You'd Be Mine(70)

And it sounds like a song from green wilds

And a time when you were alive

I’ve been all around this great land,

Over ancient mountains, blistered in the white sand Seen everything there is to see and Chasing a mirage I won’t ever catch this side of heaven You were a kid, time transformed a hero

Dust in the desert sun, there could be no equal

Falling on some hard-luck times

When I remember how you and I

Dreamed every day about when we’d find

Out if we’d become better men

I raise every last drop of this pint

In memory of all those times

When you and I still tried

To be better men

You took my words with you over there

In the early morning light

Told me you listened with your men

Made them think of home on those lonely nights

I’ll never play those words again

No point if you’re never gonna hear them

I play for everyone else in your stead

But not those words, not since you’re dead

Now I visit you under a stone

In the dirt, you lie alone, and I’ve—

Fallen on some hard-luck times

When I remember how you and I

Dreamed every day about when we’d find

Out if we’d become better men

I raise every last drop of this pint

In memory of all those times

When you and I still tried To be better men



I tilt back from the mic, strumming an interlude while picturing Danny in my mind. Tall and strong and alive. Serious, not laughing. Because he knows what’s coming up isn’t funny. Dying at nineteen with a baby on the way isn’t funny. Leaving me behind isn’t funny. I press forward again.

I’m fighting mad at you and your noble cause

And I’ll never forgive you for leaving me behind

But when it comes down to it, we both know who you became You self-sacrificing son of a bitch …

Were the better man

Falling on some hard-luck times

When I remember how you and I

Dreamed every day about when we’d find

Out if we’d become better men

I raise every last drop of this pint

In memory of all those times

When you and I still tried

To be better men

You were the better man

You were the best man



I still the strings and open my eyes slowly to dead silence. Then a chair scrapes along the plank floor, and Fitz surges to his feet. Beneath the brim of his cap, his eyes are wet. He starts clapping, and that seems to wake everyone else up from their trances. Soon chairs are scraping and phones are glowing and people are clapping and cheering, and damn if it’s not better than any standing ovation I’ve ever had before this.

Because this was my song. My heartache for my brother.

I wrap for a short break. There’s a jukebox in the back that starts to play some classics, and I step off the stage toward Fitz. A couple of the people at the table move to give us space, and Fitz passes me a beer. I wave him off, and he raises a brow.

“It’s just easier if I don’t have any at all. Once I start, it’s a lot harder to stop,” I say.

He pulls the bottle back and passes it to a random guy sitting next to him.

“Nice place you got here. Standing room only, not that I’m surprised.”

I accept a root beer from one of the waitstaff with thanks and then request a second for Fitz. “Yeah, I like it. All the wings I can eat, and it pays for laundry.”

Fitz raises one eyebrow. I take a swig of my drink. We both know I could pay for brand-new clothes every single day if I wanted. For everyone in this bar. For the rest of their lives.

“So listen, Trina—”

I hold up a hand. “How about ‘Hey, man. Nice to see you. You look good. How’s it been? I like your new song. Are you growing a beard?’”

Fitz picks at his label. “Hey, man, nice to see you. You look better. I’ve always been a fan of your work, and you made me cry like a baby.” He raises a rusty eyebrow. “Would we call that a beard?”

I scratch my hand against my whiskers. “It’s filling in.”

“If that’s what you have to tell yourself.”

Fine, I’ll play. “I told Trina no.”

“I know you did. I’m here to ask why.”

“I’m without a contract, Fitz.”

He shrugs. “By your choice, and the CMAs don’t care about contracts. They care about viewership and audience numbers, and the fact of the matter is your tour brought in some of the biggest numbers last summer.”

“Because of Annie.”

“Only partially. Give yourself some credit. Besides, its tradition for the previous year’s winner to present the Best New Artist category. That’s you,” Fitz points out in a low voice.

I narrow my eyes. “Trina said something about performing, too.”

Fitz shrugs. “Maybe just a little something. I’m sure they’ll throw you in a montage. You know they always put the up-and-coming artists in the back.”

“I’m not comfortable being Clay Coolidge anymore.”

“So don’t be.” He holds up a cheap neon flyer advertising the bar’s stage schedule. “Be Jefferson Daniels.”