Nashville, Tennessee

“Mama? When are we going back to Chicago?” Alex is in a booth across from me, eating French fries.

We’re between recording sessions, finishing up the EP. Rob is working like a crazy person, acting as part manager and part producer, working like crazy to capitalize on the frenzy surrounding “When Your Heart’s Gone,” pushing the video, pushing the radio play, setting up a tour.

Setting up a tour? What? Me? Hell no.

But yes, he really is. Says Miranda needs an opening act for a handful of dates, and so does Carrie, and a few others, and if he can stitch the dates together just right and nail it all down, we’ll have a killer debut tour on our hands.

I sip at my iced tea, chewing on the straw. “Not sure, baby.”

He frowns at me, dipping his fry into ranch dressing. “I miss my friends. I wanna go home.”

“We were going to move anyway, I told you that already.”

“I know, but . . .” he trails off, shrugging. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Me either, honey-buns.” I steal one of his fries and pop it into my mouth. “What would you think if we never went back to Chicago?”

He stares at me. “And stay here? In Nashville?”

I shrug. “Maybe. Or we might live on a big bus and travel all over the country.” I pause, watching his reaction. “Mama could be a famous music star, baby. What do you think of that?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Really? So you wouldn’t be a waitress no more?”

I sigh. “That’s the idea.”

“And you’d be famous? Like for really real? Famous like Tony Stark?”

“Could be”—I laugh—“although, Tony Stark is a fictional character, and last I checked, I’m real.”

His blue eyes—my eyes, Ava’s eyes, Mom’s eyes—examine me carefully, thoughtfully. His blond hair is a little too long, shaggy on top and curling at the neck, but it looks cute on him, and he likes it, so I’ve been leaving it. “Would you not be sad anymore, if you get famous?”

I tilt my head, frown at him. “What makes you think I’m sad, baby?”

“Mom.” He rolls his eyes at me. “You’re always sad. You play your guitar and sing sad songs when I’m sleeping. I like to wake up and listen.”

“Baby, it’s just—”

He interrupts me. “Will you get a famous boyfriend?”

“What?”

“You’re all alone,” he says. “My friend at school, back in Chicago I mean, Melissa, you know her. She says her mom has a new boyfriend every month, but they never stay around long, and my other friend Will, he says his mom never has a boyfriend, but she comes late from work sometimes acting weird and crying and stuff. Did you ever have any boyfriends? I thought if you got a famous boyfriend, you wouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m not alone, baby, I have you.” I swallow back tears and emotion so he doesn’t see it. “I don’t need a boyfriend.”

He finishes his fries and picks up a crayon, scribbles aimlessly on the paper under the plate. “Your song on the radio, it sounds like you’re singing it to a boyfriend.”

“Alex, listen—”

“If we live on a bus, does that mean I won’t have to go to school anymore?”

“I can’t keep up with you, buddy.” I sigh. “If we live on a bus, you’ll have a tutor.”

“Dang it. I thought I wouldn’t have to learn no more.”

“You have to learn, Alex, that’s how you become smart.”

“Did you go to college, Mama?”

“No, but that’s not—”

“And you’re pretty smart, aren’t you? So why do I have to have a tutor? I can just watch PBS.”

I laugh. “I did finish high school, kiddo, so I learned some stuff, but I do wish I’d gone to college. And no, you can’t just watch PBS. I’m not sure we’d get PBS on the bus anyway. And all this is beside the point, since I’m not sure that’s happening anyway. I just . . . I don’t think we’re going back to Chicago. That’s my point.”

“So could I stay with Gramma and Grampa in St. Pete’s sometimes? That was fun! I got to have cake for breakfast once, and Grampa made pancakes like every day, and they let me have Coke whenever I wanted.” He frowns, stopping abruptly and staring at me in something like panic. “Um. I mean—I had broccoli every day, and never had any sweets. So . . . I wouldn’t mind staying with them sometimes.”

I laugh. “Buddy, even if I didn’t already know that your grandparents spoiled you rotten while you were staying with them, you still couldn’t live with them.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re my son, and I’d be sad without you.”

“Oh. So I’m kinda like your boyfriend.”

“Noooo, you’re kinda like my son.”

“What about Auntie Ava?” he asks, still tracing the crayon in idle circles. “If we go on a bus, and you’re a famous music star, what will Auntie Ava do? Is she gonna be famous too?”

