman’s voice, lower this time. “I guess nothing should really be a surprise in this world anymore. But can you imagine? They were just shot down like-”

“I know,” another woman says, and I can tell she’s on the other side of me. I feel her take my hand and lace her fingers through mine. “My brother was at the concert. He called a few minutes ago to ask if we were getting the victims. He’s sixteen, and he couldn’t stop crying.”

“It’s insane,” the other woman says. “Case Phillips. I’ve been in love with him since I was sixteen. It sounds like he might not make it.” Her words break at the edges.

“Don’t you just feel fury at how senseless these things are? These people never did anything to deserve this, and one person destroying so many lives.”

They’re silent for a moment. “I don’t understand,” one of them says.

“There is no understanding. It’s just hate, and a person feeling like they’ve been cheated. I know I shouldn’t say it, but at least he’s dead.”

The heavy footsteps return, the pace conveying urgency. I hear motions around me but feel nothing. The women are no longer talking.

The man says, “They’re waiting for her in the O.R. Let’s get her up there stat.”

I try to make words come out of my mouth. To ask where the others are. Holden. Thomas. Beck. But the fog again descends. And I am gone.

♪

42

Holden

I’m in a field. The grass is the color of a spring pasture in Kentucky, a deep, almost blue-green. It picks up the hue of the cloudless sky above. I’m walking with purpose as if I know exactly where I’m going, but there’s nothing visible ahead except for the same rich grass reaching toward the horizon. I have no idea how long I walk, but it’s effortless. I’m aware that I’m watching myself and at the same time walking. Searching, but not with any kind of urgency, just a peaceful sort of expectation.

And then I see her, so far away that at first I think it might be my imagination. I walk faster. Closer now, I know that I’m right. I realize that the distance must be farther than I initially thought because it seems to take a very long time for the gap to begin to close between us. My legs feel heavy beneath the desire to run. It feels like I’m fighting gravity with every step, pushing through some unidentifiable force that I can’t see but know is there.

I feel infused with love for her. It’s as if my entire being was created with the intent that this love would be my life source. We’re close enough now that I can see its reflection in her eyes. I realize with a wash of happiness that she has been created in exactly the same way.

The distance between us dissolves, and we walk into each other’s arms. It’s as if I have just completed a lifelong journey to a point where I was supposed to be all along.

We don’t say anything. We don’t need to. She rests her cheek against my chest, and I feel the exhaustion leave her. I am her safe haven, and like a boat that’s been chased to shore by waves that should have overcome it, she anchors herself to me.

I vow that I will never let her know the threat of harm again.

She tilts her head back and looks up at me. We drink each other in. We can’t get enough of each other. I lean down and kiss her, aware in a way I have no explanation for that we won’t be apart again; that this is permanent, forever, the way it should be when you love someone with every cell, every breath and every thought.

I have no memory of what came before, of how we got here or why. I only know it’s where we both belong and that it’s time for us to continue toward the horizon.

I pull back and look down at her, my hand anchored through her long hair. She smiles at me, entwines her hand with mine, and we start to walk through the vast field, purposeful, peaceful. I don’t feel the passage of time, just this deep sense of contentment and rightness.

But then CeCe stops. I instantly feel the change in her and the peacefulness dissipates in an instant. She looks at me, her gaze regretful and pain-filled.

“What is it?” I ask.

“We have to go back.”

“Why? We’re already here.”

“We can’t leave him,” she says. “He’ll need us.”

I know suddenly that she means Thomas.

As soon as his name enters my thoughts, I’m flooded with the same fear I see in CeCe’s face. Selfishly, I want to tell her she’s wrong, that we have to stay. It’s too late. But I can’t because somehow I know she’s right.

I look down at our joined hands and feel the separation even as I will it not to happen. I’m torn between begging her not to go and an undeniable certainty that I have to go back as well.

In the very next instant, I feel as if a knife has been plunged through the middle of my heart. I’m in a room where everything appears to be made with stainless steel. I am on a bed of some sort. There are people all around me. They have on masks, and their hair is covered with light blue caps.

I hear a clink, like silverware dropping into a tin bowl.

“Good boy.” A man’s voice. “You’re back. That was way too close, son.”

I struggle to make sense of the statement and wonder if he’s even talking to me.

“All right,” the voice says. “We got him. Let’s not lose him again.”

I try to open my eyes to see who has said this, but they are too heavy, and I am too tired.

When oblivion returns, there is no blue-green pasture, and there is no CeCe.

♪

43

CeCe

“CeCe. CeCe. Honey, can you hear me?”

The voice is somewhere above me. I try to lift myself toward it. The voice is Mama’s, tears attached to each word. I know how much she needs me to answer her.

I want to. Focus as hard as I can to push a response from my brain to my lips.

She continues to call. I try to respond. I have no idea how long it takes, but I finally manage to separate my eyelids just far enough that a slit of light seeps in. I try to open them wider. I can’t describe how hard it is, like trying to swim upward through thick mud. It pulls at me, the suction nearly too powerful to resist.

But Mama keeps calling, and I keep trying to get to the surface, until finally I manage to open my eyes wide enough to see her. She’s standing directly over me, looking down into my face, her light blue eyes tear-filled.

“That’s it, honey,” she says. “Come on back to us.”

Her voice breaks. I stare up at her, trying to find words. Her tears trigger my own. They slide down my face. I can taste the salt on my lips.

Mama wipes them away with a tissue, paying no attention to her own. She sits down on the side of the bed, leans in closer and slides her arms up under me, pulling me up from the mattress to hug me hard. I feel her sobs, even though they are silent.

“I’m… sorry… Mama,” I say, forcing the words out bit by bit, alarmed by how much energy it takes to voice them.

“Oh, baby, you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m just so thankful that you’re–” She breaks off there, unable to finish, her crying eclipsing whatever else she had intended to say.

She holds me there against her for a long string of minutes, reluctant to let me go. But she finally eases me back against the pillow, pushing my hair away from my face in the same way she had when I was a little girl.

“You’re going to be okay, honey. It’s just going to take some time.”

It’s only then that I think to wonder what is wrong with me. I glance down at myself, see nothing unusual at first other than the thin hospital gown. I pat my chest and then my midsection and feel the bandages there.

“You were shot,” Mama explains, “in the abdomen.”

I feel the heavy tape wrapped around my torso and try to shift my body beneath it. Instantly, a pain stabs through me. I wince.

“Don’t try to do anymore,” Mama says.

The fog thickening my ability to think presses in on me, and I struggle to remember what it is that I need to know. It’s important, I know this much. I start to get frustrated, because the thought is at the tip of my reach, but I can’t quite get to it.

“Your friends,” Mama says, her voice ragged at the edges. “That’s what you want to know, I’m sure.”

Full awareness hits me then. It feels like running into a concrete wall. I am so filled with dread waiting for her response that I cannot make myself speak. I watch her struggle with the words, my heart pounding heavily against the wall of my chest.

“I know it’s not what you need to hear right now, but I can’t lie to you, baby. Holden, Thomas and Mr. Phillips, they’re still in critical condition.”

Even as I process this, I let myself feel a ray of hope. They aren’t dead. They are alive. Thank God, they are alive.

There’s something else though. I struggle to wrap my thoughts around it. The look on Mama’s face tells me there’s more, and then I remember she hasn’t said anything about Beck.

Her face crumples the moment she realizes I’ve noticed. Tears run down her cheeks, and she shakes her head a little saying, “I’m so sorry, honey. Your friend Beck, Mr. Phillips’s son, he didn’t make it.”

I hear what she says, except I’m detached from the words, as if I am again unconscious and have no way of knowing whether it is part of a terrible dream or, in truth, reality. I shake my head and manage to utter, “No. That can’t be. No.”

Mama takes my hand between the two of hers and squeezes it hard. “I’m so sorry.”

She starts to cry again then. I can’t look at her tears. Grief is an avalanche inside me. One move will trigger its release. I know in this moment I will never be able to survive its onslaught. I turn my head on the pillow and stare out the window of the hospital room. The sky is bright blue, the sun happy with its job today. I wonder how that can be, why the sky isn’t grey and the sun hidden from view?

Beck is gone. I can’t process it, can’t make sense of the three words clanging through my brain. It can’t be right. He’s only nineteen years old.

Maybe there’s been a mistake? Mama could have gotten it wrong. He’s probably in critical condition, the same as Holden and Thomas and Case. I don’t even realize that I’m shaking until Mama presses her hand against my face and says “CeCe, are you all right?”

I can’t answer her, my teeth are chattering so hard that I bite my tongue.

Mama pushes the nurse button, calling out in a panicky voice, “Could someone help us, please? Can you come now?”

It seems like only a blink before a nurse appears at the side of the bed. She takes one look at me. “Poor baby,” she says.

I’m not aware of her leaving until she returns. I feel the needle pierce my right arm. In a moment or two, oblivion rolls in from the edges of my grief, obliterating its rawness until it is a pinpoint at the center of me. I try to hang onto it, but it slips through my fingers. I drop straight down into nothingness.

♪

44

CeCe

The funeral takes place at the First Baptist Church in Nashville on an early winter day that will set temperature records at a high of seventy-six degrees.

It’s been twelve days since the shooting. I have gone against my doctor’s orders in attending. Even so, I’m surprised by my own weakness and grateful for Mama’s hand at my elbow as we walk through the doors.

I still don’t feel connected to myself, my perception and awareness of what is going on around me almost separate from my physical self. Maybe it’s just the pain medicine that I can’t do without.

Mama thinks it’s my body’s natural protection mechanism, my brain only allowing me to process what I can currently handle taking in. I guess I would have to agree with her, because I’m not capable of processing very much at all. Life still seems unreal, like something that could only have happened in a nightmare, and certainly this current piece of it.

My gaze falls across the casket at the front of the church, the large framed picture of Beck playing guitar sitting on an easel next to it.

The sanctuary is full, every pew filled with people shoulder-to-shoulder. There are a few seats left in the back. I let Mama lead me to the closest one. We sit down, me with the carefulness of someone four times my age. I notice then the piano and the song being played.

The music isn’t mournful. It’s one of Beck’s favorites, upbeat country, the kind of song he liked to drive to with the top down on his car.

Some of Case’s band members walk to the front, pick up guitars, and start to play along. It’s the music Beck would want. I know that, but it’s not successful at lessening the aura of tragedy lying thick and heavy over the sanctuary.

I don’t allow myself to look around, even though I feel gazes stray to me and snag in recognition. I don’t belong, and hurting Beck as I had is something I will forever wish I could take back.

Maybe I should have asked Case for permission to come today. He would have every right not to want me here. I didn’t ask because I was afraid he would say no, and honestly, I’m not sure if my need to be here is more for Beck or for myself.

I can’t seem to make sense of any of it, to begin accepting that it really happened. But the finality of that casket and the soft weeping going on around me make it an undeniable fact.

The weight of acceptance begins to settle into me, pushing down on my chest. I try to draw in air, shallow scoops of it, but it doesn’t seem to reach my lungs. I’m suddenly lightheaded, as if I’m going to pass out.

Mama takes my hand and laces her fingers through mine, squeezing gently. “Just close your eyes for a moment, honey. Take a deep breath.”

I do as she says because I’m desperate not to make a scene here where attention will be drawn to me.

John, Case’s drummer, walks down the center aisle and stops at the edge of the pew where Mama and I are sitting. He leans in and says in a low voice, “Case would like for y’all to come up front and sit with him if you would?”

I’m so surprised by the invitation that I panic a little, realizing I’ll have to face Case for the first time since the shooting. But just as quickly comes the awareness that I can’t say no.

Mama nods at me, stands, still holding my hand, and we follow John to the front where Case is sitting on the left side of the pew.

He looks up at me, and we both start to cry at the same time. He stands on shaky legs and hugs me hard. We cling to each other like shipwreck survivors to a lone flotation device. I can feel that we are actually clinging to the same things. Awareness of what has been lost, how it was taken, and complete bewilderment as to the fact we’re still here. I can feel his brokenness, too, as if his bones are only temporarily holding his body together.

Next to him, Lauren stands, kisses me on the cheek and helps Case back into his seat. He moves carefully, barely hiding his physical pain.

Mama and I sit down on the pew. I blink back an encroaching wave of dizziness, willing it away even as I wonder if I will inevitably succumb to it.

A white-haired man in a dark navy suit walks to the podium at the front. His face is heavy with the sorrow he makes no attempt to hide.

“Good morning,” he says. “I can’t pretend, dear friends, that I am anything other than heartbroken today. As are all of you, I know. I’ve known Beckley Phillips since the day he was born. His daddy, Case,” he nods in Case’s direction, “called me at five-thirty one morning to tell me Beck had made his entrance into this world. Case asked if I would come to the hospital then to meet the little fella. It wasn’t so much that he was so proud of his new son that he wanted to show him off, although there was that.”

This comment brings a slight smile to his face. “Case wanted me to pray with him over his new baby boy, to ask for God’s protection for Beck as well as wisdom for Case in knowing how to guide him through this often tangled and complicated world.”

He takes a visible moment to wrestle with his own emotions, before going on with, “And we did pray that morning, both of us. I expect there will be some of you today who wonder if God ever heard that prayer. As a fellow member of the human race, I understand why you would ask that question. Tragedy does this, you see, throws into question, throws into doubt everything we believe, every bit of faith we have for our purpose here and God’s love for us. I bet most of you could easily imagine Case coming to me with those questions over the past few days. But it might surprise you to know that I went to Case with those questions. I’m the one who asked him if he believes that God heard our prayers nineteen years ago, on the day Beckley Phillips was born. I’d like to tell you now what he said to me. And I have his permission to do so.”

People shift in their seats. The pastor looks down and takes another moment to collect himself before he goes on.

“Case said that because we’ve never seen what is beyond this world, we mourn the loss of a young life taken too soon. Or at least what we can determine to be too soon. But Case believes, you see, that one day, we’ll understand that the leaving from this world was a cause for celebration and joy for the person who has gone on ahead of us. That we’ve actually had it wrong all along, and if there’s anyone to feel sorry for, it would be for ourselves and those left behind. Because, you see, that’s where the true cause for mourning lies, in the fact that we no longer have the presence of someone we loved so dearly in our lives. And until our day comes to depart this world, we have to live with that. If you believe as Case believes, it would be selfish to wish our loved ones back here but understandably human to look forward to the day when we will see them again.”

He pauses then, looks down at the podium in front of him, his struggle for composure clear. Behind me, I hear soft sobbing.

“This morning, dear friends,” he goes on, “I am with Case in the hope that when God is done with me here on this earth, I will see Beckley Phillips once again in a place far better than this.”

The pastor tips his head at Case and steps down from the podium.

Case stands, visibly weak, and walks to the chair placed next to the casket. John brings his guitar to him and, with gentle kindness, helps place the strap over his shoulder. He hands him a pick and then goes back to his seat to sit down.

Case doesn’t look up. I somehow know that if he does, he will never make it through this. He keeps his eyes on the guitar strings, his voice low and emotion-filled when he says, “Beck started playing this guitar at five years old. It was nearly bigger than he was then, but he was determined to master it, and he did. This was his favorite hymn, and if y’all don’t mind, I’d like to sing it to him today.”

He strums the chords to Just as I Am, the words coming out a little unsteady at first, building courage as he goes on. And by the time he reaches the chorus, it’s as if he’s singing to Beck and Beck alone, no one else in the room, a father to a son he will miss until the day he dies.

Tears fall down my cheeks.

I don’t wipe them away.

♪

45

Holden

I hear the voices calling my name. I’m at the end of a long tunnel. Ahead, far, far ahead, I see a pinpoint of light.

I start toward it, but just as I do, the light moves away. I feel a weight press into my chest, like a concrete wall that has settled just above my rib cage. I realize the wall is frustration, me reaching out to the voices, trying to tell them I’m here, just behind the light. I can’t get close enough to make them hear me.

Now I hear CeCe crying. A soft broken sound that rips my heart in half. I need to get to her. I feel like I will choke on my own urgency, her torment coursing through me like the blood in my veins.

I struggle to get out from beneath the wall, but it’s useless. I’m too weak, my voice not loud enough to project that far. It’s like drowning, looking up to see the surface so close above you and yet not able to push yourself up high enough to break through.

I don’t have the strength left to fight the descent.

♪

46

CeCe

The graveside service is simple and final. The sun smiles brightly at the crowd of people huddled together on a Tennessee hillside.

The cemetery is a private family spot on Case’s two hundred fifty acre farm. It’s enclosed with white board fencing and an enormous oak stands at the center of the spot. It has to be at least a century old. I’m grateful for the canopy of shade it drapes across us.

Mama is holding onto my elbow. For a moment, I wish I had taken her advice and let her get the wheelchair she’d rented for me out of the trunk of the car.

The pastor’s words here are brief and heartfelt. Case is sitting on the front row of chairs, bent over with his elbows on his knees, his shoulders visibly shaking with grief.

There is no music here, just the soft whistle of wind through the nearby trees. A cow lows for its calf in the distance. Other than that, silence.

Family members stand and drop flower petals across the top of the casket, each person filing out of the tent until only Case is left. I notice that Lauren isn’t here with him. I don’t know what to make of that.

Case lifts his head, his gaze locked on the petal-strewn casket, tears streaming silently down his face. He stands then, using a cane to right himself.

Next to me, Mama draws in a quick breath that sounds more like a sob. I’m afraid to look at her because I can barely contain my own sorrow.

Case reaches down to scoop a handful of petals from the pot next to the coffin. He gently scatters them in among the others. They fall like silent rain.

I see his shoulders droop, and he starts to drop back onto the chair. Mama moves so quickly that it takes me a moment to realize she’s right there beside him, helping him to sit without falling.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Just lean on me.”

He looks at her then, and the grief in his eyes is more than any human being could possibly know how to bear.

Tears stream from Mama’s eyes as well, and she takes his hand and clasps it between her own like a rudder righting a ship on an ocean’s staggering waves of sorrow.

♪

I DON’T WANT TO go to the gathering at the house.

The thought of food still makes me feel sick, but even more, I can’t imagine winding my way through all of the guests who will be there. Forcing a smile to my face, a polite note to my voice. I can’t imagine smiling again or that the furnace of anger melting my very core can ever be snuffed out.

But Mama thinks I will regret it if I don’t go in. And since I’m too exhausted to put up much of a fight, I let her get the wheelchair out of the car. I sit down in it to the hope that it will lessen the number of times I actually have to meet eyes with the other people here today.

I see Nelda, the Phillips’s housekeeper standing at the entrance to the kitchen, her black dress formal in a way I’ve never seen her. She glances up, and as soon as her gaze falls across me, I hear the sob erupt from her chest.

She walks over to me, drops onto her knees and puts her arms around me. Her shoulders shake with the effort of trying to hold back the despair intent on breaking free from her. And I’m crying so hard that I can’t catch my breath. I feel like such an imposter here. All of these people loved Beck.

I cared for him, but I hurt him. If I could take back those last moments between us, if I could just reach through time and change the ending. . .

I can’t. And that is something I will have to live with.

I wonder if Nelda knows we had broken up. Would she be hugging me this way if she did?

“I am so sorry for what happened,” she says. “To all of you. It is so very wrong. . .such a waste.”

I nod, biting my lip.

“How are you?” she asks, brushing her hand across my cheek.

“I’m okay,” I say. But I’m not a good liar. I can see she doesn’t believe me.

“I have taken good care of your Hank Junior and Miss Patsy.”

“Thank you so much, Nelda. I’ve missed them.”

Case appears in the hallway, John at his elbow. “CeCe,” he says, “could I speak to you and your Mama for a moment?”

I’m surprised by the question, my stomach doing a jolt of dread. I nod. Nelda gets to her feet and strokes her hand across my hair. “If you need anything, sweetie, anything at all.”

“Thank you, Nelda,” I say.

“Nelda, why don’t you get Hank Junior for her? And Patsy, too. We’ll be in here,” he says, nodding at the open door of the closest room.

She says of course and walks toward the stairs at the end of the hall. Mama pushes my wheelchair into the room. John helps Case to a nearby chair.

“Call if you need me, Case,” he says and leaves, closing the door behind him.

My mind is doing a kaleidoscope of possible reasons for why Case would want to see us. I can’t blame him if he’s angry with me. I think in a way I’d almost welcome it.

He rubs the palms of his hands against the knees of his pants and looks at me with his sorrow-filled eyes. “I hardly know what to say to you, CeCe,” he begins.

I brace myself for what is to come. I deserve every word of it.

Mama squeezes my shoulder as if she knows what I’m feeling.

“I’m so sorry, CeCe,” Case says.

I glance quickly up at his face, shaking my head in confusion. “For what?” I ask, the words barely audible.

“For everything. For the horror of what happened there that night. I’ve tried so many times to imagine what could have been done to prevent it.”

“Case,” I say, “you’re not to blame.”

“Not directly, I know,” he says. “But you learn pretty early on in this business that there’s resentment and sometimes envy, I guess.”

“If anyone is to blame, it’s me,” I say, looking down at my hands. “There’s something I need to tell you.” I struggle to put my words in some kind of logical order. “The guy. Jared. He was at one of the shows earlier in the tour. Kind of harassing me. But Holden was there and basically put a stop to it. And I don’t know,” I say, starting to cry, “I should have told someone else what happened. If I had, maybe none of this-”

“CeCe,” Case says, raising a hand to stop me. “And what would the charge against him have been if you had reported him that first time? Probably nothing, and he would have done what he planned to do anyway. That’s the truth of it, hard as it is for any of us to accept. Almost for sure, there’s nothing that we could have done.” He stops there and looks off out the window.

From here, we can see the top of the tall broad oak tree sheltering Beck’s gravesite.

“I just wish,” he finally says, “that it had been me.”

“Oh, Case,” Mama says, quickly and urgently as if she can’t stop herself from objecting. “You can’t wish that.”

