You'd Be Mine(11)

“Good girl. The label is all about image management right now. Clay is country’s leading bad boy, and your sweet face is his redemption.” She holds up a hand at my protests. “At least that’s how they want to sell it. Maria, that means cat eyes and matte red on the lips. There’s a mod black frock in the corner that is all you, sweet pea.”

With that, Beth slams the door with a loud bang that echoes through the room.

I exhale slowly, my body drooping.

Christian tsks, gathering my hair off my face, and meets my eyes in the mirror. “Welcome to Nashville, Annie.”

“Welcome to the Opry, Anna Banana,” my dad says in his trademark low growl. He softly propels me forward as we head down the aisles to the very front row. Several times, my father stops to shakes hands and pat backs. I quit paying attention after the first few and instead stare at the high, arched ceilings, completely taken with the grand architecture and lost in the low murmur of voices. Moments later, my father catches up and settles down next to me on the cushioned bench. The lights flicker a warning that things are about to begin, and I fidget with my dress. It’s ruffles upon ruffles. My mom picked it out. “I’ll never understand why Stella allows her girls to dress like they’re sixteen,” she’d said about her publicist, passing me the gown earlier today. “My momma dressed me in ruffles until I was in the ninth grade. Says it’s what kept me from getting knocked up before I got my learner’s permit.” I don’t know what a learner’s permit is, but as I smooth down the pretty lace flounces on my skirt, I grin. This is a twirling dress, if ever I saw one, and I can’t wait to try it out.

A hush falls over the audience as the lights dim, and for the first time, I turn behind me to have a look around. Row upon row of benches are filled all the way up and around a looming balcony. I snap back to the front, my stomach flipping in sudden alarm. I’ve seen my parents perform more times than I can say, but this feels different.

My patent leather shoes don’t quite hit the floor and instead kick out uselessly. My dad places a large, warm hand on my knee to calm me.

“You always get nervous like this when your momma sings?”

I shrug, pinching my lips together. “Sometimes.”

“You’re so much like her. I bet she’s seconds from puking just behind that curtain there.” He points to one side, and the corner of my mouth lifts at the comparison.

“Should I say a prayer for her?” I ask.

My dad chuckles low. His face is whiskered and handsome. He has a string tie at his neck and a hat the color of night pulled back on his head. “Sure, Banana. If you think it’ll help.”

I close my eyes and whisper until I hear the soft rush of heavy curtains sailing open. My breath catches in my throat. A single beam of light illuminates my mother a few feet in front of me. Her dress falls clear to the floor in heavy sparkles. Her hair floats, soft around her shoulders, and she lowers her gaze to catch my eye and winks once before mouthing “I love you” to my dad.

She lifts her mic and holds the entire building rapt with her sweet soprano. Sometimes I sing along, spinning in my skirt and clapping my hands. During my favorite song, my mom reaches down to pull me up with her. A burly man dressed in blue offers to help, but before he can reach, my father’s hands wrap around my waist and lift me. We sing together, and she twirls me around the stage. The crowd cheers, but I only see the faces of my mom and my dad in the hot lights. I’ve never felt this way before. As though my entire body were made of glitter and sunlight.

When my dad pulls me down after the songs ends, I whisper in his ear, breathless, “I wanna do this forever, Daddy.” He smacks a sandpapery kiss on my cheek and says, “You will, darlin’. You will.”



* * *



I step out of the dressing room two hours later, my makeup an inch thick and my hair smoothed and shellacked into a style my grandmother would be proud of. I like the dress, at least—a slim-fitting bodice and classy A-line skirt swirling around my knees. Ten years later and I still get a kick out of a twirling dress. Of course, this version is all black to match—

“Clay.” His name slips past my lips in an inaudible whisper. It’s a damn shame how well this boy fills out a black suit. His brown waves are darkened and slicked off his forehead but for a few artful strands, already escaping to drape across his eyes. Reckless and handsome. As June Carter would say, “A long-legged, guitar-pickin’ man.” He’s got a guitar strap slung over his shoulder and is in a deep discussion as Christian propels me with a gentle shove. I skitter on my ridiculous heels, and Clay turns toward the racket.

I’m happy to report his jaw drops—

—for a split half of a half second. I would have straight-up missed it if I hadn’t been studying him so intently.

His jaw tightens, and he whirls his guitar around to his front, almost as though it’s a barrier to hide behind. I recognize this tactic because my fingers are itching for my own barrier.

“Where’s my guitar?” I ask.

“Right here.” Trina holds it out. “Kacey sent it along. I planned to give you a prop, but your cousin seemed to think you’d like this better.”

I grin my thanks and slip the strap over my shoulder until it settles in its home over my heart. Wall in place, I inhale sharply in an effort to fortify. Yesterday, I was sitting at my grandma’s table shelling peas. Now I’m dressed like a legend, standing in front of arguably the biggest country star of the moment, pretending for a camera I’m in love.