You'd Be Mine(7)

I leave for Nashville in the morning and from there, the tour. For a second, I consider going to the cemetery. No doubt that’s where Fitz is. He and Danny were best friends growing up. Closer than, even. If I know him, he’ll visit Danny first, then Maggie’s place next. He’s probably got a gift for Layla.

I can see them all sitting together, shooting the bull. Fitz will give my excuses—say I’m busy songwriting or practicing or doing radio interviews. Or hungover, which is more likely these days. They’ll tsk about how I’m never home—completely undependable.

I just can’t be home. I can’t face it all. So I don’t. I pull myself up, proud that I’m not yet too unsteady, and make my way over to the ladder and climb down before I regret it. I almost froze to death up here over Thanksgiving. Accidentally knocked over the ladder trying to get down. Waited too long.

Fitz found me. As usual.

Fitz has a home, with his momma, but he moved in when Danny left for the Marine Corps, since I was barely sixteen at the time. He has a room and just hasn’t ever really moved out.

I get back on solid ground, and my phone dings. I curse. It’s Trina.

She starts talking as soon as I answer. “Where are you?”

I look around, like she’s in front of me. “The shed.”

She curses. “I had to move up your flight. A car should be there already.”

“Hold on.” I stumble out into the light, and sure enough, a sleek black town car is sitting in my drive.

“I see him. Did you call Fitz?”

“He’s here with me, Clay. At the airport. Didn’t you read your email or get my texts or anything?” Her voice is getting shriller, and I wince, holding my phone a few inches from my ear.

“Isss fine, Trina.”

She curses again. “Are you kidding me? Are you drinking? It’s the afternoon, Clay!”

I don’t bother answering. I’m perpetually packed. Just have to grab my duffel and go. She’s still screeching on the phone.

“Put on Fitz.”

“Hey, man,” Fitz says easily.

“I’m on my way. Hold the plane,” I say.

He chuckles. “Sure thing.”



* * *



I sleep the entire ride to the airport and then the flight from Indy to Nashville. Trina puts me in a cab to the hotel and tells me she’ll arrange my wake-up call in the morning so I’d better stay out of trouble until then. After all, we’re meeting up with Annie tomorrow.

She shouldn’t worry; Babysitter Fitz won’t leave my side.

We’re in the hotel bar, eating bacon cheeseburgers with french fries and drinking Diet Cokes. A few girls sit at the bar and have tried more than once to catch my eye, but my chaperone ain’t having it.

“Not tonight, Clay. We have some place to be.”

I snort into my drink, the ice clinking as I forgo the straw and tip it back. “Where?” I mutter. “Room 502 with a couple of dirty movies?”

He rolls his eyes. “Grow the hell up, man. No. Lula May’s. I wanna show you something. In fact”—he glances at the time on his phone—“we should get the check.”

I finish the last of my fries, intrigued. Lula May’s is one of those legendary bars in Nashville. Old as the country music scene. All the greats got their start there. It’s a dive nowadays, but just as sacred to the locals. Which I’m not.

We pay our tab and decide to walk to the bar. It’s a warm night, though the breeze is cool and feels good on my face. I tilt the rim of my ball cap up and then spin it around backward, allowing the fresh air to wash over me. I love this town. The bright lights and city streets so full of history and straight-up soul. The air smells like barbecue. We pass a dozen different patios playing a dozen different versions of Southern into the night. Laughter rings out, couples kiss in dark corners, and girls clatter around in heels and boots. No one recognizes me. At night, on the street, I’m one more barhopping kid. Everyone’s in the business. Either in front of the mic or behind it, but they are involved somehow, someway. No one pays attention to Fitz and me, and I relish the feeling. We cross, turning down a side street that’s less crowded. A small neon sign reads LULA MAY’S in old-fashioned script.

Fitz pulls open the door, and her voice pours out. The bar is a seedy kind of dark, and once the door closes behind us, it takes more than a moment for my eyes to adjust. At first, I think she’s alone onstage, because there is a dim blue spotlight focused solely on her and casting the bar in an ethereal glow. But her hands are clasped on either end of the stool she’s perched on, and I reluctantly look past her to the guitarist strumming off to the side.

Patrick Royston, former country mega-superstar, is playing backup, unobtrusive and 100 percent acoustic. This guy was making millions while I was still in braces. Annie winds down a song, and it’s completely silent. My face tingles hot in sympathy for her before Patrick transitions into the next song. But she doesn’t seem uncomfortable at the lack of ovation. She doesn’t even open her eyes.

Fitz nudges my shoulder and points to two chairs in the back of the room. I head for the table, and he goes to grab us a few drinks at the ancient bar. Every inch of the walls is covered in bric-a-brac and framed photos of Nashville’s earliest celebrities. I slump into my seat and pull my cap around and tug it farther down over my eyes. The history is palpable in this place, and I’m an imposter in overpriced clothes. The song I’m working on comes back to me, and I have a sudden urge to pull out my guitar and play it right here right now—to prove myself to this silent and assessing crowd. After all, if she can do it …