He looks at her then. Really looks at her. They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment before she adds, “Your son wouldn’t want that.”

“He wouldn’t, but I do.”

I have to tell him now. I can’t keep it inside me any longer. I need for him to know. I fully expect him to hate me. “There’s something I need to tell you, Case,” I say.

“What is it, honey?” he asks in his kind Southern voice. I wonder if that voice will ever again be free of the ragged edges of grief.

The words stick in my throat. I force them out one by one. “I. . .I broke up with Beck before the shooting.”

I sense his gaze on me, but I can’t make myself meet his eyes. I feel too awful, too horrible, and so I sit looking at my hands and waiting for him to rain down whatever ridicule I deserve.

“Aw, honey,” he says.

I jerk my gaze to his at the note of compassion in his voice. “I know about that.”

“You do?”

“CeCe. . .y’all are. . . .you are so young. And so was Beck,” he says, his name breaking off at the end. “Don’t let yourself feel guilty about things not working out between you. You and my son spent a lot of good time together. I think you made him want to live for some things that maybe he hadn’t been living for. You don’t need to waste any of your sadness worrying about me being angry at you for that.”

I bite my lower lip, trying to prevent the sob about to erupt from my throat. It does no good. I bend over with my arms anchored at my waist as a fresh wave of unbearable sadness flattens me.

My crying is not silent. I can’t make it so. I want it to stop, but it won’t.

Mama kneels down and wraps her arm around my shoulder, murmuring soothing words that I only wish could comfort.

Just then something warm and wet licks the side of my face. It’s my boy. Hank Junior.

He puts his head on my lap and whines a broken-hearted whine that tells me he’s had no idea where I’ve been or why I left him. His whole body shakes down to the tip of his tail. I lean over and hug him as tightly as I can, saying in his ear, “I will never leave you again.” And I mean it.

I hear the familiar plodding little footsteps and open my eyes to see Patsy wedge her way in next to Hank Junior. She wags her tail, looking up at me with her soft brown eyes. I can see she, too, has wondered where we’ve been. I reach out and rub her chin with the back of my hand, telling her how much I’ve missed them both.

Holden’s face comes to me so clearly then. I suddenly feel ashamed for not having the courage to go in and see him before leaving the hospital. I haven’t allowed myself to think of him, focusing only on getting through the trip home, the service today. I couldn’t face more than that, all of it like a mountain looming in front of me that I somehow had to find a way to climb.

But now, with Patsy in front of me, I let a little of my fear for Holden and Thomas in. It forms a crater in my stomach. I start to slip at its edges, barely able to prevent myself from tumbling in headfirst.

Mama reaches out and takes my hand, squeezing it hard. “We’ll go back as soon as you’re a little stronger,” she says, reading my thoughts.

I don’t know why I’m still surprised at her ability to know what I’m thinking. I nod once, not trusting myself to speak.

Mama looks at Case and says, “Thank you so much for taking care of these two. Letting them stay during the tour.”

“They were good company for Nelda.”

“Thank you, Case,” I say.

“You’re welcome, honey.”

“We should probably go,” Mama says. I barely recognize the note in her voice when she says to Case, “I hope you’ll take good care of yourself.”

He nods once, but I’m not convinced, and neither is Mama.

“Your son would want you, too,” she adds.

This registers with Case, and he gives her a deep, assessing look that doesn’t bother to hide his raw grief.

Mama walks over to him and puts her arms around him, hugging him with utter compassion. When she pulls back, I see the confusion in his face, and the moment when it fades to simple gratitude.

She wheels me to the door. “Just a moment,” I say, and she stops.

I look back at Case. “If you need us. . .for anything.”

He nods once.

We leave the room then. I wonder how he will ever survive the days ahead of him.

♪

AT THE FRONT of the house, Mama waits for a kind-eyed man to open the front door before she rolls my chair out onto the walkway. I’m protesting that I’m okay to walk to the car when I hear a familiar voice say my name.

I glance up. Macey Canterwood stares at me with naked accusation. She’s wearing a black dress that might as well have couture stamped across the front. Her hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, accentuating the anger in her expression.

“I’m surprised you’d have the nerve to come here today,” she says.

“Hello, Macey,” I say.

“But then if ex-girlfriends weren’t invited, I don’t guess I would be here either, would I?”

“We should go,” Mama starts. I raise a hand to stop her. I think some part of me wants it all out in the open, the fact that I had hurt Beck.

“The only difference being, of course,” Macey goes on, “that my exit from his life wasn’t voluntary. And if you hadn’t stepped into the picture, we might have gotten back together the way I had hoped we would.”

Tears well in my eyes, but I forbid them to fall. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, that hardly does any good now, does it?”

The last word breaks on a sob, and I feel sorry for her. It’s clear that she really did care about Beck.

“It’s time for us to go,” Mama says, wheeling me down the brick walkway.

“I have my own regrets to live with,” Macey calls out behind us. “But I’d sure hate to have to live with yours.”

♪

ON THE DRIVE into Nashville, I sit in the back seat with Hank Junior. Patsy is up front in the passenger seat next to Mama.

Hank has his chin planted so firmly on my lap that I don’t think he ever intends to move it just in case I decide to leave him again.

“He really missed you,” Mama says, glancing at me in the rear view mirror.

“I missed him, too,” I say, rubbing his soft ears.

Patsy whines, and Mama reaches over to give her head a reassuring pat.

We drive on in silence for a few minutes. I watch the Tennessee countryside rolling by outside my window, my thoughts stuck in neutral. I don’t want to think about the past. I can’t think about the future.

“You can’t dwell on anything that girl said, honey,” Mama says, her voice soft and compassionate. “She’s just lashing out in anger at a loss she didn’t expect.”

“But she’s right,” I say in little more than a whisper.

“About which part?” Mama asks in a way that tells me she’s prepared to reason this out with me.

“That I’ll have to live with doing something like that to him right before-”

“CeCe. You didn’t plan any of this. You’re not to blame for what that man did there that night.”

“I know.” And I do. My logical mind accepts this. But as for hurting Beck? I am to blame for that.

“I just wish I could take it back,” I say, not even sure I’ve spoken the words out loud.

“But what would that really mean? Don’t you think you owed him honesty?”

I nod once, looking down at Hank. He’s staring up at me with his liquid brown eyes. I lean over and kiss the top of his head. “Why can’t love be as simple as my love for Hank?”

“The love between a man and a woman is never simple,” she says. “It can be wonderful but never simple.”

I’d like to deny it, but I can’t.

We’ve just reached the city limits when Mama says, “If I’ve learned anything in my life, honey, it’s that we shouldn’t put ourselves in the position of having something to regret. If there’s something we need to act on, then we should. Otherwise, we’re going to have to live with the results of not doing so somewhere down the line.”

“I know what you’re doing, Mama.” I stare out the window to avoid meeting her gaze in the mirror.

“I’m trying to say the things you need to hear.”

“And make me feel better. I don’t want to feel better.”

“Because you think you should punish yourself?”

“Maybe.”

“And what would be the point of that?”

I don’t have a logical answer, so I continue staring out the window.

“All any of us can do is what’s right when we have the opportunity to do so.”

I look up then, meet her knowing gaze. “What do you mean?”

“Thomas and Holden. That you didn’t go see them before we left the hospital.”

I feel a physical pain at the sound of their names. “I wasn’t up to-”

“I know,” she says, kindness in her voice. “But you are leaving yourself open to another cause for regret if you don’t go see them.”

I try then to let myself think about the fact that either one of them, or both of them, could have died. An immediate black wall erects itself at the end of that thought, and I can’t get past it. Life without Holden and Thomas? That is an unimaginable place.

But then I think about Beck, and that is unimaginable as well.

It feels as if everything that has happened is still sitting on the surface of my comprehension, none of it really having seeped in yet. It’s like an enormous rainstorm that falls on sunbaked ground, the soil so dry and hard-packed that the water cannot penetrate. Instead, it begins to stream in whatever direction allows it to flow, flooding anything in its path. I guess that’s where I am right now. Drowning in everything I’m trying to process.

I put my mind back in its neutral place, not looking back and not looking forward. For now, this is all I can manage.

♪

THE CLOCK ON MY nightstand blares 3:12 A.M. The minute slot flips to three, and it’s now 3:13 A.M. It seems as if I’ve watched every minute change since I went to bed several hours ago.

Now that I’ve let them in, my thoughts refuse to move beyond fear for Holden and Thomas. I want to know how they are. I need to know how they are, but I am terrified to ask. What if the answer is something I’m not prepared to hear?

Hank shifts beside me, his back pressed up against my left side, his head resting on the pillow beside mine. He’s snoring softly. Patsy is curled up in a ball at the foot of the bed, her snores even louder than his.

I wrestle with my fears for another hour before reaching for my phone on the nightstand. I don’t let myself consider what time it is, not even daybreak yet. I just need to take advantage of this moment where I’ve worked up the courage to call him.

I tap the phone symbol on my screen. It rings twice before a woman answers the phone, her voice groggy and a little surprised. “Hello?”

“Hi. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time,” I say. “This is CeCe MacKenzie, Thomas’s friend.”

“Oh, CeCe. Of course, dear. This is Thomas’s mother, Ophelia.”

“Mrs. Franklin, I’m so sorry to be calling at this hour.”

“No, no,” she says. “Thomas has been so concerned about you.”

“How is he?” I ask.

“He’s out of the ICU. We’re so happy about that.”

“Thank goodness.”

“Yes. Would you like to speak with him?”

“I shouldn’t wake him up.”

“Let me,” Mrs. Franklin says. “I know it will do him good.”

I wait, hearing her say his name softly from the other end of the phone and feeling ridiculous that I called in the middle of the night when I could have waited or better yet already called before now.

I consider hanging up, but what kind of cowardly thing would that be to do? I hear a rustling sound and then, “CeCe?”

His voice is hoarse and a little disbelieving.

“Hey, Thomas,” I say. “How are you?”

He coughs once and says, “I reckon I’ve been better, but I’m still here. Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m all right.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m back home. In Nashville.”

“In Nashville?” He sounds confused. I can hear the pain medication in his voice.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, honey,” I hear Mrs. Franklin say.

“Okay, Mom,” he says.

We’re both quiet for a moment. He speaks first. “Mom hasn’t been willing to tell me too much since I started coming back around. She said Holden is still unconscious. Have you seen him?”

“No. I. . .I haven’t.”

He draws in a deep breath which I can hear through the phone. “What about the others?” he asks.

“Case is pretty messed up, but they say he’ll be okay with time.”

“The band? Beck?”

I can’t answer for several moments during which my heart pounds in my ears. “I. . .he didn’t make it, Thomas.”

“What?” The question is barely audible.

“That’s why I came back to Nashville. To go to the funeral.”

“No,” Thomas says. “That can’t possibly be.”

“They said he’d lost too much blood,” I say softly. “He died before they could get him to the hospital that night.” My voice breaks on the last word. A sob spills from me. I am suddenly crying full out as if I have not actually stopped since the last time this grief hit me.

“But he’s just nineteen years old.” And then Thomas is crying, too. It overwhelms him the same way it has me. “This isn’t right,” he says, the words broken and raw. “This isn’t right.”

“No,” I say. “It’s not.”

♪

47

Holden

I recognize the voice.

I know the voice is talking to me, but I can’t place who it belongs to.

“How long exactly are you planning on staying in this bed? And how many days am I gonna have to wheel this chair up to your room and ask you the same questions? Dying is not optional, so wake the heck up, Holden. You die, and I will personally kick your butt all the way to Heaven. By the time you get there, you’ll wish you’d never checked out of this hard as a board hospital bed.”

The name that goes with the voice surfaces then. Thomas. I try to open my eyes, but they feel so heavy. It’s tempting to give in again, as I have the other times I felt the pull toward coming fully awake.

He’s still talking when I finally manage to push my lids open far enough to see him. He’s sitting in a chair at the side of the bed. He’s probably lost twenty pounds.

“You’re wearing pajamas,” I say, my voice low and hoarse.

Thomas jerks his gaze from the window, staring at me as if he’s sure he’d imagined my speaking. He shakes his head and then, “Beats the heck out of that sissy nightgown you’re wearin’. Wait ‘til you get up and go to the bathroom. I’ve decided the budget cuts around here must not have included fabric for the backside.”

I feel myself start to smile, but then I remember why I’m here, why he’s here. Everything comes crashing in, and my smile dissolves. My thoughts freeze altogether because I don’t know which one to let in first.

Thomas reaches over and takes my hand, “You made it, buddy. I sure am glad.”

We look at each other for several long moments. I see him processing what I’m processing. Tears start to leak from the corners of his eyes. He wipes them away. “For a while there you had me thinking you weren’t going to.”

I’ve never seen Thomas come even close to crying, and the sight of it shakes me. “What day is it?” I ask.

“Today’s Friday. You’ve been this way for two weeks.”

At first I can’t make sense of that. “Like what?” I ask.

“In a coma. They couldn’t tell us if you were ever going to wake up.”

I raise a hand to the bandages on my chest. My thoughts don’t seem to be in any particular order. I try to place what happened to put me here, to put Thomas here, but it’s just out of reach.

“You don’t remember, do you?” Thomas says.

“I’m not sure.”

“Maybe I oughta let the doctors talk to you first.” Thomas rolls the chair toward the door of the room. “They’ve been waiting for you to wake up. I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Thomas, wait,” I call out, my throat parched and dry.

But he’s gone, and I try to force my thoughts into some kind of order, but they’re slippery and hard to grasp.

He wheels back in, a pretty woman in a white coat right behind him. She stops at the side of the bed, looking at me with a pleased smile.

“You’re back,” she says. “We’re so happy to see it. How do you feel?”

I touch my temples. “Fairly bad headache,” I say.

“That’s to be expected.”

“What. . .why am I here?”

“Do you remember anything about what happened?” she asks, her voice soft.

I grapple for the answer, but it remains just out of reach.

“There was a shooting,” she says. “You were shot. I’ll be honest, you’re very lucky to be here at all.”

I glance at Thomas and see that he agrees with her. I notice his bandages again, and it occurs to me that I haven’t asked what happened to him.

“Were you shot, too?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Where were we?”

“It was after the concert at Case’s party.”

“Just you and me?” I ask.

Thomas is silent for a moment and then shakes his head.

“Who else?”

The doctor takes a step back and says, “I’ll let you two talk for a couple of minutes. I’ll be back with the other doctors involved in your care. We’d like to check you out, okay?”

I nod and say thank you, before looking back at Thomas, waiting for him to answer.

“Case and Beck,” he says quietly.

“Are they okay?”

“Case should be all right.”

I wait for him to include Beck in the statement, but he doesn’t.

“What about Beck?”

Thomas glances out the window, his grip on the arms of the wheelchair tightening until his knuckles are white.

“He didn’t make it, Holden.”

I try hard to process what he just said, but it won’t compute. How could that be? It doesn’t make any sense. Beck, dead? No sooner have the words made their way through my consciousness than her name races in right behind them. “CeCe.” I say, fear instantly flooding through me.

“She’s okay,” he says.

The relief hits me so hard that I go weak beneath its weight. I want to ask him where she is, why she’s not here. I can’t. My head is pounding. I close my eyes tight to block out the pain.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until I look at Thomas’s face and see that he is as well.

“It’s gonna be all right, man,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder and squeezing hard.

I hear the raw edges in his voice, and I know that he’s not sure whether there’s any truth at all to what he has just said.

♪

48

CeCe

For the next five days, I don’t get out of bed except when Mama runs me a hot bath at night and insists that I get in.

She waits in my room just outside the bathroom door as if she’s afraid I might do something unexpected. Fall or maybe hurt myself intentionally. She brings me food on a tray at regularly spaced intervals, refusing to let me get away with not eating at least something that’s on the plate.

But I have no desire to eat. All I want is to sleep.

Sleep is the only thing that lets me block out all the stuff I don’t want to think about. Can’t bring myself to think about. The dull ache in my left shoulder that never ceases its throbbing. The image of Case at Beck’s graveside, a man broken as I have never before seen one broken.

But the one looming thing that prevents me from getting out of bed is terror.

It feels as if my bones have been infused with it. Even the thought of leaving this apartment makes my heart start to race in my chest.

I feel the adrenaline surge of fear light through me like flame to gasoline.

There’s this new awareness in me now that I’ve never felt. Before the shooting, I had read about, heard about catastrophic things happening to other people. But that was to other people. Those tragedies didn’t happen in my own life. Or to anyone I loved.

You always hear people say how life can change in an instant. Go from safe and secure to something not even recognizable as the world you’ve been living in.

In my dreams, I see Jared’s eyes and the cold blankness of them. He’s become a machine that does not recognize or process human emotion. He’s pointing the gun at me. I watch him pull the trigger with a total lack of ability to stop him. I feel myself falling over and over again, a movie loop on repeat. And every time I hit the ground, I hear the gunfire in another direction, knowing I’m not the only one going down. Holden. Thomas. Beck. Case.

When I’m awake, I find myself thinking of things I’ve only seen in the news. The Twin Towers and the moment it became clear they were going to fall.

At the time it happened, Mama hadn’t let me watch footage of it on TV. She said those weren’t images a little girl should have in her head. When I was older in high school, I read a book called Tower Stories. I wanted to learn exactly what had happened that day.

The book described the regular, normal lives of some of the people who were in the buildings. How they’d gone to work the way they always did and within minutes of getting there, found themselves facing something beyond the worst nightmare anyone could even begin to imagine.

A plane crashing into a building. Fire and smoke everywhere. Desperate, resigned people jumping from the skyscraper to certain death below. A fate they saw as preferable to burning alive.

And then there were those who missed the train that morning. Woke up sick. For whatever reason, varied from their typical day of going to work in those buildings.

They had been spared.

They must wonder why.

Like I wonder why I’ve been spared. Why Beck was taken and not me.

The people who made it out of the building or who didn’t arrive there at all that day. How did they see their lives from that point on? How could they ever look at it the same? How can I?

I have no idea how to answer this question.

In order to do so, I will have to look beyond where I am right now. Locked in my apartment, refusing to face anything outside that door.

I honestly don’t know whether I can do that or not.

♪

I’VE LOST TRACK of the number of days since I left my bedroom. The afternoon sun is streaming through the slats in my blinds when I hear a knock at the door. The knob turns before I respond with, “Come in.”

I open my eyes. Thomas stands in the doorway, leaning heavily on the cane in his right hand.

“Hey,” he says, “I hear you like it so much in here you’ve decided you’re never going to leave.”

For a second, I freeze at the sight of him. But then everything inside me begins to melt. The tears I haven’t cried in so many days are suddenly there again, pouring from me because I’m so grateful to see him. His eyes tell me he’s struggling with all the same things I’m struggling with.

He hobbles to the side of the bed and kind of collapses next to me, dropping the cane onto the floor. Hank Junior is stretched out at the foot of the bed. He raises his head, thumps his tail hard once at Thomas and then returns to his nap.

Thomas and I study each other for several moments. He reaches out, slides his arms under mine and lifts me up against him, hugging me with such love and relief that I just melt into him, needing to absorb his quiet strength. And then I realize that we’re both crying, silent shaking sobs that reveal the grief still so raw and real.

“Hell and back, right?” he says against my ear.

“I don’t think I’ve made it to the back quite yet,” I say, my cheek pressed against his chest.

He leans away, looking down at me with fierce determination in his eyes. “We’ll get there, all of us, because there is one thing for damn sure.”

“What’s that?” I ask softly.

He pushes my hair away from my face and says, “Bad guys don’t win for good.”

♪

49

Holden

I’ve been in the hospital for almost five weeks.

Time has pretty much stopped having any kind of meaning here. The hospital is alive around the clock, so that there’s no true finite line between day and night.

Sarah came to see me the day after I woke up from the coma. She sat by the side of the bed, held my hand and cried for me. We talked for a long time, about her life and the guy she had just agreed to marry. I felt happy for her, really happy because she deserves someone who will love her the way I should have loved her.

My dad has been here at the hospital most of the time. I have to admit, this surprised me. I can’t remember another time in my life when he’s been away from his work for this long. Everything that’s happened has changed him in ways neither one of us would ever have expected.

Lying here in this room, I’ve had a lot of time to think. Too much time. One of the things I’ve wondered most about is why it so often seems to take a catastrophic event for us humans to see things as they really are. As for my dad, it’s as if a bomb went off and blew aside most of the things he’s placed importance on all my life. What’s left, he sees clearly for the first time, and his guilt is like a visible noose around his neck. I don’t want him to feel guilty though. If I’ve realized anything in these past weeks, it’s how little time there is in this life for regret.

I’m being released today. Dad offered to rent a car and drive me back to Nashville. But I told him Thomas wanted to pick me up. I think we were both a little relieved at this. To spend that many hours trying to find things to talk about sounds exhausting to me right now. With Thomas, I know I won’t have to talk just to fill up the silence.

Dad’s flight isn’t until the afternoon, and so he waits with me in my room for Thomas to arrive.

A nurse helps me get dressed, and I’m sitting on the edge of the bed waiting when Thomas appears in the doorway.

“Hey,” he says. “’Bout time you got out of bed.”

“’Bout time you got here. You bring the mule and wagon or something?”

Thomas smiles and shakes his head. “She’s not as fast as she used to be.”

My dad stands to shake Thomas’s hand. “How you doing, son?” he asks.

“A lot better, sir, thank you.”

“You look good.”

“I can’t complain.” Thomas looks at me and says, “How’re you doing?”

“Ready to leave this place.”

The nurse walks back in and says, “Everything’s taken care of. This is your ride, I assume?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“All right, then. We’re going to miss you around here.”

“I think I’ve outstayed my welcome and then some.”

“Never. But I know you’ll be glad to get back to regular life.”

I nod even as I wonder if there will ever again be such a thing.

