You'd Be Mine(76)

She motions for me to spin. “Actually, not at all. Will it fall?”

I hop up and down a few times. “I’m good.”

“Where are your shoes?”

“I wasn’t planning on bothering. You can’t even see my feet.”

Kacey looks scandalized and shrieks, “But they will on the red carpet! You can’t not wear shoes, Annie. This is the freaking CMAs.”

I pull out a pair of glittery, overpriced slippers. “Calm down. I’m not a barbarian.”

“Our wardrobe changes are already at the auditorium,” she says, fixing her hair in my mirror. “Jason’s on his way over.”

“Where’s Fitz?” I ask idly.

She smirks at her reflection, proving my nonchalance wasn’t nonchalant. “I imagine at the auditorium already. No wardrobe malfunctions there.”

Jason comes in. “Car’s downstairs. Ready for this?”

I release a slow breath. “Go ahead. I need a minute alone, okay?”

They nod, Kacey grabbing my clutch and phone and closing the door behind her. I sink onto the bed, careful to not wrinkle my slinky magenta gown. I wipe sweaty hands on the down comforter before clutching them together in my lap.

“Lord,” I whisper. “I wish I didn’t want this so much. Help me to not make a fool of myself when I lose. Please don’t let me cry. Please don’t let me forget the words to my songs. And … tell Cora and Robbie I said hi and make sure they watch.”

I’m up for two awards tonight. Best New Artist, obviously, but also Country Single of the Year for writing “You’d Be Mine.” No one’s talking about that one. Don’t want to jinx it, Kacey says.

But that’s the one eating at me. I want it so badly I can taste it. I want to prove myself a songwriter. It’s something neither of my parents ever accomplished. The nomination should be enough. The recognition in such a prestigious field at my age so early in my career. Yeah, I should be content with that. It feels, I don’t know, bratty to want more than a nomination.

But I do. Holy hell, I do. All my life I’ve been in my parents’ shadow. The daughter of legends. The product of a tragic upbringing. I need the validation I’m more than just that—that I belong in my own right. I inhale and exhale a few more times before getting to my feet and walking to the door.

I completely understand why Jefferson wants to leave Clay behind tonight, to publicly cut ties with his old brand. After all, it isn’t only about how you see yourself. It’s about how the world sees how you see yourself that matters.



* * *



I’m taken aback at how many reporters snag us on the carpet. I expected to walk past without notice, except for maybe CMT. Not only do E! and TMZ stop us, but the networks do as well. Kacey graciously answers all the fashion questions and fields comments on her fitness regime and how she came to have such killer arms. Jason oozes charisma, playing the part of the bad-boy drummer with aplomb. I fare well enough, for lucky happenstance has the pop diva crashing my TMZ interview to say she’s played my single on loop and was a huge fan of my mom. My summer “romance” with Clay only came up once, right at the end with CMT. I laugh them off and give them my signature wink. We’re being ushered inside, but not before I hear the reporter comment they would all be looking forward to the Clay and Annie reunion this evening live onstage.

“Is that what they’re calling it?” I whisper to Kacey, feeling frantic. “The Clay and Annie reunion?”

Kacey grips my hand and squeezes tight as we walk into the decked-out auditorium. It’s gleaming and golden and well-lit with glittering chandeliers strung high on arched ceilings. The royal-blue carpet is plush under my slippers, and I try not to think of all the famous people who’ve tread these very aisles before I have, including my own parents decades before. If I actually take the time to look around at everyone here, all the famous, ridiculous, and legendary musicians in this one giant room, I could easily pass out. I can’t take it all in. My brain can’t compute. It’s too much.

Instead, I focus on the buttoned-up usher in front of me. I focus on the feel of Kacey’s hand in mine. Just like when we were kids on my gran’s farm. My eyes trace the broad shoulders of my best friend in his tux. When the hell did Jason grow up?

I press my lips together to keep from crying, but this time, it’s happy tears. We did this. Together. Forget my parents; three kids from a farm town did this. We traipse across the middle aisle and then down a long slope toward the stage. We keep inching closer, and I’m shocked when the usher stops three rows from the front. He gestures to three seats right on the end. I stare at Kacey, wide-eyed, and she giggles. “Holy shit, Mathers, we’re in the hot-girl seats!”

I laugh, pulling her with me and sitting in the middle. I have this insane image of the three of us in a movie theater for the Saturday-afternoon matinees in junior high. Except my gown costs more than a car, and oh my god, Dolly Parton is sitting across the aisle. I wave at her weakly and sink back into my seat with a shaky breath. Man, am I glad I didn’t plan to sing “Jolene” tonight.

Within minutes, the show gets under way. Kacey keeps turning around in her seat and fidgeting, and when I follow her line of sight, I realize with a start Jefferson and Fitz are sitting a few rows behind us. I drink up the image of him, at ease in his fitted suit coat and jeans. His face is smooth, but his hair is still the longer style he’s been sporting since his “retirement,” curling slightly over his ears. My fingers stretch of their own volition as if to reach for the wavy strands.