Run, Rose, Run(70)

“I want to post the truth,” she’d said, “or as near as I can get to it.”

And though Eileen had hoped for a more carefully curated and slick-looking feed, she’d clearly decided to take what she could get.

AnnieLee scanned through the comments to the one semi-selfie she’d taken right before going onstage. It was a shot of half of her face, taken in the mirror, with a streak of light falling across her shoulder.

Ur so pretty, said one commenter.

OMG I wanna be you when I grow up, said another.

There were star emojis and handclap emojis, and people begging her to tour through their tiny midwestern towns. AnnieLee hearted all the comments and then got up to make herself breakfast.

She was in such a good mood that she didn’t understand what Jack was saying in his message when she finally listened to it. She had to play it over and over again, in disbelief.

He had been driving, and so his voice was cutting in and out. “Kip…disappointed in the performance…different direction…future concerts. Sorry, AnnieL—”

She stood by the stove, stunned, as the French toast blackened in the pan.

It took the ringing of the phone to bring her back to herself. It was Ruthanna, and AnnieLee was already crying by the time she said “Hello.”

“There’s a video of the performance on YouTube already,” Ruthanna said. “You damn near sang the roof off.”

AnnieLee took the pan from the stove top and dumped the contents into the trash. Her kitchen was full of smoke now, and so she banged outside and stood shivering in her bare feet and pajamas. “If I was so good, why doesn’t he want me back?”

“You just answered your own question right there, AnnieLee,” Ruthanna said. “You outshone him. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if he was up there with his regular giant band and his big ol’ pyrotechnic show. But this tour was supposed to be a simpler, smaller affair. And then you got up there with your tiny self, all alone, and you just blew everyone away with your big voice and your powerhouse songs. What man wants to follow that? Not Kip Hart. Not anyone I can think of.”

AnnieLee stepped farther into her little backyard and stood beneath its one tree. A fall breeze kicked up, and a shower of red-gold leaves swirled down and around her.

“I was so worried about screwing up. I didn’t think playing a great show would be the problem.”

“Everyone’s got an ego,” Ruthanna said, “and stars’ egos are usually the biggest and the most easily wounded.”

AnnieLee caught a spiraling leaf and ripped it into tiny pieces. “You were never threatened by me,” she said.

Ruthanna laughed. “I’m retired, don’t forget. But if I were still playing out, I like to think I’d welcome you with open arms. I happen to believe there’s enough love—and enough ears—out there for all of us.” She paused. “You done good, kid. Don’t let Kip Hart take that away from you.”

After they hung up, AnnieLee went back inside and flung herself down on the couch. Hurt and angry, she picked up her phone again and went to her Instagram account.

That ol’ hat act should’ve opened for you, said bellacatlady.

Damn right he should have, AnnieLee thought.

I’ve got a good fiddle part for Driven, said honest2goodnessmandy.

DM it to me, AnnieLee wrote.

I know who you really are, said ark_north.

AnnieLee’s breath caught. She looked down at the next comment.

Some songs can get a girl’s jaw broke, said bax990.

AnnieLee dropped the phone as if it had turned into a snake. Every time she managed to forget all that she’d left behind, the past reared its mean, ugly head.

She got up and started digging through her old backpack. She pulled out old notebooks and holey socks and the musty sleeping bag that had once been her bed. Near the bottom of the pack, she felt the cold metal of the Smith & Wesson, and her fingers closed around it.

AnnieLee had never liked guns. But maybe it was time to start keeping hers closer.





Chapter

60



Well, well, well. What brings you back to these parts, little songbird?” Billy asked as AnnieLee came into the Cat’s Paw, practically blown through the door by the blustery October afternoon.

“Not little, Billy, remember? Sheesh,” AnnieLee said. “I’m meeting Ethan. We had a hankering for your French fries.” She looked around the familiar, welcoming room as she climbed onto a barstool. There were only a few other customers scattered around, and Willie was playing on the stereo. She’d missed the festive Christmas lights, the smell of Bar Keepers Friend, and gruff but warmhearted Billy himself. “He’s late, so that means he’s buying.”

Billy put four maraschino cherries on a little plate, shoved them toward her, and then poured her her usual drink of club soda with lime. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about us,” he said.

“Never ever,” AnnieLee said. “I’m eternally grateful to you, remember? You gave me my first break.” She looked at him ruefully. “But my so-called big break? Well, it didn’t quite work out the way I thought it would.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, kid. But no cowboy ropes every steer, if you know what I mean. Or cowgirl—whatever. And I still hear you on the radio, so you can’t be doing that bad.”