“I’ll be wheeling you down to the front entrance of the hospital,” she says and then directing at Thomas, “Would you like to meet us there, young man?”

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll take the shortcut to the parking garage and meet you down there. Nice to see you, Mr. Ashford. You have a safe trip back to Atlanta.”

“Thank you for coming, Thomas. I appreciate it.”

“Sure thing,” he says.

Dad doesn’t bother to hide the worry in his eyes. “You’ll be all right, son?”

“Yeah,” I say, “Thank you for being here. For everything.”

He reaches out and shakes my hand, squeezes my shoulder. “We’ll be talking, okay?”

I nod and watch him leave the room. I believe we really will.

♪

I’M WAITING AT THE front entrance with the nurse who’s doing her best to assure me that someday not too far from now all of this will just be a bad dream. I don’t know how to tell her I can’t imagine that day ever coming, so I simply nod and try for a smile. Thomas drives toward us from the far end of the parking lot. It’s not until he’s rounding the curve under the hospital portico that I see who’s in the front seat with him. Her name slams into my chest like a train into something unfortunate enough to be caught in the middle of the tracks. It literally knocks the wind from me. I have to remind myself to breathe deep and even.

“Are you all right?” the nurse asks, noticing.

“Yeah,” I say, “I’m fine.”

CeCe is staring straight ahead, not yet having let her gaze fall across me. I, on the other hand, cannot take my eyes off her. Her face alone tells me she’s lost a significant amount of weight. Her eyes have that hollowed out look beneath, like someone who isn’t able to sleep.

Thomas stops the truck, leaves the engine running, gets out and walks around. I try to stand, but feel the weakness in my knees when they refuse to do as I am trying to make them do.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Thomas says, taking my elbow and helping me regain my balance.

“Thanks,” I say, even as I hate my own weakness.

Thomas opens the passenger door. CeCe slides to the middle. He helps me in. I thank the nurse.

“You take good care now, you hear?” she says.

I nod and close the door.

As soon as it shuts, I breathe in the subtle scent of CeCe, some kind of clean, minty shampoo that makes me remember pressing my face into her hair and drawing in the smell I associate only with her.

We’re both looking straight ahead, keeping our shoulders tilted just enough that we don’t touch. I feel the change in her, the wall that might as well be positioned in between us right now. I know the reasons for it. I can imagine every single one she has thought about and blamed herself for and felt guilty over, and I get it.

I’ve felt so much guilt myself over Beck and what had happened. I knew to expect these changes in her. Thomas warned me, but even if he hadn’t, the fact that we haven’t spoken once since that nightmare night tells me everything I need to know. She’s shut me out and, knowing CeCe as I do, I doubt that she’ll ever let me back in.

♪

WE’RE A FEW MILES down the highway when Thomas looks over and says, “So how long are you two planning on ignoring each other?”

I glance across at him, more an excuse to capture CeCe in my line of vision than to actually acknowledge what he’s said, but nonetheless I’m compelled to answer.

“How are you, CeCe?” I ask. My voice doesn’t even sound like my voice. My question has the neutrality of someone who is fairly indifferent to the answer, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“I’m okay,” she says, not directly meeting my eyes. “How are you?”

“Better,” I say, although I instantly ask myself, as compared to what?

She looks down at her hands and says, “I’m sorry I haven’t–”

“It’s okay.” I cut her off because I don’t think I want to hear her try to rationalize her unwillingness to speak to me or see me since all of this happened.

I already know the why. For her to say it will only prove that I’ve been right all along, that what happened between us that last day in D.C. might as well never have happened. All of its meaning, all of its hopefulness and rightness disappeared that night beneath the flood waters of another human being’s hatred.

“Since you two obviously aren’t going to get past initial pleasantries,” Thomas says, breaking the silence, “here’s how I see it. We’re never gonna be the same, none of us. All three of us probably should have died that night. We didn’t, and I don’t know why. I don’t reckon there’s anybody on earth other than Case and the folks who were there that night who understands what that lunatic permanently did to us. If we’ve ever needed each other, I suspect we’re going to even more now. So if we’re not the same, then I’m thinking we oughta be something even better. That’s my plan anyway. I need you both to realize that I’m here for you, just like you’ll be there for me. And I hope you’re going to be there for each other.”

He looks out the window for a second. I somehow know none of this has been easy for him to say.

“We’ve been given a chance to write a new chapter. I’m not going to give that asshole the satisfaction of taking anything beyond what he’s already taken. Ya’ll in or what?”

I turn my head, meet eyes with Thomas. He’s everything I could ever imagine a brother being. I realize how lucky I am to have him as my best friend. I nod once. It’s only then that I let myself look full on at CeCe. Her face is wet with tears, and I’m nearly bent double with the desire to pull her into my arms and give her the comfort she needs.

I’m going to have to wait for her to ask me. That day may never come. There’s no way to know. But unlike the last time the three of us sat in this truck headed west to the city of our dreams, we have a few more knowns in front of us. And, like Thomas said, we’ve got each other. Regardless of what else lies ahead of us, that’s something. Really something.

♪

50

CeCe

Holden’s arrival in Nashville unleashes a storm of media interest in the three of us. Mama had told me over these past weeks about the coverage on Beck’s death and its devastating effect on Case. I hadn’t read any of it, knowing that every word would be like a refresh button to renew the pain bouncing around inside me.

But the morning after we get back from D.C., the knocks at our door start before seven o’clock. I hear Thomas mutter his way down the hall, open the front door and then shut it again to a string of disbelieving cuss words. No sooner has he slammed the door than my cell phone rings. I pick it up from the nightstand, glancing at the number. It’s Rhys, Case’s manager. I consider not answering it, but then a pang of fear for Case and that something might have happened to him, makes me.

“CeCe,” Rhys says, “sorry to be calling so early. How are you?”

“I’m all right,” I say.

“Look, I’ll just be up front. Case is mad as fire about this, but the phones have been ringing off the hook over at the label with requests for interviews with you guys. And now that Holden is back in Nashville, I’d like y’all to do a few.”

“What?” I ask, not sure I heard him correctly.

“Interviews,” he says, his voice not without compassion. “About what happened.”

“But that’s impossible,” I say.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” he says. “But the label is taking the stance that this event happened while you were on tour and fans want a glimpse of it from your point of view.”

The words release an instant balloon of anger inside me. For several moments, I cannot speak past it.

“Rhys, I don’t want to talk about it in public, and I’m pretty sure that Thomas and Holden don’t either.”

Silence takes up the space between us until he says, “Here are the cold hard facts, CeCe.” His voice is low and regretful. “There’s a clause in the contract you signed that says you understand that media interviews are a part of promoting the tour as well as your band and that you agree to support the experience with media exposure.”

I remember skimming through the clause and not thinking any more of it than what it appeared at face value, willingness to help promote it through normal channels of media exposure.

“But this is different,” I say, outrage bubbling up. “This is using something horrible to profit, and I don’t want any part of that.”

“I know that’s what it feels like, CeCe, and from your point of view, I understand. From theirs, the tour was an investment, and this is just a continuation of that.”

“What does Case say?”

“He said to tell you to do it, CeCe. The label has already checked everything out with their legal guys. They have the right to request this of you. You don’t want to take that on.”

“So you’re telling me that we have to go outside and talk to these people who are currently banging on our door?”

“No,” he says. “That you ignore. If we need to send over security, we will. The interviews will be arranged and the label will decide which networks get you first.”

“Get us first,” I repeat.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys says, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t mean it like that, CeCe, it’s early for me, too. I know this is awful. It’s not what any of us would ask of you, but my advice is just to get it over with so you can all move on.”

“And if we decline?”

“Then I’m afraid you’re going to have a lawsuit on your hands. A very big one.”

♪

THE NEXT MORNING at five-thirty a.m. a car service picks the three of us up to drive us to the first of the four interviews we will be doing to live up to our contractual obligations.

We don’t talk during the ride there, we don’t even meet eyes, and for the next few hours we simply operate on autopilot, answering the questions that are asked of us. Making predictions about how this will affect us in the future. Agreeing about the extent of the tragedy. And the interviewers are sympathetic. I realize they’re just doing their job, but even so, when it’s all said and done, and we’re back in the car headed home, I feel as if I have been pried open and autopsied alive.

♪

51

Holden

The next few months pass in a blur of days spent trying to write and nights in a battle with sleep that mostly won’t come.

Like the media clause in the contract with the label, we had also agreed to produce a record following the tour should the label deem it a successful enough venture to warrant one.

We drag our feet to delay going into the studios and work on a record that none of us wants to make.

We use the excuse that we’re working on new material, but for eight weeks, I don’t write a single word. I sit with my guitar perched on my knee and my pad and pencil on the stool beside me. Not one word comes during the whole of that time. I don’t feel any sense of frustration about it, just an emptiness where the well of creativity inside me used to be. I have no idea if this will ever change or if it’s gone for good.

It’s been weeks since Thomas last asked me how it’s going. I’m sitting on the sofa one afternoon, Hank Junior and Patsy napping next to me when Thomas walks in the room and drops into the chair across from us.

“Got anything you want to play me?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I say.

“The label gave us three months to recover,” he says. “Their words, not mine. How are we going to go into the studio in a couple of weeks if we don’t have any material?”

“I don’t know.”

“We could look at songs from other writers,” Thomas says. “That would take some of the pressure off.”

I glance at him, concern evident in his eyes. “Is that what you want to do?”

“No, but you shouldn’t be forced to write until you’re ready to write.”

I stand my guitar against the arm of the couch, drop my head back, running my hands over my face. Patsy scoots over and puts her chin on my leg. I rub her ears saying, “Man, I don’t know why I can’t. I want to.”

“The fact that you can’t means you’re not ready to.”

“So he gets to take that away from me, too?” I say angrily.

Thomas starts to say something, looks off and then back at me. “She’s going to forgive herself at some point.”

He doesn’t need to say her name for me to know he’s talking about CeCe. “I don’t think so. We live in the same place, but we’re basically strangers passing each other in the hallway without meeting eyes. Most of the time she’s not even here.”

“She’s been doing a ton of demos,” Thomas says. “I think anything to fill the hours between when she gets up and when it’s time to go to bed. She’s also going out to check on Case a few times a week.”

“How’s he doing?” I ask.

“Sounds like he might be drinking again.”

I hate to hear that. I do. It’s not a secret that alcohol once had a pretty grim hold on Case when he first started to make it in the music business.

“You know what I see?” Thomas says.

“What?”

“We’re all just treading water, keeping our head above the surface to get through to the next day. And you know what that means?” I say nothing, but he goes on anyway. “It means he wins. It means that he pulled off exactly what he set out to do. Pulling everybody else down into the lake of misery he’d been swimming around in, feeling sorry for himself about all the crap the world had thrown at him.”

Thomas’s eyes flicker fire. I look away from it.

“That just really pisses me off. I don’t think we should hand that to him on a silver plate tied up in a big red bow. But we pretty much are, all three of us, and Case, obviously. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t even imagine the extent of his grief, and I know he must blame himself. He almost took our lives that night. Almost. Should we just go on and concede defeat? I know you, Holden, and everything that’s happened is going to give you something big to say. You just have to let yourself believe that’s okay.”

I want to argue with him, tell him he’s wrong, but the thing about Thomas is, he has a way of seeing through to the truth of things, even when it’s hard to say and especially when it’s hard to hear.

I pick up the guitar, put it across my lap, pick out a few chords. “You got any ideas?” I ask without looking at him.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. It’s something I said to CeCe when I first got back from the hospital. Might make a good hook.”

“What is it?”

“Bad guys don’t win for good.”

I think about the words, pluck at the guitar for a couple of minutes and then offer, “Go stand where we once stood.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow and nods, “Yeah?”

I sound out a rhythm for the words, test out some chords. Another phrase comes to me, “Fill the fears.”

Thomas immediately says, “Cry the tears.”

And that’s what we do for the next three hours. Try a line, cast it aside; try another and decide it’s a keeper. By that evening we have a song. Thomas sings it like it’s a song that needs to be heard. I guess maybe it is.

I remember it’s true what they say about music; it consoles, it heals. And by the time we’ve recorded a rough demo on my laptop, I can actually feel its beginnings in me.

♪

52

CeCe

Three weeks later

It’s after eleven when I let myself in the apartment door. I hear Hank Junior hop off the couch even as I’m turning the key in the lock. He’s there to greet me, tail wagging hard.

“Hey.” I keep my voice low in an effort not to wake up Holden and Thomas if they’ve already gone to bed. “Shh, come on boy.” I pat my leg for him to follow me to the kitchen.

But I stop short at the sight of Holden sitting in a living room chair.

“Hi,” I say, startled.

“Hey,” he says. “How’d the demo session go?”

I shrug. “Long, but good songs. I think I’ll head on to bed. I’m pretty tired.”

“Could we talk for a minute, CeCe?”

My stomach drops with the question. It’s been months since we’ve talked alone, been alone. “Now’s not a good time, Holden.”

He looks up at me, anger flashing across his face. “When will it be a good time, CeCe? You don’t look at me, much less talk to me. I know you have your reasons, and I’m not questioning them. We’ve each had to do what we had to do to get through this. Cutting you out of my life wouldn’t have been my method, but it’s yours, so I’m respecting that. I guess I’m wondering though how we’re going to pull off the first recording session for the album tomorrow.”

I shake my head and keep my expression neutral. “We just each do our thing,” I say.

“It doesn’t work that way,” he disagrees. “Our practice sessions over the last couple of weeks don’t sound anything like we used to sound. Why go into the studio if we don’t sound like we’re all part of the same whole?”

I drop my backpack onto the floor, its contents making a harsh jangling sound. “Are we?” I ask.

“Are we what?”

“Part of the same whole.”

“Can I be honest here?” he asks, frustration clouding his face.

I nod once, biting my lip, knowing somehow that I need to hear what he’s about to say, but I don’t want to.

“I think Thomas and I are on the same page, CeCe, part of the same whole. It’s pretty clear that you’re not. Is this something you still want to do? Make music with us?”

It’s a fair question. I can’t deny it. And one I haven’t let myself exactly face these past months. I walk over to the couch and sink down onto the cushions.

“What do you want me to say, Holden?” I hear the edge of anger in my voice. It’s unfair, but it’s there, and as much as I try to deny it, it won’t go away. Some days I wonder if it will actually swallow me whole.

He looks at me for a long time before he finally says, “Do you really think the two of us loving each other caused what happened that night?”

The question is threaded together with hurt. I’ve been so consumed with everything going on in my own head that I’ve given little to no thought to what Holden must be thinking or feeling. The selfishness of this startles me now. It’s not the way I once thought of myself, as someone capable of this, but then I’m not sure I’m the same person I was before the shooting. I don’t know if I will ever be that person again.

“I don’t think we caused it,” I say carefully. “But everything I said to you, everything I felt for you. . .now it just feels. . .tainted.”

Holden visibly flinches, my words like a physical slap to his face. I’d like to take them back just to spare him the hurt, but it’s taken months to get to this point of truthfulness. It would be cowardly for me to back away now.

“That’s not what I was expecting you to say,” he says.

“What were you expecting?”

He shakes his head. “That you need time. That there’s still a chance for us.”

“I don’t even know who I am anymore.” I look down at my hands. “I wake up every morning and tell myself it’s okay for me to be here, but is it? Is it really? And what should I do to be deserving of it? It feels like my life is just this big field of land mines, and I’m trying to figure out how to weave my way through without stepping on one, without causing a blast that’s going to blow up everything around me.”

“I know,” Holden says softly. “I don’t think we’re supposed to live that way though.”

“A lot of things aren’t supposed to happen.” I hear the anger in my words. “But they do. I feel like I was so naïve before, making my plans, following my heart, like it was all going to end up in some pink bow happily ever after. We were part of that, but there is no happily ever after.”

Holden leans forward, elbows on his knees. “There’s good in this world, CeCe, and there’s bad. What we saw that night was the very worst part of a human being, one who’s given in to hatred and envy and resentment. Somebody who’s let all of that take the place of hope and forgiveness. I guess that’s pretty much what any of us can be reduced to if we let the punches life throws out take us down for good. But somehow we have to find a way to get back up again, to duck the next swing, and even if we take another one on the chin, keep standing, keep fighting.”

I don’t even realize I’m crying until Holden gets up and walks over to the chair where I’m sitting. He takes my hand and laces his fingers through mine. Even though I don’t want it to, it feels like a lifeline. The first I’ve felt since that nightmare night.

My grip tightens into his of its own accord. He stares into my eyes, making no pretense of hiding what he’s feeling: sorrow, regret, yearning and sympathy. I make an effort to hide what I’m feeling, to keep from my own eyes all of those same emotions.

I see that I’ve failed when he stands up, and without letting go of my hand, pulls me up in front of him. He says my name the way I’ve heard him say it in my dreams all these months that we’ve been apart. A song I associate only with my feelings for him. I let it play through me, feeling every note deep in the center of my heart.

I try my hardest to keep the wall around me in place. But when it starts to crumble, there’s absolutely nothing I can do to stop its fall. I guess he knows it’s happening even as I do because he’s right there to catch me. I all but collapse into him, a soft cry of defeat slipping from my throat. Holden gathers me up and into him, as if I am some rare, precious find that he thought lost to him forever.

He strokes my hair with one hand and says, “Shh, baby, don’t cry.”

I don’t know how to stop. It seems as if this is all I do when I’m alone. It’s only in staying busy, putting myself in a room of people involved in normal everyday things like recording demos that I function in a way that even remotely resembles normal.

It feels so good though to stop pretending, stop trying to act like I’m on the road to putting it all behind me because here in Holden’s arms I realize how far from that I am. I want to melt into him, lose myself in the comfort I feel here.

He leans back, brushes his hand across my cheek. I look up at him and, although the light in the room is dim at best, I see that his love for me still exists. It’s there in his eyes like the shine of a star I thought too far away to actually see.

“CeCe,” he says, “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” I say, and with the release of the words, I feel the impact of their truth and how utterly lonely I’ve felt. Even though we’ve been living in the same apartment, we might as well have been hundreds of miles apart. That’s no one’s fault but my own.

He runs his hand through my hair and anchors it at the back of my neck, his thumb making a soft circle of comfort. “What can I do?” he asks. “How can I help?”

I shake my head. “How do I answer that when I don’t even know what’s wrong with me? I get up every day thinking this will be the day when I’m my old self again, when I want to do the things I used to do, that maybe I’ll actually laugh at something. And then it doesn’t happen. I go to bed thinking okay, maybe tomorrow. I’ll feel better tomorrow. Life will seem normal again tomorrow. But it never does.”

“Maybe you’re asking too much of yourself too soon,” he says. “CeCe, we were all victims and, I don’t know, I’ve done a little reading about things like this and ways to put it behind you to a point where it’s okay to let yourself feel safe again.”

“I don’t feel safe,” I say quickly. “And I don’t think I ever will. Do you?” I add.

He looks off somewhere behind me, and it’s several moments before he answers.

“I’ve been having some crazy dreams, stuff that doesn’t really make sense once I wake up and try to figure out what it was all about. My heart is racing. I’m sweating as if I’ve just run ten miles. I guess that’s my subconscious telling me that I haven’t totally put it behind me, but maybe that’s how my brain is trying to process it. I don’t know.”

“If Thomas is having trouble dealing with it,” I say, “he won’t admit as much to me.”

“Each of us is different,” Holden says. “People have to come to terms with things in different ways.”

He slowly pulls me back to him and wraps me up in his arms again. I close my eyes and breathe in his scent. It feels so good to be held like this by him. I wish that we never had to move past this thought, this moment, that we could simply infuse each other with love and caring until we were both completely strong again, no nightmares, no panic attacks, no sadness.

When he pulls away to look down at me, I know he’s going to kiss me. I want him to with every cell in my body. My need for him is as basic and elemental as the need for food, air, water.

I don’t stop him, and his kiss has forgotten none of its hunger. It’s a powerful thing, the knowledge that I have in me the ability to feed that hunger, but then he is the only one who can do the same for me. I will myself to shut off the nagging fear in my mind and simply become lost in everything Holden makes me feel. I just want to remember what this felt like when I didn’t see it through the lens of guilt, and it was just so clear to me that we had been lucky enough to find something special in each other.

I loop my hands around his neck and take what he is giving. I undo the first three buttons of his shirt and slip my hands inside, just to feel the warmth of his skin. It seeps through my palms, up my arms and along my shoulders to drop down into the core of me.

“CeCe,” he says. “Dear God, I have missed you so much.”

“And I’ve missed you,” I say.

He pulls my t-shirt from the back of my jeans and slides his hands around my waist. We kiss until I can’t think for wanting him. He drops onto one knee and lifts the side of my shirt, his gaze finding the three-inch scar just above my belt. He stares at it and then leans in and presses his lips to it with gentle care. I clasp the back of his head with my hand and wonder why I haven’t allowed myself the comfort only he can give me.

We stay like this for a long time, absorbing one another.

When he stands, he looks down into my eyes and rubs his thumb across my cheek. He leans in and kisses me as if I am priceless to him. I finish unbuttoning his shirt and start to slide it from his shoulders when Hank Junior whines, jumps down off the couch and trots to the door.

I start to pull away to see what has his attention, but Holden won’t let me. He’s kissing me again, and I’m lost to anything but following his lead.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

I step back from Holden as if I have just been shocked by an electric current. He and I both stare at Thomas who is standing in the doorway with a girl under each arm, one blonde, one brunette, both in short tight skirts, one in stilettos and the other wearing cowboy boots.

“Looks like you finally got your act together,” Thomas says, each of the words slurred at the end. The girl in the stilettos takes a wobbly step forward, pointing at me.

“You’re CeCe MacKenzie. Oh my gosh, I love your voice.” Her gaze sways to Holden with astonished recognition. “And you’re Holden. I just read about you two in Star Struck.” Her expression goes from delight to stricken sadness.