“She’s . . .” I haven’t really addressed the situation with Christian being missing with Alex just yet. I don’t really know how to start that conversation with a six-year-old. “I don’t know. She’s . . . she has her own life, buddy. She’s just spending time with us for a while.”

“Where’s Uncle Chris?”

Here it is.

I sigh. “Um. Well, actually, buddy . . .” Alex hears something in my voice and looks up at me, alert to what comes next. “Uncle Chris is . . . he’s kind of . . . he’s missing.”

Alex is quiet a moment or two. “He’s missing? Where’d he go?”

God, there’s so much to explain. “Um. Well, we don’t know. That’s why he’s missing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He was on a sailboat, and there was a storm, and now he’s missing.”

“Is . . . is he . . . is Uncle Chris dead?”

I sigh, taking his hands. “I hope not. Right now, he’s just missing.”

“Are people looking for him?”

So many questions I don’t know how to answer.

“I . . . yeah, there are people looking for him.”

Alex thinks about it for a bit and nods seriously. “Uncle Chris is pretty smart. They won’t find him; he’ll find them.”

I smile at his confidence in his uncle. “I think you’re right, buddy.” I pay the bill and extend my hand to him. “Come on, kiddo. Mr. Rob is probably waiting for us back at the studio.”

We walk back to the studio, and Alex glances up at me. “Mama?”

“Hmmm?”

“Can I be on your album? I can sing real good!”

And he shows me how good he can sing, going through the theme songs of half a dozen of his favorite shows, then goes into renditions of his favorite radio songs, and damn, the boy can actually sing like an angel. When we get to the studio, Alex repeats his request to Rob, and Rob indulges him, letting him sit on the stool in the recording booth and sing into the mic for a while, and even hits the playback button so Alex can hear himself singing.

“I don’t sound like that!” Alex says, upset. “That’s not how I sound!”

I laugh. “Our voices sound different in our heads than they do to other people,” I tell him. “It’s always weird to hear a recording of yourself.”

He frowns and crosses his arms. “I don’t like it. You can be the music star, Mama. I’m gonna be an astronaut.”

Rob and I both laugh as Alex stomps seriously out of the recording booth and takes his place on the chair in the production area with the iPad Rob gave him, watching Paw Patrol as Rob and I get back to recording the last song on the EP. It’s going to be just me, my guitar, and a new song, one I just finished writing the other day. No band, no production, just a raw cut.

We do half a dozen different cuts before Rob calls a stop and comes in to talk to me in the booth. “I don’t think this is the right song. It’s a little too raw, too much emotion. That’s a song you should only do live, to really show people what you’ve got. It just . . . it don’t translate right, without the visual of you singing it. We could do a video for it, but honestly I think the best video for that song would be a concert cut of you singing it on stage, really pouring your heart out. Either way, it’s not the song to close out the EP.”

“So . . . what do we do?” I ask.

Rob shrugs. “I have a couple ideas. You can write somethin’ else totally new, or you can demo me some of your older stuff, and we can pick one.”

I nod, thinking. “I have a couple songs in mind. If you give me a little time, I can work up some demos for you.”

Rob shakes his head. “Nah. Just play ’em. We won’t isolate the vocals and guitar for this last one. Just play me a few songs, and I’ll record ’em, and we’ll pick the best cut. Play from your heart, honey, that’s when you’re best.”

He mics my guitar and I spend a few minutes just fooling around, mentally going through some of the songs I’ve written over the years.

“I think I’ve got one,” I say, and fiddle with the strings, trying to remember how the chords went. “Do we have any tour dates?” I ask to buy time; I still don’t quite believe it’s real, that an actual tour opening for actual country artists could really happen.

Rob just grins. “We do. I’ve nailed down six dates so far. The first one is in three days, actually. Opening for Miranda in New York City.”

I squeal, hunching over my guitar and kicking my feet excitedly. “Seriously? Six dates?”

He grins even wider, leaning on the glass. “I have several more coming, just have to figure out the particulars. This tour is going to put you in the stratosphere, babe. You’ll be a headliner before you know it.”

I shake my head. “I can’t even think about that, Rob. It’s too much. None of this feels real.”

“It is real, though. Really real.”

“I know, I know.” I sigh. “I just . . . it’s surreal.”

Rob smiles. “I know. I’ve seen it a hundred times. Advice from an old dog, honey? