You'd Be Mine(52)

This time, when we play the opening chords to “Coattails,” the crowd goes wild, and every female under the age of seventy breaks out in a dance with Kacey and me. When I sing “Should’ve Been You,” the crowd sings the chorus on their own.

It’s like watching all of my dreams play out in front of me, and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude toward the fans, Kacey and Jason, Jefferson and Fitz; toward God above. I’m so blessed. My heart still aches and my memories bruise, but I’m a lucky girl because I get to do what I love.

The crowd chants, “Cash! Cash! Cash!” and I’m so grateful for Trina’s unerring instincts. After my live performance with Clay, she secured the rights to “It Ain’t Me, Babe” from the label, knowing people would come out in droves to see us perform it for themselves.

“All right, all right, y’all wore me down. Let me just check in the back here…,” I say as I jog lightly offstage and pull a “resistant” Clay Coolidge onstage with me.

I snort at his theatrics. “Don’t let Clay fool you. He’s been dying to jump in on my stage all night. He knows I have the best crowd!”

This garners more cheers, and Clay gives a good-natured shrug as he accepts a mic from a stagehand. Fitz lines up next to Kacey, this time holding a couple of silly-looking egg shakers.

I start to strum the opening chords as Clay pretends to flip up his collar and slick back his hair. He approaches the mic stand as Jason taps out the beat. The females are all screaming a little louder for those two tonight. The fact that they were underage drinking seems to have been lost in the whole “fistfight in defense of his dead brother” thing. Not that I blame them. After hearing Jason’s side, I was ready to hunt down the punk and punch him all over again.

Point is, the fans don’t seem fazed. The label, on the other hand …

This song was written by Bob Dylan, who was a big fan of Johnny. They used to cover each other’s work, so it’s no surprise Cash chose to record his version with June Carter Cash. As with most of their songs, it’s one making an almost mockery of their devotion. Onstage, Johnny and June had this very harried Southern charm about them.

The irony is the lyrics are absolutely spot-on for Jefferson and me, no performance necessary. Talk about mockery—the joke is clearly on us. To our credit, though, we are professionals, so he waggles his eyebrows and I roll my eyes and pout my lips, and we pretend it’s cute even as it’s breaking my heart.

I wonder if it’s breaking his.

The song ends, and we take our bow as Clay and Fitz wave at the crowd and I retake center stage. I paste a smile on my face, knowing damn well I chose this. I chose singing over me and him. Whether he would have chosen the same or if it was ever even on the table for him doesn’t matter. I. Chose. This.

I wrap with one of our new hits, “Never Mind,” that’s gaining traction these past few weeks and finish off with the crowd favorite of “Jolene.” When the lights dim, I feel myself slump in exhaustion. Whether it’s the heat or the emotional breakdown in the studio earlier, or playing Cash, I’m beat. The lights come on once more, and I hitch a beaming grin back on my face, waving wildly at a crowd growing by the minute. I blow double kisses and take a bow before exiting stage left and accepting a giant bottle of Evian.

“I’m pooped,” I say to Trina. “I’m gonna hit some air-conditioning.”

“Of course,” she says, stashing her phone in her pocket and giving me a hard look. “You want me to tell Clay he’s on his own tonight?” I must look more terrible than I’d realized for her to offer.

I consider it. It would be easy to go and hide in my bus for the rest of the night, begging off with a headache. But I don’t. I’m not hiding from my own choices.

“Nah. Just send someone for me once his set starts. We’re doing ‘One of the Guys’?”

She gives me a brief nod as I take a sip. “Is that okay?”

I flash another smile, one I know doesn’t meet my eyes, but I did tell her I was tired. “Yup. I’ll be there. Let Kacey and Jason know where I am?”

“Of course.” She’s already pulling her phone back out of her pocket before I’m past her. Busy little paper wasp that she is.

I make it to my bus and close the door behind me, sitting in the cool semidarkness. I place the bottle on the back of my neck and close my eyes. My phone vibrates, and I grab it out of my pocket. Three missed texts.

NICE JOB THIS MORNING. THE NEW CUT IS GORGEOUS. DEF MADE ALBUM. I’LL SEND A CAR FOR YOU AROUND 8:15 FOR SB MTG IN AM. BRING K&J.

I sigh in exasperation. I love Connie, I do, but she is really pushing this Southern Belle deal. I already explained my aversion to Stanton, but she’s insisting on a meeting as a “professional courtesy.”

ANNIE, THIS IS SUSANNA DE LA GARZA, PROFESSIONAL ASST TO ROY STANTON. JUST TOUCHING BASE. WANTED TO GIVE YOU A HEADS-UP ABOUT THE VENUE AND MENU TOMORROW FOR YOUR 8:30 MTG. LINK ATTACHED.

I close without bothering to click on the link. Cora liked swanky. If I had to guess, jeans and flip-flops will not be appropriate attire at this so-called professional meeting. Which probably means Jason’s out, which maybe’d be best, all things considered.

I crack open the water bottle with a flick and sip slowly. Forty-five minutes still until I need to be onstage. I tap on the last message from Patrick.