“It’s so awful, what happened with you two. You had like this perfect love and then you,” she says, looking at me, “being so broken up about Beck Philips that you blame yourself.”

Holden steps in front of me, making a physical shield between the girl and me. I can’t see her now but I hear her say, “Does this mean you two are back together? Oh my gosh, that’s so cool! Misty, that means we witnessed it firsthand.”

“Seriously, Thomas?” Holden says.

I step out from behind Holden just as Thomas reels the two girls back into his own unsteady embrace.

“You’ve been drinking,” Holden says.

“Hey, I am legal, you know,” Thomas says with an amused laugh. “Last time I checked, anyway.”

“Well, you might be legal,” Holden agrees, “but you’re drunk.”

“So?”

He stares hard at us both for a long moment. “You two think you’re the only ones around here trying to figure out all this crap. Well you’re not, and these two young ladies have graciously offered to make me feel better.” He starts corralling them toward the hallway that leads to the bedroom. “And I’ve decided to let them.”

Holden follows him, grabbing the back of Thomas’s shirt. “Hold up there, buddy.”

His response is as instantaneous as it is unexpected. He turns around swinging, his balled up fist connecting with the center of Holden’s abdomen. I hear the air leave Holden’s lungs in a single whoosh. Thomas staggers backwards, both girls falling away from him like drunken tinker toys.

“Damn, Holden. I didn’t mean-” Thomas starts to apologize.

But Holden is a torpedo barreling toward him, head down. He connects with Thomas, shoulder to stomach, and they both go down in the hallway. I scream for them to stop while Thomas’s Barbie dolls stare at the two of them fighting, like they’ve been given VIP seats at a prizefight.

I run at them, trying to wedge myself in between their shoulders, screaming for them to stop, but my efforts are all but laughable. They’re rolling back and forth on the floor. Hank and Patsy, aroused from their sleep, are standing next to them, barking out fearful yelps.

“Stop it! You’re going to kill each other!”

When it’s clear that my words are having no effect, I run to the kitchen, grab a plastic pitcher from the counter and fill it with cold water. The tap is so slow I’m about to scream by the time it gets to the top. I head to the living room as fast as I can go without sloshing out all of the water and then aim the contents at their heads. The water has the desired effect. They roll apart, yelling.

“What the heck, CeCe?” Thomas throws out.

“You two acting like toddlers,” I say. “That’s what.”

Holden and Thomas sit breathing hard and glaring at each other.

“Do I have to get another pitcher?”

“No!” they erupt in unison.

The Barbie dolls are giggling now. I actually hear one of them whisper, “Do you think we can sell this to Star Struck?”

“I got pictures on my phone,” the other one says.

“Out!”

I don’t even recognize my own voice, but I am charging the two like a mother lion protecting her cubs. They stare at me as if I have just hurled something at them in Greek, and they have no idea what I’ve said.

“Leave! Now. Go, out, and don’t come back!”

Both girls right their miniskirts, looking immensely hurt. In another phase of my life, I would have felt guilty. In this current one, I merely feel justified. The one in stilettos yanks at the knob, saying over her shoulder in a pitiful voice, “But we don’t have a car. How will we get home?”

“I’ll call you a cab,” I say. “Just wait out front.”

“Well, all right then,” she says, miffed. I slam the door behind them and then turn to look at Holden and Thomas, who are still sitting on the floor dragging air into their lungs. Patsy is licking Thomas’s cheek. Hank Junior licks Holden’s. I want to tell them not to waste their sympathy because any suffering Holden and Thomas are enduring, they fully deserve.

I walk in the kitchen and call a taxi, then go outside the apartment and stand at the railing until I see it pull up. I watch the two girls get inside. When I go back in, Holden and Thomas look a little less enraged at one another, their expressions mirroring something closer to shame when they both look up at me.

“CeCe,” they both start at the same time.

But I stop them, holding up a hand and saying, “Y’all work it out, I’m going to bed. Come on, Hank.” He gets up and trots after me. Patsy follows, too. I close the door behind us and turn the lock.

♪

53

Holden

Thomas drops onto the floor, one arm over his eyes. He groans and says, “Where’d you learn to punch like that, man?”

I lean back against the couch, wincing with the movement.

“Probably from you. You’re the only friend I have who picks fights.”

He removes his arm from his eyes and glares at me. “Me? You’re the one who started it.”

“So you think I should have just let you go on and have your drunken therapy session with those two-”

“Those two what?” Thomas interrupts.

“Ladies you would regret spending time with tomorrow,” I say in an attempt at diplomacy.

“You’re a jerk, you know that?” he says.

“Yeah, and if we hadn’t brought you to your senses, they’d probably have a picture of you hanging naked from a light fixture in tomorrow evening’s Star Struck.”

“Maybe we could use it for the new album cover,” he says with a sarcastic grin.

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I say.

We sit there, not saying anything until I finally ask, “So why’d you go out and get wasted tonight?”

Thomas shrugs. “I didn’t plan it.”

“Well, it’s not your typical game plan.”

“Nope.”

“Is it about going in the studio tomorrow?”

He doesn’t answer for a good bit, and when he does his voice is far off, like something he’s been thinking about for a while.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m wondering whether I bought my own ‘we need to rise above this’ speech.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just whether we deserve for anything good to be happening to us.”

“You want me to repeat what you said to me?”

“Hell, no.”

“We can cancel it.”

“Yeah, if we wanna get sued by the label.”

“With everything that’s happened, you really think they’d do that?” I ask.

“I really think they would,” he says. “Money’s money. We were an investment that hasn’t paid off yet.”

“We can make a crappy record, and they’d be kicking us off the label.”

“We could, but what’s that gonna prove other than we can suck if we want to?”

“Nothing,” I say.

We’re quiet for a bit, and then he asks, “Do you think we’re wrong to do it?”

“I think right now it feels like we are, but I don’t really think we can trust our perspective as evidenced by your choice in company tonight,” I say with a half-smile.

“Speaking of company,” Thomas says, “What the heck was that we walked in on?”

“I have no idea.”

“She’s a mess, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” I agree.

“Do you think she’ll go through with it tomorrow?”

I shake my head, “I really don’t know. I think it could go either way.”

“We’ve got good songs.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

“CeCe said anything to you about them?” I ask, hearing the uncertainty in my own question.

Thomas shakes his head. “Why?”

“She’s just not owning them.”

“Yeah,” Thomas agrees.

“You sure the songs don’t suck?”

“No, man. They rock,” he says.

“Are we just wasting everybody’s time by going in the studio tomorrow?”

“That,” Thomas says, getting to his feet and swaying a little under the alcohol’s remaining influence, “remains to be seen.”

♪

THE NEXT MORNING, the three of us pile into Thomas’s truck at just after eight. We’re supposed to be at the studio at eight-thirty, and even though we’re pushing our luck on time, Thomas insists on a Starbucks infusion. He maneuvers his big truck through the drive-through, and we each get a large coffee. Nobody opts for food, and I can only guess it’s because we’re all equally anxious about the morning ahead.

CeCe has yet to say a word to either of us other than an initial good morning. She sits in the middle of the seat between us, sipping at her coffee and looking straight ahead.

I fortify myself with a few sips as well before saying, “If we’re not up for this today, I mean, if we’re not ready for this, I think we should just go in there and tell them that.”

Both CeCe and Thomas take so long to acknowledge that I’ve said anything, I start to wonder if they even heard me.

Driving with one hand, Thomas props his coffee cup on his knee, looking straight ahead. “Are we all ready for this?” he asks.

“You mean am I ready, right?” CeCe says, her voice low and void of emotion.

I consider not saying the truth, but it feels like the truth is pretty much the only hand we have left to play.

“You’re punching the clock,” I say quietly, “but your heart’s not in it.”

She draws in a deep breath, bites her lower lip and then breathes out again. “Is that what you think, Thomas?”

“Sorry, babe,” Thomas says, “but yeah.”

I stare out the window, forcing myself not to look at her. I hate hurting her. I know what we’ve said hurts. “You’ve never been about dialing it in, CeCe. That’s not who you are. We need to go in there this morning and give it everything we’ve got. Do what they hired us to do. Or we don’t go in at all. We go at it lukewarm, we’re not doing anybody any favors. Not them, not us.”

I feel her stiffen next to me, but then just as quickly, she sinks back against the seat, anger losing its foothold.

“You’re right,” she admits in a low voice. “I just don’t know if I can do it.”

“Do you want to do it?” Thomas asks softly.

We’re on the interstate, tractor-trailers whizzing by on either side of us. We’re approaching the exit when she says, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Then we’ve got your back,” Thomas says. “Right, Holden?”

“Always,” I say.

She nods once, biting her lower lip, and then saying, “What if I let you both down?”

“You won’t.” I reach for her hand and lace my fingers through hers.

She squeezes hard, as if I alone am the anchor that will keep her afloat today.

For the first time in months, it feels like we have a shot at life finding its way back to some kind of normal. It won’t be the old normal. I know better, but a new normal that’s yet to be defined.

Thomas hits the blinker, and we take the ramp that will get us over to Music Row.

CeCe glances at me. I let myself fully meet her gaze.

“The songs are good, Holden,” she says. “They’re really good.”

And I wonder if she has any idea that a number one song wouldn’t mean as much to me as hearing those words from her.

♪

54

CeCe

The launch party for the record takes place on the one-year anniversary of the shooting. Holden, Thomas and I all voiced our objections to the label. To me, it feels opportunistic and disrespectful, but their angle is a different one, and that’s the one they chose to go with.

Good wins in the end. Bad guys get their due. And life goes on.

It’s true that if there’s a message in the music, this would be it, and although I want to believe it, I just don’t know if I do.

A Hummer limo picks us up at six p.m. to drive us to an estate outside the city where the launch party is being held. It’s the former home of one of country music’s earliest stars, and we’ve been told it’s an incredible place.

The label had actually sent an image consultant over earlier in the week to take us shopping for the clothes we would wear tonight and give us pointers on ways to polish – her word not mine – our appearances.

We’re in the back of the limousine and on the way when Thomas says, “So this is us. Spit shine time.”

“I guess,” Holden says. He looks at me, and even in the dim light of the car, the color of his eyes deepens.

“You look beautiful, CeCe,” he says.

“Yeah, you do,” Thomas agrees.

“Thanks,” I say, keeping my voice light and looking down at my hands. “You two look pretty great yourselves.”

We’re quiet for a couple of minutes while the car rolls on, sleek and plush beyond anything I could possibly feel deserving of.

“Anybody else feel like we’re standing on the edge of a cliff about to jump off?” Thomas asks, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” Holden says. “I do.”

“They’re making some crazy predictions about this record,” Thomas says.

“Isn’t it all just guessing?” I ask.

“I agree,” Holden says, “except that by now I think we know they don’t do much investing in guesses.”

“Well, with the album going live at midnight,” Thomas says, “We’ll know pretty soon whether they were right or wrong.”

I glance out the window at the city’s skyscrapers retreating into the distance.

“If y’all could go back,” I say, “to the moment you started dreaming this dream of coming here and making it in music. Would you still go after it if you knew how the dream would end up coming true?”

The weight of the question settles around us.

“Probably not,” Holden finally says in a low voice.

“No,” Thomas echoes.

“Me, either. I guess we’ll never know whether we would have made it to this point without the shooting and all the media stuff.”

There’s another question I want to ask. And that is this. If our dream is transformed into something other than what we had imagined, will it change us as well? A year from now, will we be the people we came here as?

But I keep this one to myself. I honestly don’t know if I want to hear the answer.

♪

THE HOUSE IS enormous. Three stories high with wings that jut off to the right and left. Boxwoods that appear to be a hundred years old line the front like guards standing watch. Cars are parked on either side of the winding driveway, and a flutter of nerves erupts in my midsection.

“Incredible,” I say, and I’m pretty certain in that moment I cannot go in that house and do what is expected of me.

As if he’s felt my conclusion, Holden reaches over and presses his hand on mine. “They’re just people,” he says. “You’ve got this.”

“I really don’t know if I do or not.”

“Yeah, you do.” Thomas places his hand over my other hand. I feel unbelievably lucky to have them both in my life.

“How about I just stay between you two all night?” I ask.

“We can be a CeCe sandwich,” Thomas says with the grin I have begun to see more of recently. I’ve missed it in these past months.

“Fine by me,” Holden says, looking down at me without the usual censoring.

“Will your dad be here?” I ask, forcing myself to glance away.

“I think so,” he says.

Thomas’s mom stopped by the apartment earlier in the afternoon and showed us the dress she had bought to wear. She’d been so excited and proud, and I couldn’t help but envy Thomas a little.

Mama won’t be here tonight. She’d had a terrible sinus infection for the past ten days and didn’t think she was strong enough yet to make the trip. She’d made me promise over the phone this morning that I would FaceTime her while at the party so she could see what it all looked like. I tried to hide my disappointment because I know how much she wanted to be here.  Since the shooting, she’s all but put her own life on hold, driving back and forth from home to Nashville to make sure I’m all right.

The driver eases the limo to a stop at the front of the house and walks around to open Holden’s door.

We’ve arrived.

♪

AS A LITTLE GIRL, I had once visited the Biltmore Mansion in North Carolina with Mama. It’s one of the most extraordinary places I’ve ever seen, and the inside of this house reminds me so much of it.

The foyer is huge, a winding staircase with shallow marble stairs leading up to the next floor. To the left is what looks like an enormous ballroom where at least a couple of hundred people are mingling, sipping drinks and some talking, others listening. An incredible speaker system streams music from what sounds like every direction and the song playing is one of ours from the new album. Pleasure in the Rain. It’s strange to hear my voice filling the room.

“That’s pretty dang cool,” Thomas says as we walk into the main room.

Gazes begin to turn our way. A man with short cropped white hair and smart-looking eyeglasses starts toward us. I recognize him as the label President Henry Ogilvy. We’ve only met him once at the label’s main office, but he’s not the kind of man that you forget. Confident but gracious, he knows the music business and is said to be the force behind many of the names who have made it big over the past ten years in Nashville.

He walks up to the three of us, smiling his very white smile. He holds out both hands to me, forcing me to let go of Holden and Thomas. He leans in then and kisses me on both cheeks.

“Wow,” he says. “If y’all don’t make a picture. You look beautiful, CeCe. Good grief, America is gonna be so in love with all three of you pretty soon.”

We each offer him a slightly disbelieving smile.

“Why don’t we get you a drink?” He holds up a hand and beckons a waiter with a small wave. The waiter asks what we’d like. Holden and Thomas opt for a beer. I ask for a Perrier.

“Y’all get your sea legs,” Mr. Ogilvy says. “Relax a little bit, and then I’d like to introduce you around if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” I nod as if mixing with this crowd is something we’re used to when nothing could be further from the truth.

When he walks away, the three of us turn to face each other.

“How long do we have to stay?” I ask.

“I think the rule is if you leave before midnight you’ll turn into a pumpkin,” Holden says.

“Right now I think I’d rather be a pumpkin,” I say.

We look at each other and a smile a small smile. It’s a really nice moment.

From the corner of my eye, I see someone walking toward us. I turn my head. It’s Mama and Aunt Vera with Case Philips. A mixture of relief and disbelief rush over me at the same time.

“Hi, honey,” Mama says, reaching out to pull me into her arms. “I hope we haven’t given you too much of a shock?”

I hug her hard and say, “No, it’s wonderful.”

Aunt Vera steps in and puts her arms around me, too. “We are so proud of you, honey.”

I feel tears start to my eyes, and for the first time in a very long time, I realize they are tears of happiness. “I’m so glad you’re here. But how did you-”

Case looks at me now with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “I flew over to Virginia this afternoon to pick these two pretty ladies up.”

“You did?” I ask, still shocked.

“I knew this was something your mama wouldn’t want to miss, so I offered to go get her.”

“Oh, Case,” I say, reaching out to give him a hug as well. “Thank you. How are you?”

“Doing better,” he says. “I have to tell you, your mama here is one of the main reasons why.”

I glance at Mama, aware that I’m not hiding my surprise very well. She and Aunt Vera both give Holden and Thomas a hug.

Case shakes their hands and says, “You three are making me very proud. I can say I knew a good thing when I saw it.”

“Thank you, Case,” Holden says. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

“Not true,” Case says. “You’re here because you’ve got some incredible talent, and the world’s gonna want to hear it. Henry sent me a link to the new album. There’s not a song on it that’s not great. Y’all know how excited he is about you?”

I shake my head and try to say something in response, but nothing wants to come out of any significance, so I just murmur, “Thank you, Case.” He gets the same from Holden and Thomas.

Case asks Holden about the guitar he played on the record, and the three of them are soon in deep conversation about things only guitar enthusiasts know about.

“I need to powder my nose,” Aunt Vera says, heading off in search of the ladies’ room.

Knowing her as I do, I’m sure she is trying to give Mama and me some time alone. I take her hand and say, “Want to get some fresh air?”

“Yes, of course,” she says and follows me along the edge of the room to the open French doors that lead out onto a balcony. A wrought iron railing encloses the terrace. We stand looking out at an enormous field where horses graze in the moonlight.

“Are you angry with me, honey?” Mama asks.

“Why would I be angry with you?”

“I wanted to tell you that I was coming after all, but Case thought it would be a nice surprise.”

I study her for a few moments. “Is there something you’re not telling me about you two?”

Mama looks down at her hands and then back at me with a small smile on her mouth.

“I’m not sure I even believe it myself yet, but he’s been coming to see me in Virginia.”

“He has?” I ask, failing to hide my surprise.

“I know,” she says. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? A man like that wanting to see me?”

“No,” I say. “Of course it’s not crazy.”

“He just started calling me at night, and we would talk for hours sometimes. I guess he needed someone to talk to who might not judge him about how he was trying to manage his pain.”

“I heard he might be drinking,” I say because I can’t help feeling suddenly protective of her.

“He was,” Mama says.

“And he’s not now?”

“No.”

I shake my head, still a little stunned. “Mama, is this romantic?”

I don’t know that I ever remember seeing my mama blush, but she’s blushing now. And there’s a light in her eyes that gives me the answer before she even says the words.

“Maybe. But honey, I’m not looking past today. I’m not even looking as far as tomorrow. For now, we’re just enjoying each other’s company, and that’s all.”

“In a romantic way,” I tease.

Mama’s cheeks light up again even as she says, “It’s nice to hear a smile in your voice. And you look absolutely beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you.” I smooth a hand across the front of my dress. “You don’t think it’s too fancy for me?”

“I think it’s perfect for you. Do you know how proud I am of you?” She reaches out to pull me to her, hugs me tight. “Promise me something.”

“What?” I ask.

“That you’ll let yourself enjoy this, that you won’t feel guilty about it. You worked hard to get where you are. Anybody who knows you knows that.”

“Thank you, Mama,” I say, a crack in my voice.

“All right, then,” she says, smoothing her hand across my hair. “I’ve monopolized you enough. You need to get back out there and enjoy your party.”

“It wouldn’t have been the same without you here. I’m so glad that Case came to get you.”

“Me, too, honey. Me, too.”

“The two of you. . .it’s really nice.”

Her answering smile makes me happy in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

♪

55

Holden

Thomas and I are standing in a circle, talking with some people who work at the label. Case walks up and steps into the group. He makes small talk with the ones he obviously knows, then looks at me, saying, “Have you got a minute, Holden?”

“Ah, sure,” I say. Thomas raises an eyebrow at me. I have to admit I’m wondering what this is about.

Case leads the way. I follow him through the foyer and out the main door of the house. It’s dark now, and the lights shining out from the windows throw shadows across the huge old boxwoods. We follow a rock walkway to a bench where Case sits down. I take the spot beside him. His phone buzzes. He pulls it from his pocket, turns off the volume and then sticks it back again.

“How you doin’, Holden?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say. “How about you?”

“Some good days. Some bad days,” he admits.

“I can’t imagine how hard it’s been.”

“Holden, you were as much a victim as any of us.”

I start to reply, but not knowing what to say, I just nod once.

“Are you and CeCe seeing each other?”

His question surprises me, and at first, I’m not sure how to answer. “No, we’re not,” I finally say.

“Why?”

“I don’t really know the answer to that.”

“Is it because of Beck?”

“I think it’s really just everything that happened. I guess it’s been more than any of us could make sense of.”

“Here’s the thing, son. Life’s short. We hear it all our lives, but none of us really get it until we lose someone precious to us. We don’t get a second go around. If I didn’t know that before, I know it now.”

I nod once, not trusting my voice to respond.

“Her mama’s worried about her,” Case says then. “I told her I would speak to you. Neither one of us wants to overstep our bounds, but here’s how I see it. A whole lot of things got broken that night. Whatever it is that you and CeCe have, that doesn’t need to be one of them.”

I consider this for a few moments and then say, “To be honest with you, Case, I’m not sure I have a lot of say in that.”

“If you want her bad enough, then I guess you’re gonna have to be willing to fight for her, son. Even if she’s the person you’re fighting.”

“You’re a good man, Case. I hope people tell you that a lot.”

“Got a lot of sins to make up for,” he says with a half-smile. He stands then. “I’d better let you get back to the party. They’ll be wondering where you are.”

I stand and stick my hand out, “Thanks, Case. I mean it. For everything. You’ve been incredible to us. We wouldn’t be here tonight if it weren’t for you.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. Real talent will always find its way to the top. You three have definitely got that.”

“That means everything coming from you.”

We walk back inside, and just as we step through the door, I see CeCe talking with Michael Parker. Parker currently has a number one song. It doesn’t take a genius to get that he’s into her.

Case tips his head in their direction, raising an eyebrow. “See. You’d better get on it, son.”

I decide then and there that I’m going to take his advice.

♪

56

CeCe

Michael Parker is telling me about the ranch he grew up on in West Texas and how he used to write music out in the pastures by himself, using the cows as his audience.

He laughs and says, “You know, I actually feel guilty about that now. They were really bad songs.”

