You'd Be Mine(15)

I’m speechless. Part of me feels what she’s saying so hard. The other part of me, the part that throws empty beer bottles at my brother’s headstone, doesn’t want to hear it. That kind of passion for anything scares the shit out of me. I might die because of country music, but not for it. Inadequacy churns in my stomach, and I want off this ride.

“Yeah, lucky bastards, all of them,” I say, looking out the side but not seeing anything.

“What about you?” she asks, shaking herself. “Enough of my dreary backstory. What are you here for?”

“Booze and girls,” I reply automatically. I don’t bother keeping the sardonic slant from my tone.

“Of course. But, like, besides that. You can get booze and girls in college.”

I grin as though the thought hadn’t ever occurred to me. “College. Now that’s an idea.”

She rolls her eyes lightly. “Fine. Play the fool. I get it. I overshared, and now it’s your turn to shut down and pretend you’re a jerk.”

“Maybe I am a jerk, Annie.”

She shakes her head, more curls springing out of her pony. “I call bull. But that’s fine. Just remember, I’ve heard your voice, and I’m not some fangirl. You’re more than good vocals.”

We’re finally descending, and I can’t get off this thing fast enough. Before I do, though, I turn to Annie. “Look. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you overshared. It’s fine. I asked, and you answered. Don’t apologize for that. But I really am a jerk. I promise you that.” I run a hand through my hair, only realizing I’m wearing a hat. I tug on it uselessly. “That said, your future isn’t set in stone. Okay? If you don’t want to end up like your parents, then don’t.”

She doesn’t get up—just sits there and finally nods once, slowly, in response. Before I can say anything else stupid, I jump out, leaving her behind.



* * *



That night, we all eat together in the hotel lobby before deciding to rent a movie in our room to watch. For the first time in years, I feel my age, and I savor it because I know when I wake up, the feeling will be gone. Sure, touring is fun as hell. It’s a summerlong party. But it’s also a grueling job. Shows run late, and then you’re on the road to the next location through the night. You wake up in a new city every day. You rehearse, bullshit with radio deejays on their morning shows, make guest appearances, and squeeze in studio time.

At some point during the movie, we’d all piled up on one bed in a mass of pillows and blankets. Fitz and Kacey are sharing a pillow, heads tilted close together. Jason is sprawled across the bed, snoring softly.

“Poor guy’s all tuckered out,” Annie mocks. I was worried she’d hold this afternoon and the Ferris wheel against me. But again, I’m wrong about her. By the time she’d caught up with the rest of us, nachos in hand, you’d have never been able to tell anything had happened. To the point that I wondered if I’d imagined the tension in the first place.

“I wish we had a Sharpie,” I say.

“Ooooh, Trina would kill you.” Annie gently rolls to her side and pulls out her purse. She digs around a second and passes me a pink Sharpie.

“Who are you, Mary Poppins?” I say, not bothering to keep the awe from my voice. She giggles. “What should I write?”

“Nothing mean. How about facial hair? He’s being so annoying about his almost-stubble.”

I grin. “Nineties boy band or professional wrestler?”

“Oh. Boy band for sure.”

“Pink soul patch it is.”





6



Annie


friday, may 24

atlanta, georgia

opening night

“Aren’t you nervous?”

Jason glances up from his phone and shrugs. “Yeah. A little, maybe.” His fingers return to his tapping.

A huff slips past my glossed lips, and I lean back against the small leather sofa set in my temporary dressing room. We have approximately thirty minutes until lights up. A toilet flushes, and Kacey steps out of the small bathroom, plenty green around the gills. I toss her a complimentary seltzer water, and she cracks the lid with a practiced wrist flick. She takes a small sip and moans.

“Nothing to be nervous about. They’re not here to see me,” Jason continues, speaking into his lap. “Someone asked me where the mic stands were again.”

Jason keeps getting mistaken for a roadie. It’s pretty annoying. Well, I’m annoyed; he’s … resigned. There’s not a whole lot of diversity in country music. At least onstage, anyway. We’ve always lived right near the university, and Jason’s dark skin is barely a blip among all the different cultures in Michigan. In Nashville and on tour, he sticks out. It’s a new experience for all of us, but of course, he’s the one left managing stereotypes.

“I told you your haircut looked shaggy,” I joke.

He looks up from his phone, his dark eyes piercing. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“I’m sorry. It’s nothing to joke about. How about I promise, by the end of summer, every person in the industry will know the name Jason Diaz, mega-genius drummer extraordinaire.”

“Sounds good, though, like I said, these crowds aren’t here to see Jason Diaz, drummer.”