Say You Won't Let Go Google(10)

Ginny steps in without invitation, saying, “I saw your light on.”

“Yeah, I can’t sleep.”

She moves to the couch, and I rub my eyes. “I’m heading to Nashville in ten minutes. I wanted to check in and see what the plan is when you’re finished with the tour in a month?”

I’m not sure what to say. Before Cooper showing up here, the answer would have been easy—go back to Nashville and bust my ass. Now, I want to maybe visit Bell Buckle a bit. I haven’t seen Grace, Presley, or Angie for a while now. It would be good to catch up.

Sure, Em, that’s the reason.

I can’t even lie to myself.

I’ve learned a lot about Ginny, and the thing I know more than anything is that she likes honesty. That’s what I’ll give her. “I think I’m going to take a few weeks in Bell Buckle. Then I’ll head back to Nashville.”

Ginny doesn’t speak, she just nods slowly. Great. I’m now “that” artist. The one who says she wants it all and then falls for some guy and throws it away.

“So, two weeks there?” she asks.

I’m not sure I can endure more than that in Bell Buckle, and that should be enough time to figure out what I’m feeling. “Yes. No more than two weeks.”

She stands, sighs, and then hands me a stack of envelopes. “You got another batch of mail. I know you still refuse to allow my team to handle them for you.”

I smile. “Fan mail is something I’ve dreamed of,” I explain. “Not everyone is as fortunate as I am. I like to stay humble.”

Ginny rolls her eyes with a grin. “I’ll see you in Nashville in a few weeks.”

“Yes, you will.”

When she leaves, I grab the stack of notes and start going through them. My process with this is simple: I read them and then keep the addresses to send a custom fan club guitar pick. Sometimes, depending on the letters, I’ll write back. It’s cathartic for me on some level.

I open the next letter and smile. A little seven-year-old who saw the show in Phoenix and says I’m her new favorite singer. This is why I open them all. I write her back and make a note to include a few things.

The next letter has no return address. I hate when they do that.

As I pull the note out, a chill runs down my spine.

The letter is cut out newspaper letters that spell out: You should be mine.

What the fuck?

This is getting ridiculous. Nothing is threatening in this, but what is wrong with people? Do they have nothing better to do? Plus, I’m not even a little bit of a big deal. I’m a baby in this industry.

The last thing I want to do is cause waves on this tour, either. I need to be smart and not end up labeled as a problem child who cried over a few stupid letters. Luke told me yesterday about a fan who sends him a letter a day.

This is what being in the public eye means and I need to get used to it.

I huff out a breath and toss the letter aside.

No more fan mail for me right now.

My head is filled with so much emotion that maybe writing songs is what I should do.

I play a few melodies, and one starts to take hold. Words pour out as I start to arrange the notes.

Words about maybe finding something I didn’t know I wanted, worrying about if things don’t work out, and then learning to accept the fear.

I sing and strum my guitar, stopping randomly to jot things down.

Lost in the process, I almost don’t check my phone when it pings. Almost.



Grace: So, do I need to buy a ticket to talk to my best friend?



Me: I know someone who could hook you up.



Grace: I miss you.



Instead of texting back and forth, I dial her number.

“Hey!” She answers on the second ring, and I can almost hear her smile through the phone.

“I miss you more!”

“Not possible,” Grace disagrees. “How are you? How’s the tour?”

I fill her in on the fun stuff she loves hearing about. It’s a regular soap opera on tour. People hooking up, some married, and lots of crazy drinking. I’m lucky that I’ve been able to stay out of all of it. We laugh about some of the cool places I’ve gotten to see. Grace is a history nut and loves tourist stuff. I sent her a few photos when we played in Gettysburg and visited the battlefield.

Now I need to tell her what I’ve been slightly nervous to say. “There’s not really much to say, I’ve been getting weird letters, but that’s par for the course.” I brush that part off and release a shaky breath.

Grace clears her throat. “What do you mean par for the course?”

I should’ve kept my mouth shut. “It’s normal for artists to get weird fan mail. Luke was telling me about some of the stuff he’s gotten. That’s not what I’m nervous about, Grace.”

“Trent!” Grace calls, and I drop my head back. “Emily is getting letters that she said are weird.”

“Grace!” I yell in the receiver. “It’s really not a big deal!”

“You’re all freaked out.” She huffs. “I can hear it in your voice. Don’t lie to me, Emily.”

She’s sweet to care, but that isn’t what has me feeling this way. “I’m nervous because I need to tell you that I saw Cooper when we were in Dallas.”