I laugh, too, and the sound is completely unexpected to me. He’s not exactly the way the few articles I’ve seen about him described him as being. He’s down-to-earth, and unlike a lot of guys I’ve met who’ve started to hit it big, doesn’t seem to feel the need to recite his list of accomplishments to date.

Holden walks up and drops a cool nod at Michael. “Hey, man,” he says.

“Holden. Hey, buddy,” Michael says, sticking out his hand. “Congrats on the record. Everybody’s expecting big stuff from y’all.”

“Thanks,” Holden says evenly. “I appreciate it. Congratulations to you.”

Michael smiles without any evidence of arrogance or pride. “Gotta say it feels about as good as they tell you it’ll feel, hitting that number one spot. But I expect y’all are gonna find that out soon enough. Could you give me a few weeks to enjoy the ride before you knock me out?”

Holden looks like he’s having trouble believing that could ever be the case and, honestly, so am I.

“I don’t think you have to worry,” Holden says.

“Don’t underestimate yourselves. Once this roller coaster starts picking up momentum, it kind of takes on a life of its own. My head’s still spinning from everything that’s happened with us. Some days me and the guys in the band can’t believe we’re not playing frat nights back in Texas.”

Silence takes over the conversation, and the three of us stand for a few moments while I start to feel uncomfortable.

Michael’s expression has gone serious when he says, “I hope y’all know how glad everybody is that you’re here tonight. You sure as hell deserve it after everything that happened–”

“CeCe, I need to speak with you for a moment if I could?” Holden says, interrupting Michael. Truthfully, I’m glad, although I do feel a little guilty about the quick flash of hurt in Michael’s eyes.

“All right, then,” he says, taking a step back. “CeCe, I hope to see you again real soon.”

The fact that he hasn’t included Holden in the statement rains another shower of awkwardness down on us.

“You, too, Michael,” I say.

To my surprise, Holden takes my hand. Linking his fingers through mine, he leads me across the crowded room, weaving and winding, “Excuse me, pardon me, sorry,” all the way until we reach the terrace doors again where Mama and I had gone out to talk. He pulls me outside. The cool night air assaults the heat in my cheeks with a feeble attempt at relief.

“What in the world, Holden?” I round on him, the skirt of my dress swishing out in an arc.

“Is he where you’re headed next?” he asks.

“Michael?”

“Michael.”

“We were just talking, Holden.”

I fold my arms across my chest and stand straight and stiff, as if preparing myself for an assault. He watches me, and even in the dim light of the terrace I see emotion darkening his eyes.

“That night when Thomas came home drunk, I thought you and I were on our way back to finding each other. But you shut me out again, and I’ve let you do it because I thought it was what you needed.”

“Holden-”

“CeCe, in that hotel room in D.C. I told you I loved you. And you said you loved me, too. When we said those words to each other, we had no way of knowing what was going to happen that night. But as bad as it was, as horrible as the months afterward have been, none of it changed how I feel about you, because I meant every word I said. Every word. Did you?”

I hear the pain in his voice and guilt tightens my throat. I don’t want to lie and say that I didn’t mean it because I did. “I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to love you, Holden. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to love anyone.”

“What does that mean?” he says, a broken note in his voice.

“That love is risk. That a person has to be fearless to love the way I felt when I fell in love with you.” A sob rises up out of my throat completely unexpected. “I’m not fearless anymore, Holden. I’m the opposite of fearless. I’m terrified. If the wind catches the door and slams it hard, I jump. I’m afraid to go to the mall by myself. I hate how I am now, but I don’t know how to change it! I don’t know how to fix it!”

He reaches out, and cupping his hand to the back of my neck, slowly pulls me toward him. “Then, baby, let me help you.”

In that moment, I’ve never wanted anything more. Holden snags my waist and reels me closer. I tip my head back and look up at him. For the first time in so long, I look directly into his eyes, not trying to hide anything, simply letting him see everything I’m feeling: the love that is still there for him, but also the pain that I can’t seem to come to terms with.

“CeCe,” he says, and I hear in his voice how much he wants to take it from me onto himself. I know he would if he could. I think in this moment, if I could, I would let him.

He leans in then, kissing me softly and with incredible tenderness. I feel my heart quicken inside me. I close my eyes and let myself kiss him back. The kiss is sweet and full of longing, both of us echoing the other’s need.

Here in Holden’s arms, I wonder if I can actually begin to feel safe again, if the fears that constantly gnaw at me will finally start to lose their knife-edge.

He takes a step back from me, reaches in his pocket and pulls out a small black velvet box. I want to tell him to stop, and at the same time, I desperately want him to open it.

“I had this with me on the night of the shooting. I planned to give it to you after the party. I’ve been carrying it around ever since. I don’t know if I would have found the courage to do this if it weren’t for the things Case just said to me. He reminded me that none of us knows how long we’re going to be here, that time isn’t something we should waste.”

“Holden,” I start, but he raises a hand to stop me.

“Please. Let me say this. You might not ever feel the same about me again. But even if you don’t, I meant everything I said to you. I love you. I think I have pretty much from the first moment I saw you. That morning in D.C., it became so clear to me that there are two things I can’t live without in this world. You. And music. It used to be just the music. Now, there’s no separating you from it or it from you. The truth is I don’t want to. Everything that’s happening here tonight is what we’ve all dreamed of. But without you, without us, it just feels flat. If I’m not able to share it with you, I’m pretty sure I don’t even want it anymore.”

“Holden, I-”

“Wait,” he says, opening the box. The ring winks in the moonlight.

He removes it from the velvet setting and holds it up in front of me. “I need to know that I’ve done everything I can not to let you go. So I’m going to ask you what’s in my heart.”

I want to stop him, fear I can’t control, can’t even explain, pounding through me. “When I said I love you that morning,” I say, “I meant it, too. But what happened that night has made me wonder if there’s anything in this life that really can be trusted. The next moment, the next hour. If I reach out and take your hand with the intent of walking toward a future together, how do we know that there’s any tomorrow?”

“Baby, we don’t,” Holden says, his voice low and compassionate. “There are no guarantees. There’s just now and what we make of it or what we throw away. Don’t throw us away, CeCe. Please.”

A sob catches in my throat, and I’m suddenly crying. I want so badly to give myself over to the comfort I know I’ll find in Holden’s arms. I’m still not convinced I deserve it. But I want it, need it.

He reaches out and cups his hand at the base of my neck. “Baby, come here,” he says.

And with that, just that, the ribbon of resistance inside me snaps. I fall into him as if he is the only safe haven left for me on this earth. I wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face against his chest.

He lifts me up and into him, his arms so tight around me that I am sure he will never let me go. “CeCe,” he says, my name torn from him. “Thank God.”

His hands are in my hair, tilting my head back so that I’m looking up at him. We stare into each other’s eyes, both wet with tears.

He leans in and kisses me then. I kiss him back with every ounce of the love I feel for him. A love that took root inside me and has never let go.

He backs me across the terrace, lifts me up, all the while kissing me, and sets me on the stonewall at its edge. He slides my dress up to the top of my thighs and steps in between my legs.

I pull him to me. We kiss until we are both breathless with need for each other.

Holden slips my dress off one shoulder, his mouth making a heated trail across my neck and the top of my breasts.

I drop my head back and stare up at the night sky even as I’m trying to pull in air. “Holden,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“That ring. Is it still available?”

He slowly leans back, his love-drugged eyes snagging mine. “It is. Any special reason you’re asking?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Yes?”

“Yes.” I smile at him then. He kisses me, full and deep, at the same time reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the box. He doesn’t stop kissing me as he pops open the lid and pulls out the diamond. Not even as he slides it on the finger of my left hand.

It slips over my knuckle, and something inside me clicks into place, like the final correct selection of a safe’s combination. I feel the rightness of it. And know this part I will never have to question.

“I love you, CeCe. So much. Will you marry me?”

“I love you, Holden. And yes, I will.”

He lifts my hand to his mouth, kisses the back of my wrist and rubs his thumb across the diamond’s surface.

“I will live every day of my life trying to deserve you,” he says softly.

“And I’ll live mine trying to deserve you,” I say.

Footsteps echo on the tile behind us. I look up. Thomas walks toward us with his long, purposeful stride.

“Is this make-out central?” he asks. “If so, y’all shoulda told me, so I could’ve brought a date.”

I smile as Holden turns around and says, “It was make out central until you blew the moment.”

Thomas stops and gives us both a long look. “What moment’s that?”

“The moment where we finally admit we want to spend our lives together.” I smile and for the first time in so very long, feel really happy.

“Well, good grief, it’s about time,” he says, grinning and walking over to clap Holden on the back.

I hold up my hand and wave the ring at him.

Thomas throws Holden a look. “Well, who knew you had that in you, son?”

Holden smiles and shakes his head. “You’re just mad because I didn’t ask your permission.”

“I mighta had some handy pointers on ring-buying for you,” Thomas teases. “But no, you’ve had my permission for a long time.”

“Thanks, man.”

“So where do we go from here?” Thomas asks.

“Making music,” Holden says, and then for my ears only, leans in and adds, “Making love.”

I smile and play swat him away.

Thomas rolls his eyes.

Holden turns to look at Thomas. “Now if we can just find you a CeCe.”

“You don’t think it’s Misty or Dawn then?” Thomas asks with a sly smile.

“Ah, no,” I say. “Most definitely.”

“Well, all right then,” he says, shrugging. “And oh, by the way, while you two were out here patchin’ up your love life, everybody in there’s waiting on us to come sing them a song. Think you can quit batting your eyelashes at each other long enough to-”

Holden throws a playful punch at Thomas’s midsection.

Thomas goes double and says, laughing, “I’ll go out by myself then. They’re not here to hear y’all anyway.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say. “I think not.”

Holden holds out his arm to me in invitation. “We better get in there before this spotlight hog steals our gig altogether.”

We begin walking back toward the lighted ballroom, me in the middle, Holden and Thomas on either side. “I am a really lucky girl,” I say.

“We’re pretty damn lucky ourselves.” Thomas leans in to kiss my cheek. “It’s really good to have you back, girl.”

“Yeah, it is,” Holden says, rubbing his thumb across the diamond on my hand.

“I’m not ever gonna be sure you actually deserve her,” Thomas says, “but nobody ever said love was logical.”

I laugh and pull them both in closer. We stop just outside the doors leading back into the house. “Pleasure in the Rain?” I ask.

Thomas nods. “That’s what they’re asking for.”

“Ready then?”

“As ever,” Thomas says.

“Let’s do it,” Holden says.

And we step into the room, walking side by side, arm in arm.

♪

57

CeCe

When I was a little girl I had no intention of ever marrying a boy. That made absolutely no sense to me because I couldn’t stand them. They were loud and obnoxious and, for the most part, shorter than me, at least the ones my age.

What made sense to me was marrying my dog.

Henry, my best friend at the time, was a hound Mama and I found starving in the woods near our house. He was already old when he came to us. He had a bum front leg so that he could barely walk, and his eyes had already started to go cloudy with age. We took him to our vet in town. Dr. Finlay told us that hunters in the area would sometimes abandon a dog no longer able to keep up with the pack and that most likely this was what had happened to Henry. I couldn’t believe anyone would actually do such a thing, but that old saying “one man’s trash is another’s treasure” could have been written about what Henry brought to our lives.

Once we got him to feeling better, and he could walk again, he became the most joyful soul I’ve ever known.

I didn’t care about spending time with friends because Henry was the best companion I could imagine having. We would go on long hikes through the woods and up the mountain near our house. Henry had a nose for finding great stuff, a rabbit hole where we once came upon a nest of baby bunnies. Henry pointed them out with his wagging tail and never made any attempt to harm them; he just wanted to show them to me. Another time it was two baby skunks. Before we finished our oohing and tail-wagging, the mama returned and sent us both running back to the house with a highly smelly and unforgettable reminder not to mess with her babies.

It didn’t seem possible that I would ever meet anyone in my life more entertaining, more loving than my Henry. It only made sense to me that we would get married one day because apparently that was what you did when you knew you were going to love someone for the rest of your life.

Henry died when I was twelve.

He just kind of went to sleep in my arms one night when I woke to the sound of him whimpering softly. He was curled up beside me on my bed. I remember slipping my arms around him and pulling him up close. He was breathing hard like he’d just run a really long way. As soon as I hugged him to me and kissed the top of his head, his breathing stopped, as if he had been waiting for me to kiss him goodbye.

My heart completely broke that night. I refused to get out of bed and go to school for a week. I realize now how lucky I was to have a mama who recognized my grief and just let me feel it until I could face getting up and going on without Henry.

Almost a year passed before I could bring myself to go back into our woods again, to walk the paths that we had made together.

I was sixteen before I let myself believe that it was okay to bring another dog into my life. Mama and I went to the pound one Saturday morning where a skinny long-legged hound curled up at the back of his kennel and shaking uncontrollably, stole my heart as instantly as Henry had.

By that age, I had begun to look at boys somewhat differently. But there is one thing about my little girl resolution to one day marry my dog that hasn’t changed. And that’s this: the man I decided to marry would have to be the most loyal friend I could ever hope for, as devoted to me as I am to him.

In Holden, I have no doubt this is what I’ve found.

He stands at the front of the small Virginia Baptist church I grew up in, waiting for me to walk down the aisle. Hank Junior and Patsy sit at his side, all three of them staring back at me with adoring expressions.

“I’m not sure which of the three loves you more,” Thomas says now, looking down at me and smiling.

Thomas is giving me away today. It feels really right for him to do so. He’s family in the truest sense of the word, those people in your life who would be there for you, no matter the need. Thomas is definitely that for me and for Holden, too.

“Thank you,” I say, “for doing this.”

“Walking you down the aisle?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there stands the only guy in the world I’d hand you over to, and even then, if I had a lick of common sense, I’d probably swoop you up and steal you out from under his nose. I would say I hope he knows how lucky he is, but he does.”

I reach up and kiss Thomas on the cheek, “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“You may be a bit partial, Miss MacKenzie.”

“No, I just know good when I see it.”

The pianist strikes the first chords of the wedding march. My heart starts to beat faster, and I realize that I’m about to step forward into a life I will never stop being thankful for.

“We’re on, let’s do this thing,” Thomas says, the same as he does every time we go on stage to perform.

We start down the aisle. The church is full of familiar faces I’ve known all my life and many from Nashville as well. Mama and Aunt Vera are sitting on the front row with Case in between them. Mama is crying, but they’re happy tears. Her eyes shine with them.

We stop just short of Holden, Hank Junior and Patsy. The pastor smiles at us, says a few words of welcome, and just the way we practiced it last night, Thomas takes my hand and joins it with Holden’s. He kisses my cheek, claps Holden on the shoulder and then steps in behind him.

Hank Junior thumps his tail on the wood floor, and the sound makes everyone seated behind us laugh softly. I reach down and kiss his head, and then Patsy’s, too.

When I stand up again, I let myself look into Holden’s eyes. They’re so full of love and happiness that for a second, just a second, old fears flash through me. Will it last? Is this too good to be true? Can life really be this wonderful?

But I blink them away, not letting let them take root.

I know that life doesn’t come with guarantees. We can only live the moment that’s in front of us. I believe with all my heart that we should live that moment fully, embrace it without wasting even a second worrying about what might be beyond it.

We can’t control that part, other people’s thoughts, other people’s actions. We can only control our own.

I choose to fill mine with love. Love for and the love of a guy I know how lucky I am to have. I don’t ever want to take that for granted, but I don’t think that I will.

Life is precious, love is a gift. The sun might not always shine on us. But those will be the days that we take pleasure in the rain.

♪

Music by Barefoot Outlook

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First love. Second chances. Secrets with the power to change lives.

When Will Kincaid’s professional football career comes to an abrupt end in a single night, he’s left to figure out what he’s going to do with the rest of his life. He heads home to the small Virginia town where he grew up and crosses paths with Hannah Jacobs, the only girl in high school who had ever rejected him. It’s Hannah who once made him question the choices he had made, and it’s Hannah who’s making him question them all over again. But with the weight of a secret he’s managed to hide from the world his entire adult life hanging over him, he can’t afford to question his choices.

Hannah Jacobs had once made the choice to deny her feelings for Will Kincaid, at the time finding it the only possible option for a young girl intent on burying a nightmare she only wanted to forget. The life she’s made for herself as a librarian in Lake Perdue is a quiet one, and she’s hardly prepared for the day when Will rams his fancy Ferrari into her dependable old clunker. But for Hannah, Will Kincaid can only stir up memories she had long ago put away forever. And there’s nothing at all good that can come from bringing them back to life again.

*

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Desperate father Ian McKinley moves his delinquent teenage son to the small Virginia town of Keeling Creek, a place very unlike the New York City life he has been leading. Love takes him by surprise when he falls for Colby Williams, a woman unlike anyone he has ever been drawn to, a small town vet with a heart for animals and a fierce love for a teenage daughter she is also struggling to raise.

But Colby has a secret in her past, a secret she’s not sure her daughter will ever forgive her for. And as for Ian McKinley, he seems too good to be true. If she had learned anything from the one time she had thrown her heart fully into love, it was that it didn’t last.

Bonus 5 Chapters of Jane Austen Girl

Prologue

“Is there a girl out there who doesn’t want to be looked at the way Mr. Darcy looked at Elizabeth?”

― Grier McAllister – Blog at Jane Austen Girl

The morning had started out typical enough, and might have remained so, if it hadn’t been for the eagle flying just above traffic on Park and Sixty-fifth.

From the back seat of a Lincoln town car, Grier McAllister removed her sunglasses, lowered the window and stuck her head out for a better look. Surely, she’d been mistaken. But there it was, soaring in a left to right pattern, no higher up than the top of the street lamps. An eagle? In Manhattan? What in the world?

She remembered then something she’d once heard her mother say when she was a child. Eagle sightings hadn’t been so unusual around Timbell Creek, although it was still something to make a person stop and look. Grier had been six or so the day she and her mama had taken a picnic out in the pasture behind her grandparents’ house. Her grandpa had an old mule named Lloyd who was willing to act as their shade tree in exchange for the carrots she kept stuffed in her pockets. It was actually a good memory of her mama, and maybe one of the last Grier could actually recall.

They’d spotted the eagle at the same moment that day, watching the majestic bird swoop low out of the sky, like an airplane guided by radar.

“What’s he doing, Mama?” Grier had asked.

“Looking,” she’d said.

“For what?”

“Most likely his next meal. But my daddy once told me that whenever you see an eagle, it’s a sign that maybe you need to pay closer attention to what’s happening in your life. Or even what’s not happening.”

Grier had frowned and asked, “Why?”

“Some people believe eagles are messengers and that they appear when there’s something we need to do in our lives.”

“Is he trying to tell us something?”

“Maybe.”

“Like what?”

“I guess that’s the part we’re supposed to figure out.”

Even at that age, Grier had wondered if the eagle might be trying to warn her mama about the glass bottle she kept hidden in her nightstand. Sometimes, the bottle would disappear, and their life seemed almost normal. No men Grier didn’t know coming into the house late at night. No hearing her mama throw up in the toilet in the morning. But then, the bottle always reappeared again, and those were the days Grier wished she could be somebody else, anybody else. The days when she would disappear inside a book, the only escape hatch she could find at the time.

“Did you see that?” she said to Jason, the twenty-something driver maneuvering her through the rush hour traffic to her office on Madison and Sixty-first.

He looked up, blue eyes locking on hers in the rear view mirror.

“What?”

“That eagle,” she said, pointing at the sky.

“An eagle? Really?”

“Yes,” she said. “It was right there.”

He opened the sunroof and looked upward, shrugging. “You sure?”

“Positive,” she said, peering up again only to realize it had now completely disappeared.

“Not too many of those in Manhattan,” Jason said, the twinkle in his voice suggesting she might have added a little shot of something to her morning o.j.

“No,” she said, feeling silly now and wondering if she had indeed imagined it. “I guess not.”

Jason slid the car into a spot in front of a Starbucks green awning. “Same as usual?”

“Yes, thanks,” she said, watching as he got out and jogged inside the store. She leaned forward again and searched the strip of sky in between the buildings on either side of the car. She couldn’t seem to shake the uneasy feeling that she’d seen that eagle for a reason.

Resolving to put it and any unintended symbolism from her mind, she pulled her phone from her purse and began checking e-mail. Twenty-five new messages since she’d gone to bed at midnight. Several new client requests. Seriously needed. A few pleas for last minute appointments. Would see what she could do.

Jason arrived back with her coffee and passed it to her over the seat. “One sugar. Shot of half and half,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said, returning his smile.

He held her gaze for an extra moment, and then said, “No problem, Ms. McAllister,” before pulling back into the traffic.

This wasn’t the first time Jason had given her the look, or the first time she’d decided to ignore it. Aside from the obvious, at thirty-seven, the only thing she was likely to have in common with a barely twenty-something guy was an unfortunate weakness for pizza.

And besides, she had recently decided to excuse herself from the predictable course of events that disguised itself as dating in Manhattan. Attraction. Pursuit. Greener-grass-syndrome. She’d just experienced the third phase of this sequence, a nice way of saying she’d recently been dumped.

Carter Mathers – fresh off the divorce train, eyes glazed by the sudden buffet of available women – hadn’t actually put it like that. His wording was more along the lines of, “Grier. We’re at different places just now. I don’t want to lead you to think I have something more to offer you than I do. That wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

Fairness being his personal life mantra, of course.

Dating in New York City was its own basic training boot camp. After a while, Grier developed an ear for the subtext and knew that what he really meant was: “Grier. I think you’re getting too serious. I like you, but it’s only fun as long as no one cares. Besides, there’s a great-looking blonde at the table by the window. I’d really like to ask for her number.”

Grier had decided long ago that the key was to make expectation parallel with reality. If you knew that, for the most part, Manhattan was full of men who didn’t want to see the same face two nights in a row, then expecting to find one who did was simply unrealistic, like hoping your tricep jiggle would completely disappear after two workouts with Gunar at Fitness House.

But if you decided that settling down probably wasn’t everything it had been touted to be, then a nice dinner could be had with no hard feelings when he didn’t call the next day. Of course, in the case of cute-driver-Jason, she would be the one buying the dinner. But even that might have its upside. At least neither of them would foster any unrealistic expectations.

For the next ten minutes, they crept along with the rest of the traffic toward Madison. She lowered her window a few inches, letting in the sounds and smells of the city. Manhattan had its own rhythm, its own heartbeat. Even after nineteen years of living here, it somehow still managed to surprise her. She’d grown up in a different kind of place, a place where the pulse of life beat at a very different rate.

She’d left that place behind at the age of eighteen, catching a bus out of downtown Roanoke for New York City where she’d been offered a job as a prostitute within twenty-four hours of arriving.

For the first few days, she wandered the streets with her small suitcase, sleeping on benches in Central Park, wondering if someone like her could ever make it in a place like this. She decided then that one of two things could happen. She could let the city run right over her, or she could breathe in the heady power of the place and let it fuel her ambitions. She chose the latter, and she’d never looked back.

At exactly eight-thirty, Jason pulled over in front of her office building on Madison. He got out and opened her door, again leveling her with a steamy gaze she felt certain he’d used to great effect numerous times before now.

“Good luck with the audition this afternoon,” she said, slipping out with her briefcase and purse in one hand, coffee in the other.

He smiled the smile that would surely win him the role. “If I don’t get it,” he said, “I’m going to come see you about that image redo.”

She laughed, shook her head. “I don’t think you’ll be needing it, Jason.”

“Have a great day, Ms. McAllister,” he said. As she walked away, she felt his gaze on her backside. In Timbell Creek, they’d had names for guys brazen enough to cop a feel or leer behind a girl’s back. It was just plain bad manners, like talking with your mouth full of potato salad at the church picnic, and would have earned the offender a cuff in the head from Somebody’s Daddy. Those of them who had a daddy, anyway.

But with forty in the headlights, Grier decided to take it as a compliment.

Franklin, the doorman, smiled as she approached the building. “Notice anything different about me today, Ms. McAllister?” he asked, with an exaggerated smile.

She stopped, gave him a surmising look. By Manhattan standards, she wouldn’t call herself tall, but Franklin stood a good foot below her. He was seventy if a day and had worked the eight to four shift in this building for nearly thirty years. He had a book’s worth of short stories he could tell about the people he’d seen come and go through its doors. “That’s a new suit, isn’t it?” she said.

He straightened, lifted his chin a little, then smoothed his hands down the center of the navy jacket. “What do you think?”

“Smashing.”

He flashed her another big grin. “Anything else?”

She smiled. “Why, Franklin, look at your teeth. They’re beautiful.”

“Who knew I still had these under all those years of smoking? Thanks for telling me about that dentist. Nice guy. And the whitening thing didn’t hurt a bit.”

“I’m glad,” she said. “You look great.”

“Remember I told you about Marla, the lady who works in the Macy’s shoe department?”

“I do,” she said. “Any luck?”

“I haven’t asked her out yet. She’s taller than I am,” he said, sounding suddenly worried. “Think that matters?”

“With that smile? No way.”

He ducked his head, embarrassed. “I wanted to get your okay on the changes first.”

“Franklin, she’d be crazy not to go out with you.”

“You think so?”

“I absolutely do.”

He nodded hard. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“I’m counting on it,” she said and headed for the elevator.

On the third floor, she stepped through the glossy red door of Jane Austen Girl, Inc. to find her assistant, Amy, hovering by her desk. As always, Grier felt a little surge of pride for this office she’d worked her way up to. Literally, worked her way up to. The early days of her business had been conducted in an apartment approximately the size of a walk-in closet. A small one at that.

“I thought you’d never get here,” Amy said, her voice a near squeak of excitement. She pressed one hand to her cheek, the other waving wildly in front of her like one of those wind up toys kids get in their Easter baskets. A huge fan of old movies, she changed her style according to whatever was currently in her DVD player. Judging from the leggings, the off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and ringlets in her normally straight hair, Grier guessed last night’s showing had been Flashdance.

“Very Jennifer Beale,” she said.

“Thanks!” Amy said, obviously pleased that she got it. She clapped her hands together, her voice catapulting to another pitch. “Oh, my gosh, Grier. You are so not going to believe this.”

Amy talked this way. Emphasis on every two or three words, her eyebrows rising with the intonation so it was easy to get distracted and end up with no idea of what she’d just said.

“Try me,” Grier said, heading for her office where she dropped her briefcase and purse onto a leather chair by the window.

“So-an-Irish-Duke-is-coming-to-New-York-and-you’ve-been-chosen—”

Even though Grier was dying to hear the rest, she held up a hand to keep Amy from hyperventilating. This happened to Amy with over stimulation of any sort. The last incident involved a drop-in visit a few weeks before from an A-list movie star whom Grier had worked with in the early days of both their careers. Jess Mercer had been her first real transformation, a guy born with true physical beauty and not even a modicum of style. The day he’d come to her then pitiful excuse for an office, he’d been wearing a horizontal striped rugby shirt with plaid pants and shoes that could only be described as a close cousin to those most often used for bowling.

Apparently, a drama teacher at Juilliard had told him he could be the next big thing if he’d hook himself up with an image consultant who could teach him how to dress. He’d found her in the Yellow Pages, confessing he’d picked her ad because it was the smallest, and he figured he could afford her. No great boost to the ego, but Grier liked to think it worked out for both of them.

At the sight of him in a black Armani jacket and Lucky jeans, Amy had simply lost the ability to breathe. The three of them ended up at the Cedars-Sinai Emergency Department where she was treated for a panic attack and earned the eternal gratitude of the on-duty nurses who got autographs from Grier’s former client.

Thinking they might be headed that way again now, Grier pulled a paper bag from the stack in the bottom of her desk drawer, popped it open and handed it to Amy. She took a few deep breaths, and when she spoke again, her voice was back in its normal range. “Thanks,” she said.

“So tell me.”

“Okay. George Fitzgerald, Irish Duke of Iberlorn is coming to Manhattan next month for a charity fundraiser ball. The KT Network is doing an episode on it for their show Dream Date.”

Grier sat down at her desk, flipped open the lid to her MacBook and turned it on. “Are we being asked to do one of the makeovers?”

“Noooo,” Amy said, all but shaking with excitement. “It’s even better than that! They want to use the name Jane Austen Girl for the episode and the ball. They also want you to hold a contest in your hometown to pick ten girls for the show.”

At this, Grier sat back in her chair, feeling the color drain from her face. “What?”

“Isn’t it great?” Amy went on without noticing that Grier had just choked out that last word. “To be able to go back to where you grew up and pick some lucky girl who might end up on a date with a duke? How cool is that?”

“Why my hometown?”

“Apparently, they want a small town girl makes good story. Like your own, I guess.”

Quiet for a moment, Grier said, “Is that part optional?”

“Which part?

“The hometown part.”

Amy looked at her, blinking as if she could not imagine where the question came from. “I don’t think so. It sounded like part of the setup.”

“Could you call and check?” she asked, trying for nonchalance and hearing her own failure.

“Why?” Amy asked, blue-shadowed eyes widening. “Is that a problem?”

“Ah, yes, actually, it is,” Grier said. An understatement, if there ever was one.

“But things have been kind of slow,” Amy reasoned. “This could keep us busy, like, forever.”

“You might be right, but I haven’t been home in nineteen years. Going back to Timbell Creek isn’t even a possibility. Not for a duke. Not for anyone.”

“Oh,” Amy said, all of the enthusiasm draining from her face almost instantly. She worried her lower lip with her front teeth, looking at Grier with uncertainty, as if she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure she should.

“You can call me an idiot for turning it down, if you like,” Grier said. “Most likely you’d be right.”

“It’s just that—”

“Just that what?”

“Mr. Goshen from the bank also called this morning. He asked me to let you know they can’t give you an extension on the remainder of your loan. He said the balance would be due at the end of the month as originally scheduled.”

Grier sat back in her chair. “Why? He was just here yesterday and agreed to it.”

“I know,” Amy interrupted. “He said to let you know it was out of his hands.”

Grier turned to stare out the window, trying to remind herself that she had been in tight spots before. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the discomfort. But paying off the loan at this point would wipe out any cushion she had.

“Did I tell you how much the KT Network is willing to offer you?” Amy wheedled.

“No, you didn’t,” Grier said, not sure she wanted to know.

“Twenty thousand,” Amy said. “To set it up, do an initial cattle call, narrow the choices down to ten, at which point they will send in some of their people for the final decision-making.”

“Did you say twenty thousand?”

“I did,” Amy said, her tone making it clear that she couldn’t see how Grier had any choice but to accept the offer.

Twenty thousand dollars. Pay off the balance of her last loan and be debt free. In exchange for something she said she would never do. Go back to Timbell Creek.

She thought then of the eagle she’d seen earlier, so conspicuously out of place. Was this its message? Alert: life-changing decision ahead. You’ll have to think long and hard about this one.

She didn’t need an eagle to tell her that.

Chapter One

Never, ever, wear open-toed sandals without a fresh pedicure. Chipped polish is the first thing a man will notice even if the rest of you is picture perfect. Think Boomerang with Eddie Murphy.

Grier McAllister – Blog at Jane Austen Girl

Grier had long envisioned the day she rode back into her past on a white charger, swiping the muck from every bad memory with an industrial size mop until there wasn’t a single marred image left.

But as she drove into Timbell Creek at noon on a beautiful Virginia May day, her white charger had begun to limp and the landscape of her childhood appeared distressingly familiar.

The oil light on the BMW’s control panel had begun to flash a few miles back. Now, the engine made a startling sputtering sound, and then cut off completely. Grier glanced in the rear view mirror, gave the wheel a sharp yank to the right, managing to land two tires on the shoulder before the engine died altogether, and the steering locked.

Sebbie, the twelve-pound ball of poodle fluff who had declared himself hers three years ago by following her home from a run in Central Park, cocked an ear at her.

“Don’t ask,” she said. “When was the last time I drove the thing?”

Sebbie barked once, now facing her on the leather seat. If he were a man, the translation would be, “So when was the last time you checked the oil?”

“It’s not my fault,” Grier said. “Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do when the car’s taken in for service?”

Sebbie whined and plopped down on the seat, head on his paws, as if he found the question unworthy of an answer.

Not once in all the times Grier had designed her return-to-the-past stories had they ever contained a scene where she let her car run out of oil. Nonetheless, here she was. She tried the engine again, only to be met with a low groaning sound that signaled nothing more than a complete lack of cooperation. She sat for a moment, her head against the back of the seat, staring through the sunroof at a swipe of vivid blue sky.

How exactly had she let herself be talked into returning to Timbell Creek?

She reached for her phone, swiped the screen and tapped in 411. Nothing. No signal.

Great. Sebbie emitted another low whine, as if this, too, could be blamed on her.

“Looks like we’re walking, buddy.”

At this new development, he hopped up and wagged his tail.

Grier opened the door and slid out, glancing down at the strappy Via Spiga heels she’d paired with a Donna Karan sleeveless wrap dress this morning. The car had decided to have its oil crisis ten or so miles from the town limits of Timbell Creek, and she did a mental calculation now of how long it would take her to walk that far in these shoes.

She snapped on Sebbie’s leash, and he leapt from the car, his opinion on the status of their day clearly having changed.

“Maybe we can pick up a signal down the road a bit,” Grier said.

Another bark of agreement, and Sebbie tugged at the leash.

“Hold on,” Grier chided, grabbing her purse from the back seat and hitting the remote lock.

They headed down the two-lane road, Grier’s heels clicking on the asphalt, Sebbie bouncing along on the end of the leash. The sun glared against her shoulders, its burn reminding her that she didn’t have on sunscreen. She flipped the cell phone open and held it up, waving it left and right like a compass in search of true north. Nothing. Nada.

Sebbie pranced along with his head and tail high, as if the two of them were headed for an appointment with the Queen of England. Not for the first time it occurred to Grier that it would be nice to have a dog’s perspective of the world. Nothing to worry about beyond the immediately visible.

To their right, a herd of black and white cows had called a halt to their grazing, staring at them with big, blinking brown eyes. With a snort, a younger calf broke rank and trotted over to the fence for a closer look. Sebbie barked a greeting. The cow lowered its head and let out a long mooooooo. Grier wondered what they’d just said to one another. Probably something along the lines of “wonder what she was thinking when she picked out those shoes this morning.”

The whole herd of cows followed the younger one’s lead, and they meandered along the fence until they reached the end, where they stood in a group and stared after them. Grier wished for a box of sugar cubes, a bag of carrots or something cows might like. The half-empty box of Tic Tacs hunkering in a corner of her purse wasn’t likely to impress them.

Just ahead to the left lay a sprawling cornfield, row upon row of short green stalks sprouting from the tilled earth. The musty scent of clay and fertilizer hurled her back to her childhood and the spring mornings she’d stood waiting for the school bus, watching as Mr. Brooks who had lived across the road, maneuvered his tractor up and down his long field, turning the dirt over for planting.

Uncanny how a memory could send a person straight back to the past. A place she hadn’t let herself visit, even in thought, for a long time.

She glanced down at her clothes, aware that the shoes and dress alone cost more than her mama had ever made in three months of working at the sewing factory in town.

She readjusted her sunglasses and blinked the thought away, holding the phone up again to see if it had changed its mind yet. Nope. Sebbie barked and trotted on a little faster, pulling her along with him.

“Hold up there,” she said. “I’m getting a blister.”

Sebbie actually looked at the shoes and, clearly unimpressed, forged on as if they were the lead contender in a bobsled contest.

A vehicle sounded in the distance, and sudden relief washed over her. She stopped and turned around to glance back, urging Sebbie off the asphalt into the tall grass on the side of the road. Was it tick season yet? She reached down and scratched the side of one leg, the very thought making her itch.

A truck appeared at the edge of what she could see of the long, straight road. The engine sounded like a mad lion, roaring even louder as it grew nearer, and Grier moved the two of them farther into the grass.

The smell arrived a good ten seconds ahead of the mud green truck. If the stench surrounding it had a color, it would be that exact same shade of mud green. Grier pinched her nose together. Sebbie yelped and made a low-throated protest, before barking in all out earnest.

As the truck rumbled closer, she read the banner inscribed across the front of the hood. What must have once been white letters had long since succumbed to a dingy brown. Horace and Son Septik Tanc Cleaning. Hard to say whether the spelling was intentional in the vein of cute advertising or just an honest case of illiteracy.

To Grier’s dismay, the truck began to slow down. Sebbie looked up at her with a pitiful plea in his eyes, wrinkling his nose. She put her hand over her own nose and mouth and blinked hard, her eyes beginning to sting.

The driver hit the brakes and came to a tire smoking stop fifteen yards in front of them. Just as she considered ducking into the cow pasture, the reverse lights popped on, and the truck began to roll backwards. The smell now hit them full force, and she caught a glimpse of the hose hanging from one side, trying not to imagine where it had last been used.

“Hey, there, ma’am!”

Grier lifted her gaze to the lowered window on the truck’s passenger side. A young man in his late twenties grinned out at her, his bill cap boasting the same company logo as the front of the truck. “You need some help there, ma’am?”

Sebbie began to bark, as though he’d suddenly realized it was his duty. Grier rubbed his back, saying, “Ah, no, actually, we’re fine.” She waved her cell phone as if that explained why she was walking this road in her unfortunate choice of footwear.

The driver leaned forward. If the guy on the passenger side was the son in Horace and Son, this could only be Horace.

“That yer BMW back yonder?” he asked. A front middle tooth had gone missing, accounting for the audible whistle between each word.

“Yes, I seem to have a little oil problem.”

“Funny how these fancy cars won’t cooperate without it,” he said, chuckling. “Y’all hop on in here, and we’ll give you a ride up to the Exxon.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” she said quickly, “but it’s such a nice day, we’re fine to walk.”

Son looked at her as if the top of her head had just sprung a worrisome leak. “Shoot now, it’s gotta be five miles or more.”

Sebbie barked again and started to pull her toward the truck, obviously in agreement with Son.

“Nothing like a good walk on a spring day,” she said, painting the words with a big smile.

This time, Horace delivered the look. “If you say so, ma’am.”

“Thank you for stopping, though.”

Both men nodded, and then the truck ground off one gear to the next until it turned to a blip in the distance.

The smell, however, lingered.

Grier glanced down at Sebbie, unable to resist scolding him. “You were just going to hop right in there with them?”

He cocked his head to one side and started walking, forcing her to follow.

She teetered after him. “What made you decide you could live with the smell?”

Sebbie barked once and glanced back at her shoes.

“Yeah, well, I can hardly roll back into Timbell Creek reeking of someone’s septic tank, can I?”

Sebbie pranced on, head high.

Her blister now raged in protest, and she wished for the first aid kit in the glove compartment of her car. They walked another half mile or so in silence, the sun raising more red splotches on her skin.

Sebbie started to pant, and sweat stains bloomed in the armholes of Grier’s sleeveless dress. Lovely.

She had started to seriously regret her rejection of Horace and Son when another vehicle rounded the curve behind them. She glanced at her swelling feet – her pedicured red toes were starting to look like cherry tomatoes. This time, she wouldn’t be so picky.

A red Chevrolet truck roared toward them, the body of which had been jacked a good foot higher than its original intended position above the tires. The chrome bumpers and side runner gleamed as if maintained by someone who cleaned royal silver for a living.

The horn on this one played “I Wish I Was in Dixie.” Sebbie’s bark now hit a few notes of uncertainty before evolving into a low rrrrrrrr. The truck stopped, and the driver leaned over, rolling down the passenger side window. “You need some—”

The question ended there, and they recognized each other at the same moment. The sound of his voice flung her back nineteen years to a place she had never imagined again finding herself. First thought? He still looked like Bradley Cooper.

Whoever said life always turned out fair never spent nearly two decades wishing in vain for an old boyfriend to develop a paunch and chin warts.

“Darryl Lee?”

“Is that really you, Grier?” he asked, disbelieving.

“I—yes,” she said, hearing the shock in her own voice.

He lowered his dark sunglasses and gave her a long look, following it up with a whistle. “Good gracious, girl, who woulda guessed you’d turn out this fine?”

Should she be flattered or offended? Considering their past, she latched onto the latter.

“Now that’s a compliment,” he assured her, as if he’d read her decision.

“Thanks,” she said, failing to disguise her sarcasm.

“That your car I passed a couple miles back, or are you on some kind of marathon walking tour?” His chuckle had Southern-boy charm.

“That was my car,” she said, forcing the words out through a fixed smile.

“You need some help?”

She kept the smile pasted in place, trying hard not to compare his offer to jumping into a pit of vipers. She’d have sacrificed manicures for a year to have another option, but her feet throbbed, and the possibility of being forced to wear bedroom slippers in front of the cameras tomorrow morning prodded the answer from her. “A ride to the next gas station would be great.”

He opened the door and patted the seat. “Sure thing, baby.”

“So not your baby,” she said, climbing in with Sebbie under her arm.

Darryl Lee grinned an infuriating grin.

The seats had been slicked in silicone spray, and she slid backwards with a mortifying lack of grace. Sebbie grappled for footing, too, before giving up altogether and plopping down, legs spread-eagled.

She remembered then that the seats in the Chevelle Darryl Lee had driven in high school had a similar sliding board effect. Some unsettling memories of making out in the back seat of that car floated up to the soundtrack of the two of them giggling wildly and slipping around like two fools greased with shortening.

A speaker hung in either corner of the truck’s interior, and the low twang of bluegrass filled the awkward silence.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got somewhere to be.”

His gaze lingered at the neckline of her dress before he slapped a hand on the steering wheel. “No problem,” he said, gunning the truck back onto the road, gravel spitting out behind them.

Darryl Lee reached over and patted Sebbie’s head, only to receive a low rumble of complaint in return. “He looks like something the cat spit out.”

She sliced him a glare.

“Nice leash though. Is that Louis Vuitton?”

“Like you would know Louis Vuitton from Wal-Mart.”

Darryl Lee laughed. “Girl, I’ve had a little polish since you knew me.”

Grier pulled Sebbie into her lap just as Darryl Lee gave his fingers a sniff and then drew back with an astonished, “Whew. What is that smell? You two get into something out there?”

Immediately defensive, she said, “This truck drove by and we. . .never mind.” If mortification needed a poster girl, she’d be a shoe in. Of the many reunion scenarios with Darryl Lee she’d envisioned over the years, this wasn’t one of them.

Darryl Lee draped his arm across the seat, steering with his left hand and pinning her with an assessing look.

“Shouldn’t you be watching the road?” she asked.

He grinned and wolf-whistled through his teeth. “Damn, girl. You do look good.”

“Thanks,” she said, aiming for a note of indifference. “You look the same.”

“That good or bad?”

“Neither. Just a statement of fact.”

“What’s it been? Seventeen, eighteen years since we saw each other?”

“Nineteen,” she said a little too quickly.

“Ah. Nineteen years. Now, that’s hard to believe. I’d hoped I was reason enough to make you stay.”

Did she hear real regret in his voice? She turned then to glare at him. “Let’s not rewrite history, shall we?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My shadow hadn’t left town before you took up with Marta.”

He had the decency to look sheepish. “Only because you broke my heart.”

“As I said, you haven’t changed.”

He let that one go, watched the road for a bit. “You married, Grier?”

“No,” she said, and then curious in spite of her declared indifference, “You?”

“Not so much anymore.”

She folded her arms across her chest, set her gaze outside the window, unable to keep the sarcasm from her reply. “I’m shocked.”

“Hey, now, do I really deserve this kind of grief?” he asked with a smile she remembered only too well.

“If I didn’t think you’d kick me out of the truck, I’d say yes.”

Darryl Lee laughed. The sound shimmered through her. Unfair that old chords could be so easily strummed.

“Darryl Lee. I appreciate the ride, but let’s not pretend there’s any love lost between us. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve seen your true colors, and you don’t need to bother with the pretense.”

He gave this a moment of consideration before saying, “Does New York City do this to everybody who ends up there?”

“What?” she asked with reluctance.

“Steal their softness.”

She absorbed the statement, feeling as if she’d been sucker punched. Not what she’d expected him to say. Accuse her of deserting her beginnings, okay, she could live with that. But he had no idea why she’d left here, and her hand itched with the need to give him a ringing reminder that, of all people, he had no right to judge her.

“How far is the gas station?”

“Half mile or so.”

“I can walk the rest of the way. Just pull over, please.”

“Hold on, now, Grier,” he said on a half-laugh. “Don’t you think we’re letting this get a little out of hand?”

“Actually, no. The mistake was getting in here in the first place.”

“Dang woman, you do know how to hold a grudge.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Holding a grudge would mean I’ve given you a second thought in all these years, and I assure you that’s not the case.”

He lowered his sunglasses and lasered her with a look that labeled her soliloquy a load of cow manure.

She didn’t bother to deny it. The Exxon sign had popped into sight, and with any luck at all, this conversation had gasped its last breath.

“If you say so, sugar.”

They veered into the station as if there were an impending shortage on brake pads, and Darryl Lee was conserving. She gripped the door handle and held onto Sebbie’s collar to keep him from taking a nosedive onto the floorboard. A white Ford truck pulled away from one of the gas pumps, forcing Darryl Lee to give in and siphon off some of his brake supply. At the same time, he hit the horn, sending out another round of Dixie.

He lowered his window and waved for the driver to stop. “Hey,” he yelled, “I’ve been lookin’ for you! Pull over!”

She got a glimpse of the man in the other truck and the distinct impression that he wasn’t as happy to see Darryl Lee as Darryl Lee was to see him. Darryl Lee cut the engine and put a hand on her arm. “Can you wait a minute?”

“As a matter of fact, no,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I really need to get going.”

“Nineteen years, and you can’t wait two minutes?”

She failed to hide her astonishment. “You’re not really suggesting that I owe you something, are you?”

He glanced down at her feet, now threatening to burst free from the flimsy straps of her Italian sandals.

“Two minutes,” she conceded.

He hopped out of the truck, walked over to the Ford.

Sebbie took his place in the driver’s seat, paws planted on the windowsill, staring at the two men as if he’d been given a front row seat at a catfight.

The truck’s passenger side window lowered, and a large black and tan hound stuck its head out the window, greeting Darryl Lee with a tongue-lolling smile.

Sebbie started yipping full blast.

Grier picked him up and shushed him. To no avail. He did a happy dance on her lap, wagging his whole body at the hound, who was, of course, paying no attention to him.

The Ford’s driver got out and walked around to where Darryl Lee stood rubbing the dog’s head.

Grier tried not to stare, but curiosity got the better of her, and she squinted at the man’s face. With a start, she recognized him as Darryl Lee’s older brother, the resemblance impossible to miss.

Bobby Jack Randall. The name came instantly to her, even though she’d barely met him once when she and Darryl Lee came back to his house to watch TV, high school code for making out. Bobby Jack had been home from college for the weekend, and she remembered now the way he’d looked at her with what she’d later realized – too late, actually – was pity and even later on discovered the reason for.

If Darryl Lee looked like Bradley Cooper, Bobby Jack could pass for a slightly more serious, slightly taller version. He had the same dark hair and startling green eyes. Amazingly enough, he was even better-looking than Darryl Lee.

“You’re a rat’s ass, you know it, son?” Bobby Jack said, glancing her way with clear disapproval, his voice carrying through Darryl Lee’s rolled down window.

“Hey, man, I wish, but it’s not what you’re thinkin’,” Darryl Lee said.

“Right. I thought you and Dreama were trying to work things out.”

Darryl Lee glanced back at Grier, and she decided his two minutes were up.

“Come on, Sebbie.” She picked up his leash, opened the door and slid out, waiting for Sebbie to jump down beside her.

He did, jerking the leash from her hand and shooting across the parking lot toward the truck, the hound now barking at him in a very large hound dog bark.

Grier ran after him, her feet again screaming in the hateful heels. “Sebbie!”

“Looks like he’s got a little crush on Florence,” Darryl Lee drawled, smiling at her.

Grier’s face went three shades of red. She scooped Sebbie up and without giving either man another glance, teetered for the inside of the station.

The girl up front studied her as if Grier had fallen out of the sky. She had a tablespoon size wad of gum in her right cheek. Each time she chewed, the gum made a sharp popping sound, the art of which must have taken some practice.

“Is there anyone here who can give me a ride back to my car with some oil?” Grier asked, while Sebbie struggled into a position where he could look back at the truck over her shoulder.

“We don’t really allow no dawgs in here,” the girl said. “Bobby Jack don’t even bring his Florence in, and if anybody was allowed to bring a dawg in, it would be Bobby Jack.”

“Sebbie’s really not very much like a dog,” Grier said.

The girl narrowed her gaze at the back of Sebbie’s head. “Looks like a dawg to me. Maybe he could pass for a shrimp.” She chuckled at her own joke, then sobered with a reluctant, “You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“My car broke down a few miles back,” Grier said. “It just needs oil.”

The girl popped her gum again, watching Grier as though she thought she might grab a pack of the Redman tobacco gracing the rack in front of her and make a run for it. She picked up the phone on the wall, punched a button and snapped out, “Marty, come to the front, please.”

She turned back to Grier then and said, “I guess we’ll make a one time exception for your . . .dawg.”

“Thank you so much,” Grier said, trying to sound grateful even as she heard the sarcasm in her voice.

Grier glanced out at the parking lot and saw the white Ford pulling away from the station, the hound’s head hanging out the window, ears flying back with the wind.

Darryl Lee headed her way. He arrived at the door at the same time as a guy dressed in grease-spotted coveralls, a bandana covering his head.

Gum Girl hitched a thumb at Grier and said, “She needs a tow, Marty.”

Marty smiled a brown-toothed smile that made Grier wonder if he’d been dipping into the store’s Redman stash. “Not a problem. Let me get the truck, and you can meet me out front.”

“Thanks,” Grier said.

Darryl Lee waited until Marty headed out the door before saying, semi-hurt, “I could’ve given you a ride back.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “Dreama’s probably expecting you somewhere.”

Darryl Lee grinned. “That jealousy I hear in your voice?”

She rolled her eyes and gave him a look that would have humbled most men. Except Darryl Lee, of course.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Gum Girl watching the two of them as if she’d just flipped the channel to a steamy soap. With Sebbie now deflated and whimpering in her arms, Grier cut short the entertainment and headed out the door to wait for Marty and the tow truck.

“Hey, whoa, now.” Darryl Lee pulled her to a stop with a hand at her elbow. “How long you gonna be in town, Grier?”

“No longer than I have to be.”

“How long’s that?”

She rounded on him then, the aggravations of this day suddenly getting the better of her. “What difference does it make to you, Darryl Lee?”

“It makes a lot of difference,” he said, his voice soft in a way she had once found completely impossible to resist. “Come on, Grier. You know it’d be good to catch up.”

“Isn’t that what we just did?”

“It was a start.”

“And a finish as far as I’m concerned.”

Marty pulled up in the tow truck, rolling down the window to call out, “You ready, ma’am?”

She nodded and signaled she’d be there in a moment. “Thanks for the help, Darryl Lee. It was good to see you,” she said, aiming for a note of graciousness and falling several decibels short.

“Can I call you while you’re here?”

“What point would there be in that?”

He dropped his gaze down the length of her, the look in his eyes answering her question. “Exactly,” she said. “You take care, Darryl Lee.”

She climbed into the truck, Sebbie hopping up to sit at her feet. She lifted her hand in a small wave.

“You haven’t seen the last of me, Grier,” he called out as they pulled away.

She rolled up the window and forced herself not to look back.

Chapter Two

If it looks too good to be true. . .it is.

– From the Calendar-to-live-by on Bobby Jack Randall’s desk

Bobby Jack Randall wasn’t a suspicious man. But he did pay attention to the daily dollops of wisdom doled out by the desktop planner on which he kept track of his work schedule. He’d long ago learned that the man upstairs handed a guy signs along the way, and if he chose to ignore them, then he had nobody but himself to blame for the consequences.

He’d ignored enough of them in the past to qualify as an expert on the subject.

He leaned back in his chair and opened up the newspaper he hadn’t taken time to read this morning. He turned to the sports page, thinking about his brother and the hot number he’d just seen him with out at the filling station, then immediately shoved away the image. If Darryl Lee wanted to flush his marriage down the toilet with an affair, there wasn’t much he could do to stop him.

A less than pleasant odor wafted up and hit him in the nose. “Aw, Flo,” Bobby Jack said, waving the newspaper in front of his face.

The hound curled up next to his chair raised her head and looked at him with practiced innocence.

“What the heck did you get into this time?”

She dropped her chin onto her outstretched paws and sighed as if to say she was admitting to nothing.

The front door of the office burst open, bringing with it a shot of warm spring air. Bobby Jack loved this time of year and only tolerated the sometimes too-long and too-lonely Timbell Creek winters because of its eventual yielding to his favorite season.

“Daddy! You’re not going to believe this!”

The whirlwind blowing into his office was his sixteen-year-old daughter, Andersen. Andy for short. Waving a blue flyer in her right hand, she picked up his to-go cup of iced tea and took a sip, making an instant gag face. “Needs sugar,” she said.

“Ruin your own tea,” he said with amused affection. “I like mine how I like it.”

She plopped down on the floor next to Flo, rubbed the dog’s silky ears and rolled her eyes. “Even if you’re wrong?” And then to Florence, “Shoo, Flo.”

Florence didn’t even raise her head this time, content to sleep through the ridicule.

“You need to get her some probiotics, Daddy,” Andy said, waving her hand in front of her nose.

“She needs to stay out of Harvey Larson’s cow pasture.”

“In her defense, Kyle and I used to pretend to eat cow pies when we were little. . .”

“Andy,” he said quickly, cutting her short.

Andy laughed. “I did say pretend.”

Bobby Jack smiled in spite of himself. He loved to hear his daughter laugh. It was one of his favorite things in life. He adored her with a fierceness that couldn’t lay claim to a single ounce of objectivity. He figured that was how it should be since parenting sometimes required the dredging up of skills a man didn’t know he had. That love did not, however, completely blind him to his daughter’s shortcomings. Including the fact that she would argue with a fence post if she had even the remotest chance of bringing it around to her way of thinking. She’d come by that stubbornness honestly.

“What’s with the flyer?” he asked.

She put it on the desk where he could read it. He scanned it once, quickly, laughed and shook his head. “Where did you find this?”

“Mama left it on my windshield.”

“That should answer any questions you have about it right there,” he said, all the amusement evaporating from his voice.

“She thinks I ought to enter.”

“News shocker of the day,” Bobby Jack said.

Andy’s eyes narrowed, and she folded her arms across her chest. “This isn’t a hoax, Daddy. It’s true. I Googled it.”

Bobby Jack glanced at the calendar on his desk, pointed at the day’s quote to live by. “Too good to be true?”

Andy leaned forward and read it, and this time, she laughed. “You really believe those things, don’t you?”

“I have some personal experience on this particular tidbit. Your mama being exhibit number one if you’re looking for evidence.”

“Who said I was looking?”

He glanced at the flyer again.

Win a Date With a Duke!!

Auditions Held at the Mockingbird Inn

May 5th at 9 a.m.

“Andy, what on earth would you want to enter something like that for? As smart as you are, you don’t need—”

“Mama thinks it would be good for me.”

“How the heck does she figure?” His voice rose with the end of the question, the way it almost always did on any subject involving Priscilla.

“You don’t think they’d pick me, do you?”

He got up from his chair, opened a filing cabinet drawer and started sticking papers inside. “I didn’t say any such thing.”

“You’re thinking it, though,” she said, hurt threading her voice.

He turned and looked at her. “No. I’m not. It just seems—”

“Beneath me?”

“Well, yeah. Exactly.”

She waved a hand at her surroundings, her gaze sweeping the small but neat office, a desk at each wall, a row of windows on the front that looked out onto Main Street. “How could a date with a duke be beneath me?”

Bobby Jack blinked once, hard, reminded himself sixteen-year-olds said things they didn’t mean.

Florence lifted her head and studied them both.

Andy stomped to the door, yanked it open, then swung back around.

“You like that I’m not as pretty as Mama, don’t you? That way you can be sure I’ll hang around a little longer than she did.”

Bobby Jack stood silent while she slammed the door behind her. He heard the Ford truck he’d given her on her sixteenth birthday roar to life, tires squealing once as she popped the clutch and peeled out of the parking place.

He sat down in his chair, picked up his iced tea and then tossed it in the trashcan. He’d be getting Dad-of-the-year for this one.

Florence put her head back on her paws and sighed as if she agreed with him.

The door opened again, and Alice Marshall bustled in from her lunch hour, carrying a pocketbook as big as a mail sack. Alice was nearly as wide as she was tall. Thanks to a monthly dose of Miss Clairol, her hair had remained nearly the same bright red in the past three decades of her life as it had the first three. She had a deep dimple on either cheek and green eyes that could bathe a person in approval or dress them down with equal effectiveness.

“Was that Andy I saw tearing off down the street?” she asked, her voice cracking under the remains of a cold.

“Yeah,” Bobby Jack said, unable to keep the defeat from his response. He crossed the office and helped her unload, placing her things on her desk.

“Hey, now,” Alice said, patting his shoulder with a hand arthritis was starting to get the better of. “They don’t know what they’re saying at that age. Their brain’s been temporarily taken hostage by hormones.”

“Isn’t there something a doctor can prescribe for that?”

Alice laughed, picking up her purse and putting it behind her desk, then walking over to give Florence a pat on the head. “If there was, I don’t know a parent who wouldn’t be lining up at Doc Barker’s door. Unfortunately, it’s one of those things you just have to swim through to get to the other side.”

Bobby Jack sat down at his own desk, leaned back with his hands laced behind his head. “Why can’t they stay like they were when they were ten? Before all the puberty crap? At ten, you can have an honest conversation with them, and yet they still look at you like you might know a thing or two.”

Alice lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “That, you’ll have to ask the man upstairs. So what was the upset between you, anyway?”

“She wants to enter some ridiculous contest to win a date with a duke.”

Alice raised penciled-in eyebrows. “Really, now?”

“Like there’s even a remote possibility the thing is on the up and up.”

“And? What’s the worst that can happen if it’s not?”

He considered this, then shook his head. “She’ll end up feeling foolish.”

“So let her.”

“Let her?” Bobby Jack shot back. “What kind of advice is that?”

“The only kind that’s going to get you out of the dog house.”

“If it keeps her from making a mistake, I’m willing to stay there a while.”

“Bobby Jack. You’ve got to let that girl start making some of her own mistakes. For the child’s whole life, you’ve been throwing yourself in front of her every time she gets ready to fall. How’s she ever going to learn what it’s like to have to pick herself back up when you’re no longer there to act as a mattress?”

“You got plans for her to go somewhere or something?”

“The last I checked you’re as human as the rest of us. At some point, you have to let them grow up, Bobby Jack.”

He glanced out the window, saw Priscilla’s banana yellow Corvette pull into a parking space across the street. “Yeah, maybe. But first there’s something else I’ve got to do.”

Florence at his heels, he stepped outside of the office onto the sidewalk, then jaywalked in front of Pete Thompson’s old clunker farm use truck. Pete, almost as ancient in appearance as the truck itself, shook a finger out his rolled down window and honked the horn.

Bobby Jack just smiled and waved, as if he couldn’t hear Pete’s grumbling through the lowered window.

Most days, Bobby Jack went to great lengths to avoid run-ins with his ex-wife, succeeding largely even though their respective businesses were right across the street from one another. When she’d sailed back into town a few years ago and opened up her Well-Kept Woman Day Spa and Salon right across the street from him, he’d considered moving. But he liked his office. As a matter of principle, if anyone moved, it should be Priscilla.

In the parking lot, he stopped just short of her car, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from giving in to the temptation to strangle her.

“What the devil kind of nonsense are you trying to fill my daughter’s head with now?”

“You mean our daughter.” Priscilla Randall leaned forward to check her hair and lipstick in the rearview mirror before opening the door and giving him a look of concern. “And Bobby Jack, you better watch that temper of yours. High blood pressure can certainly become an issue at your age. I mean who would take care of poor Florence if you up and left us?”

“I’ll worry about my own damn blood pressure,” he said, even as he felt his face redden. “Try and stick to the subject if you can.”

“And what was the subject again?” she asked, sliding one curvy leg from the car and then the other, before closing the door and executing a Supermodel catwalk to the beauty salon, not even bothering to check to make sure he was following. Men had been following Priscilla since she’d first learned how to blink her big baby blue eyes, and she’d never once questioned the continuing success of her efforts. Certainly not where Bobby Jack was concerned.

“Our daughter. See if you can hang onto that thought for the next ten seconds.”

“Now, see, Bobby Jack, that’s where you get your backwards reputation. It’s hardly politically correct to make fun of those of us afflicted with ADD.”

Bobby Jack resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. Somewhere along the way, Priscilla had found a doctor who had diagnosed her inability to stick with one man, one project, one interest as symptoms that fell under the latest disorder umbrella. He didn’t doubt that for some people the problem actually existed. But for Priscilla, it made a handy hat rack on which to hang a lifetime worth of excuses.

Having been married to her, Bobby Jack would have fine-tuned the diagnosis to a severe case of bored-too-easily, aggravated by a never-ceasing need for the new and different. New shoes. New car. New husband. But then nobody had asked him.

“All aspersions to your affliction aside, why can’t you encourage Andy to put her efforts into something that might actually lead somewhere?”

Priscilla turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, flicking on a light and dropping her purse on the receptionist’s desk. “Well, I think a shot at becoming royalty would qualify as somewhere, don’t you?”

Florence plopped down on the tile floor, as if she thought this might take a while.

Bobby Jack stared at his ex-wife for several long moments, completely at a loss as to where to take the conversation from here. How he had ever imagined the two of them compatible enough to actually marry was beyond him. But then he’d had a different rating scale back then, the basis of which had little to do with lifelong compatibility.

“Do you for one minute actually think that hoax is for real?”

“Why, yes,” she said, splaying a hand on one hip. “Yes, I do.”

“Are you still trying to tell her the tooth fairy’s for real, too?”

This got him a look of real annoyance. “Don’t be ridiculous, Bobby Jack.”

“The tooth fairy’s ridiculous, but this isn’t?”

“Not when it has an honest-to-God TV network and a well-known image consultant backing it.”

She made the pronouncement as if the President himself had signed off on the whole proposal. Bobby Jack shook his head, speechless. “She’s a straight A student, Priscilla. She could go to any Ivy League school of her choosing if she keeps her grades where they are now, and you think this is how she should be spending her time?”

Priscilla circled the salon, flipping on lights. “She’s also a girl, Bobby Jack. Something I think you’d do well to notice once in a while.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. You take her out working with that obnoxious crew of yours like she’s just another redneck with a hammer.”

“That ‘obnoxious’ crew of mine happens to be a good bunch of guys, so I’d appreciate it if you’d table the slander. And Andy helps out because she wants to.”

Priscilla picked up a brush, began pulling out excess hair and dropping it in a trashcan. “Maybe when she was twelve. In case you haven’t noticed, that’s no longer true.”

“Did she say something to you?”

“She didn’t have to.”

“Oh, you’re a mind reader now?”

“A mother senses these things.”

That statement alone was enough to send Bobby Jack off on a tangent. “I advise you not to go there, Priscilla.”

Her blue eyes narrowed. “I know what kind of mother you think I am, Bobby Jack. But Andy is my daughter. And I do love her. Whether you like it or not.”

“Since when do loving mothers run off and leave their baby?”

Priscilla made a sound that was half laugh, half disbelief. “You cannot let it go, can you?”

“Actually, no, I can’t. I don’t see why I should have to. You’re the one who made the choices you made, Priscilla. Nobody forced you to leave and spend the next eleven years pretending you were still a teenager.”

“People get divorced every day,” she said, her voice heating up. “And people find a way to make it work. But not you, Bobby Jack! You’re so all-fired convinced that you’ve been wronged, you let that bitterness eat away at you a little more each day. Pretty soon, there’s not going to be anything even recognizable of the old you left. You’re just going to be this dried up old fart who rides around with a hound in the front seat of his truck instead of a woman!”

“I didn’t come over here to rehash our history,” he cut her off in a sharp voice. “I came over to tell you to quit filling Andy’s head with nonsense!”

“First of all, I don’t take orders from you. And second of all, she doesn’t see it as nonsense. Did you ever think she might want to know that you believe in her, Bobby Jack?”

“I do believe in her. I believe she can do great things with her life. And that’s what I want for her.”

“As long as those things fall under your definition of great, right?”

He started to answer, then stopped. He didn’t have to listen to this crap from the woman who had conveniently dropped him and their daughter three years into their marriage, as if they were yesterday’s old newspapers. “You know what, Priscilla? This was a complete waste of time. As talking to you always is.”

Flo got up and trotted after Bobby Jack just as Priscilla threw out, “Come on back again when you don’t have such a bee in your bonnet. You could use a good hair cut!”

Chapter Three

The state of your closet is a direct indicator of the state of your life. Trousers mixed in with dresses? Summer clothes mixed with winter? A shoe missing in action? If this sounds familiar, it’s a good bet chaos is ruling outside the closet as well.

– Grier McAllister – Blog at Jane Austen Girl

By the time Marty towed Grier’s car into the garage, it was almost four-thirty, and she’d all but wilted from the events of the afternoon. Even Sebbie drooped and showed definite signs of needing a nap.

Amy had reserved a room for her at the Mockingbird Inn where the selection process would take place. The ever-accommodating Marty drove them over in the tow truck and dropped them at the front with a promise to have Grier’s car up and running again by tomorrow. He’d recommended giving it a check-up just to be safe.

With Sebbie at her side, she rolled her suitcase into the small lobby and headed for the registration desk. A friendly young man with slightly bucked teeth checked them in, the name Beaner Purdy stitched across the pocket of his burgundy uniform.

“I believe you’re here for the Jane Austen Girl auditions, aren’t you, ma’am?” he asked, smiling a big blinding smile.

“Yes,” she said, following along with Sebbie as Beaner pulled her suitcase to the elevator.

“It’s got the whole town buzzin’.”

“I hope that means we’ll have a good turnout for the auditions then.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. I expect you’ll fill the place up. My sister, Edith? She’s a shoe-in for your makeover. If it weren’t for the wart on her chin, she’d look just like that actress with the tattoo on her shoulder. The one who adopted all the children?”

“Really?” Grier said.

“I keep tellin’ her she oughta get one of them laser doctors to take that thing off. But she just gets on her high horse and starts sayin’ how men are all about the superficial.”

“Hm,” Grier said, not sure what to add that would be anything remotely resembling diplomatic.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

Beaner stepped out and beckoned for Sebbie and her to follow. “You and your buddy are right down this way, Ms. McAllister.” At her door, he took the card and slid it into the lock. She stepped inside, removing Sebbie’s leash. He made a beeline for the king-size bed, hopping up and making himself at home among the quartet of pillows propped at the headboard.

Beaner pointed out the room’s amenities, mini-bar, TV, and pullout couch should she need it for any reason. “If you want anything at all now, you just buzz the front desk and ask for me.”

“Thank you so much,” she said, handing him a five.

He nodded, grinned and then ducked his head once before letting himself out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Grier collapsed onto the bed next to Sebbie.

Her feet literally throbbed, and she held one foot in the air, managing to gingerly remove the strappy sandals before letting them drop to the floor. “Ah,” she said, thinking she might actually cry with the relief.

Sebbie cracked one eye as if to make sure she was all right, then buried his nose beneath a pillow and resumed his nap.

Her cell phone rang. She considered not answering it, then grabbed her purse off the floor and fumbled through the outside pocket until she found it.

Amy’s number flashed on the screen. “Hey,” Grier said.

“You’re there,” Amy Langley said on what sounded like a sigh of relief. “I’ve been calling for hours.”

“The service here seems to be somewhat intermittent,” Grier said, collapsing onto the bed again.

“You sound funny. Are you all right?”

“I had a little car trouble. Sebbie and I both are out of gas.”

“Tell him I miss him terribly.”

“I will,” Grier said, smiling.

“Is your car fixed?”

“It’s in the shop.”

“Should I get you a rental?”

“If it’s not ready by tomorrow. I won’t need it tonight.”

“How does it feel to be back home?”

“Strange.”

“Everything look the same?”

“Yes and no.”

“Seen any old boyfriends yet?” Amy asked, cheeky.

“Unfortunately.” She immediately regretted the admission, not wanting to get Amy started on her find-a-man-for-Grier campaign.

“Really?”

“It was no big deal.”

“High school flame?”

“Sort of.”

“Ah. Is he married?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Grier said, eager to change the subject. “I won’t be seeing him again.”

“Too bad,” Amy said. “I thought for a second there you might be ending your dating drought.”

“I like my dating drought.”

“Grier, they’re not all like. . .”

“My last ten dates?”

Amy laughed. “They weren’t all bad.”

“Bad enough.”

“You just haven’t met the right one.”

“And I’m not looking.”

“Well, it’s been like ages since you went out with anyone.”

“Have you heard me complaining?”

“No, but. . .”

“All right then. Gotta go. Busy here.”

“It’s not normal!” Amy managed to get in before Grier ended the call, flopping back on the bed and folding herself around a pillow. She wasn’t lonely. She’d turn herself into the Sahara desert of loneliness before she ever gave Darryl Lee Randall the satisfaction of knowing she’d given him a second thought in the years since she’d last been home.

When the rumbling of her stomach began to disturb Sebbie, who made his displeasure known with breathing sounds that could only be equated to a heavy sigh, she got up and headed for the shower. She stood under the warm spray for a good twenty minutes, her feet finally coming back to life along with the rest of her.

She dug some running clothes out of her suitcase, opting for comfort over style, and then left Sebbie still sleeping while she went in search of food, heading out of the Inn and walking the two blocks that led to Main Street. At almost four o’clock, the sun was still hot so she pulled off her running shirt and tied it around her waist, the white tank top she’d put on underneath much more pleasant.

She dropped her head back and breathed deep. Amazing that a place could have its own scent, Timbell Creek’s signature blend of freshly mowed grass and honeysuckle. She thought she could identify it anywhere. These streets were familiar to her, too. She’d once known them as well as she now knew Manhattan. Better, actually.

Maple led to Sycamore. Sycamore to Hampton. And then across to Main where she turned right and headed toward the center of town, hoping Angell’s Bakery still sat in the same place. With the smell of fresh baked bread, she grew hopeful. But the name had changed. It was now the Maple Leaf Bread Company. The aroma promised good things though, so she went inside and stood at the front counter, reading the menu behind the register.

A teenage boy with a nice smile popped out of the back, wiping his hands on his white apron. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll have a tomato and Havarti on rye with a little mustard.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Iced tea, please.”

“Sweet tea?”

“Why not?” she conceded.

The front door opened, the bell hanging above it jangling once. Grier glanced over her shoulder at the tall blonde woman who’d just come in.

“Earnest,” she said, “you got any more of that cinnamon raisin bread y’all made up yesterday?”

“Just baked some fresh loaves, Ms. Randall.”

At the name, Grier’s ears perked up, and she gave the woman a sideways assessment. Darryl Lee’s Ms. Randall?

The woman turned and looked at Grier, her smile wide and white. Grier smiled back, trying not to show her curiosity, then glanced away.

But she reached out to press a hand to Grier’s arm. “Oh. My. Goodness. Are you the lady doing auditions for that show tomorrow?”

“Ah, yes,” Grier said. “I am.”

“Well I sure never expected to run into you here.” She stuck out a hand that featured perfectly manicured nails. “I’m Priscilla Randall.”

“Grier McAllister.”

“So nice to meet you.” She leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper. “My daughter is auditioning. Poor baby, her daddy is just dead set against it. I’ve been tellin’ him what an exceptional opportunity this is for her. She’s always been a bit of a wallflower, and to tell you the truth, I was more than a little surprised when she agreed to put herself in the running.”

“Ah, well,” Grier said, not sure what else to say.

“Any tips you could throw her way?” she asked, sounding hopeful.

Grier shrugged, forced a smile. “I’m sure everything will be covered tomorrow.”

Earnest returned from the back with her toasted tomato and Havarti sandwich. She pulled some money from her pocket and paid him, a little uncomfortable under Priscilla Randall’s continuing stare.

“I own the beauty shop just across the street,” Priscilla said. “Not to be nosy, but there was a rumor circulatin’ there today that your mama is Maxine McAllister. I said a woman who looks like you couldn’t possibly have a mama who. . .” She stopped there, as if suddenly thinking better of the remainder of her comment.

For a moment, Grier could think of absolutely nothing to say, her mind a complete blank. She had forced herself not to think about her mama on the drive down since she had no intention of seeing her while she was here. A wave of shame rose up inside her for the fact that her mother had chosen men and booze over her.

On the heels of that old shame, though, came another feeling. An unexpected desire to defend her mother. But as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone again. After all, if Priscilla Randall knew her, any defense Grier had to offer would be so much smoke.

“My cousin Emma-Ann works out there where your mama’s stayin’. Somebody like you coming in there would sure cheer everybody up.”

“What place?” Grier asked before she could stop herself.

“The Sunset Years Retirement Home over on 38.” Priscilla Randall made the pronouncement with careful enunciation, as if Grier’s ability to process the information had suddenly become suspect.

“Oh,” Grier said, her face flaming with instant mortification.

Priscilla cocked her head and said, “You didn’t know she was there?”

“I—of course,” she stammered, hearing the lack of conviction in her own voice.

“I’m sorry,” Priscilla said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Picking up her sandwich, Grier turned to leave. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Randall. Wish your daughter luck for me.”

“I certainly will!” Priscilla called out.

Grier walked back to the Inn as quickly as she could, her hunger gone, and in its place, an absolute certainty that she never should have come back to Timbell Creek. Eagle be damned. Her decision to do so had been about nothing more than pride and a false sense of being so far beyond what she’d left behind that it could never hurt her again.

On that, however, she didn’t suppose she could have been more wrong.

Chapter Four

This baby will be special. I’ve always believed that unexpected things usually are. I’ll be a good mother. Who’s to say we have to follow the example we’ve been given? I’ll give my baby what I never had. I’ll do better than my own parents did. I will.

– First entry written in the baby book given to Maxine McAllister for her daughter Grier

For a long time, Maxine McAllister counted the number of days. Then she counted weeks. Months. And finally, years. Nineteen, now.

Nineteen since Grier had left Timbell Creek.

Maxine stared at the newspaper photo, a glamorous headshot with a photographer’s credit in the lower right hand corner. She studied her daughter’s features. Wide green eyes, full lips so like hers, clear, unlined skin that spoke of a care she’d never given her own.

Grier. What a beautiful woman she’d grown up to be. In a way, Maxine felt as though she were looking at a stranger, even as she saw remnants of the little girl she’d once rocked to sleep at night.

An ache set up in the center of Maxine’s chest, a painful throb of remorse and regret. She let the newspaper collapse onto her lap, her right hand gripping the arm of her wheelchair in an attempt to steady against the sudden dizziness swamping her like an ocean wave.

She closed her eyes and fought it back.

“That must be your young’un.”

Maxine stayed as she was for a few moments, not answering. When she finally opened her eyes, Hatcher Morris stared at her from the seat of a wheelchair exactly like hers, arthritic hands laced together in his lap, his fingers so gnarled with the disease they were painful to look at. “Yeah,” she said, surprised. “How’d you guess?”

“McAllister’s not the most common name around,” he said, his voice coarse evidence of the decades of cigarettes to which it had been subjected. “And one of the nurses mentioned she thought you had a girl named Grier.”

“Had,” Maxine agreed, putting her gaze back on the picture.

“Don’t you ever see her?”

“Not for a very long time.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

Maxine shook her head, unable to answer. Hatcher Morris was about the only friend she had in this place. On the first day they’d met, he’d read her history in the lines of her face the same as she’d read his in the yellowed whites of his eyes and the distended stomach beneath his faded flannel robe.

“Well, I don’t expect it’s any of her business, anyway,” Hatcher said.

“It’s not that,” she finally managed, lifting a hand and waving it once.

Hatcher reached for the newspaper, looked at the article, and then in his gravelly voice, read, “Image Consultant Comes Home to Find Date for a Duke. Sounds like a big undertaking.”

“I would imagine,” Maxine said.

“She’s made it pretty big then, huh?” He lifted an eyebrow, looking impressed.

“Yes,” she said, pride etching her voice despite the realization that she had absolutely no claim to any credit for it. “She has.”

He glanced at the paper again. “She resembles you, you know.”

Maxine forced a smile, unable to see any current resemblance between herself and the beautiful young woman pictured in today’s paper. “You angling for my chocolate pudding again tonight, Hatcher?”

He chuckled. “Naw. I wouldn’t fool you on something like that. Anybody could see she’s yours.”

Maxine could have hugged him then and there. Hatch had a good heart. Like her, he’d thrown away some of the best years of his life with nowhere better to go at the end than a place for people who’d made a practice of taking the wrong roads. “Except I’m the rode hard and put up wet version.”

Hatcher smiled, lines fanning out from his dark eyes. “She comin’ by to see you while she’s in town?”

Maxine forced herself to laugh so the tears gathering in her throat wouldn’t make their way out as a sob. “I doubt she’ll have much extra time. I guess a TV show would have something of a schedule,” she said, hearing how pitiful her explanation sounded, and at the same time, willing him not to pity her for it.

Hatcher nodded as if there were nothing to question. “You two ever talk?”

She could have lied. But she wouldn’t fool him. Hatcher was a sharp man. In fact, she’d begun to think he’d probably done more good as a therapist for some of the people in this place than the doctors who worked here. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “We don’t talk.”

He was quiet for a couple of minutes, rotating his thumbs back and forth, one over the over. The TV in the far corner of the room blared Jerry Springer reruns. Maxine had grown to hate the show, but Edna Gardner and Mish Caldwell sat glued in front of it every afternoon as if they might find the answers to their own screwed up lives on that twenty-seven inch screen. Somewhere along the way, Maxine had realized the only answers to be found anywhere were the ones that nagged low inside her in that place where she’d tucked the truth away so she didn’t have to look at it. Better not to look when there wasn’t a thing you could do to change any of it.

When Hatcher spoke again, his voice sounded far away, as if he were looking back down the tunnel of his own past and regretting what he saw there. “My kids don’t talk to me neither. ‘Course I don’t blame them. I was nothing but a mean son of a bitch to all three of them.”

“You?” she said, disbelieving. “Mean?”

“Nothin’ meaner than a drunk lookin’ for the next drink. Except maybe an out of work drunk. I was both.”

“I can’t imagine—” she began, then stopped there. Actually, she could imagine. She’d seen the change alcohol could bring over people. For her, it had been little more than a curtain behind which she could hide. A shade to pull when things got too gray.

“I wonder sometimes,” he said, “what would have happened if somebody had told me what the doctors are saying now. That some people have a gene that’s like a switch being thrown at the first sip. I wonder if I might have left the stuff alone. Never touched it.”

“Probably not,” she said, uncertain whether that was supposed to make him feel better or worse. She didn’t think it would have stopped her. Self-destruction was a powerful force to resist.

“’Bout the only thing I ever did for my kids was write them a letter a couple years ago telling them they might have that same gene I have. That one drink might be all it took to put them on the same path as me.” Probably too late, but it made me feel better to know I said it.

“That must have been a hard thing to do.”

He lifted a shoulder, glanced off to the side. “Not really,” he said. “I was kind of relieved to know a person might actually have a choice if they never touched the stuff at all.”

“They listen to you?”

He rubbed a thumb across his whiskered chin. “My oldest son sent me a letter that basically said I was an arrogant s.o.b. for assuming he’d ever make the same choices I’d made. I never heard from the other two.”

“I’m sorry, Hatch.”

“Hey, don’t be. If I were him, I’d hate me, too.”

Sad, but she couldn’t think of a thing to say to make him feel any better. Not when she could apply the very same sentiment to herself. There were just some roads in this life that could never be retraveled. Some choices that could never be remade. And if she were honest with herself, she’d admit that she didn’t want her daughter to come here. Didn’t want her to see how she’d ended up. Better to leave it all behind that door Grier had closed nineteen years ago. The only thing Maxine had to offer her daughter was an apology. And what good would that do? An apology didn’t change anything. Much as she wished that it could.

She tucked the newspaper between her leg and the side of the chair, then started rolling toward the door. “I think I’ll go take a little rest, Hatch,” she said.

“You all right?” he called out after her.

“Fine,” she said. “I’m just fine.”

“I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

“Thanks, Hatch,” she said, without looking back, certain that if she did, the tears she’d been holding in would come spilling out. And once they got started, there was a very good chance they would never stop.

Chapter Five

This is a place of quiet. If you cannot respect this policy, please choose a spot outside the library where your conversation will not be an imposition to those who do respect it.

– Wall plaque above Anderson Randall’s

favorite reading spot

“I should have guessed this is where you’d be hiding.”

Andy Randall glanced over her shoulder to find Kyle Summers looking down at her with something close to aggravation simmering in his green eyes. She pointed at the sign on the wall and put a finger to her lips.

“Then let’s go outside,” he said without bothering to whisper. Andy had known Kyle since pre-school, and his lack of concern for rules the rest of the world made an effort to pay attention to was nothing new.

Today, however, it irked her.

She frowned at him and tapped the page of the book she’d been reading.

“Come on. Five minutes,” Kyle said.

Andy breathed a disgruntled sigh. Second to his disregard for rules was a streak of stubbornness that had allowed him to lead the Timbell Creek Varsity football team to a state championship this past fall, even though they’d started out with a group of guys that easily deserved the mantle of a season-long losing streak.

She marked her place in the book, then slid her chair back and followed Kyle out of the library to the miniature park just down the street, where a bench sat in the shade of a huge oak tree.

“So what is it?” Andy asked, doing a poor job of hiding her irritation.

“You got your period or something?”

Andy beamed him a look and said, “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”

“So why’d you bag school today?”

“You actually noticed I wasn’t there?”

“Of course I noticed.”

“Of course.”

He frowned at her sarcasm. “Where were you?”

“I just didn’t want to go.”

Kyle arched a dark eyebrow. “This from Miss Harvard Bound?”

“Did you come all the way over here just to harass me?”

He leaned down, traced a finger in the dirt beneath the bench. “I was worried about you, Andy. That’s all.”

For a moment, Andy felt the sting of guilt. The note of uncertainty in Kyle’s voice reminded her of the old Kyle. The one she’d grown up making mud pies with, the one who’d spent the night at her house on weekends until her daddy said they were too old to be sharing a bed together anymore. That Kyle had been happy to spend an entire afternoon swimming in the creek or helping her build one of the doghouses she’d been selling since she was ten, earning them both money for their college savings account.

But the old Kyle didn’t come around much anymore. The new Kyle had him way too busy with cheerleaders and weightlifting and more cheerleaders.

She fixed her gaze on the street just beyond the edge of the library and said, “I had an argument with my dad.”

Kyle leaned back with a look of surprise. “You two?”

“What’s so weird about that?”

“Nothing, except that you both think the other one walks on water.”

“That’s not true,” she said, embarrassed.

“Yeah, it is. What’s the rift between you?”

Andy considered not telling him. But by tomorrow, he’d know anyway. It might as well come from her. She reached in her pocket, pulled out the flyer and unfolded it. Kyle took it and began to read. Once he was done, he shook his head and made a noise that fell somewhere between a laugh and a hoot. “You’re kidding, right?” he said.

She grabbed for the flyer, but tore off the top half, leaving Kyle holding the rest. “What is so ridiculous about me entering this?”

Kyle started to say something, stopped, then tried again. “A date with a duke? Come on, Andy.”

She snatched the other part of the flyer from him and took a step back.

“You’re as bad as he is,” she said. “You don’t think I can win either!”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she said, hating the crack in her voice.

“It just doesn’t seem like something you would do,” he said.

“More like something one of your cheerleader girlfriends would do?”

Kyle ran a hand up the back of his hair, letting it pause in mid-air for a moment before falling to his side. The gesture was classic Kyle, and for just a moment, something inside her caved with regret for the changes between them this past year.

“It sounds like a scam, Andy. Of all people, I can’t imagine you falling for something like that.”

“It’s not a scam. I checked it out.”

“Checked it out where?”

“With the TV network that’s sponsoring it.”

“And they said it’s legit?”

“Yep.”

Kyle folded his arms across his chest, causing the muscles of his biceps to flex at the edge of his shirt. Andy felt a dip in her stomach and looked away.

“Are you mad at me or something?” Kyle asked.

She pasted on a look of indifference. “We don’t see each other often enough anymore for me to have a reason to be mad at you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Every time I call you, Andy, you’ve got some excuse about why you can’t go out. Why couldn’t you go to the movies Sunday?”

She looked down at the ground, scuffed the toe of her running shoe in the dirt. “Too much homework. And besides, wouldn’t Sheila mind you going to the movies with me?’

“She knows we’re—” He stopped there, didn’t finish.

“Knows we’re what?” Andy asked abruptly, meeting his gaze head on.

“Friends.”

“Friends,” she said, doubt in her voice, suddenly needing to hurt him as much as he had hurt her.

Kyle stared at her, confusion clouding his eyes. “At least I thought we were.”

“People change, Kyle. It’s time we both grew up. We’re not little kids anymore.”

“You wanna tell me exactly what you mean by that?”

“Maybe we ought to quit trying to hold onto something that doesn’t work anymore. Admit that we’ve outgrown each other.”

For a moment, something she could almost believe was hurt flashed across his face. He quickly banked it, throwing up a hand and taking a step back. “Hey. If that’s what you want, Andy, you won’t get any argument from me. You used to be somebody I wanted to hang with, but you know what? Now, you’re just a pain in the butt.”

He wheeled then and jogged off, jumping into the old truck he’d left parked across the street. Andy watched as he popped the clutch and took off, tires squealing.

For a minute or more, she stood completely still, afraid to think about what she’d just done.

When the reality of it began to sink in, she sat down on the bench, staring at the half-torn flyer still clutched in her right hand.

She stifled a scream of frustration. She was just so mad at him.

Not that she’d ever bothered to tell him, pride keeping her silent. Instead, she’d acted as if she thought it was great that he was dating the captain of the cheerleading squad, thought it fine that he had a whole new group of friends she had absolutely nothing in common with.

The truth? Sometimes she missed him so much, she actually ached inside. It was like having an arm or leg removed, knowing it was no longer there, and yet phantom pain throbbed in the place where the limb had once been.

But the simple fact was that Kyle had moved on. Outgrown her. Oh, he tried to touch base with her often enough to keep from ditching their friendship altogether, but the last thing Andy wanted to be to Kyle was a noose around his neck. So maybe it was better for them both that she’d cut him loose. He didn’t have to feel obligated to her any longer.

He could get on with his life. And she could get on with hers.

She glanced down at the ripped flyer in her hand. Which was exactly what she intended to do. Starting now.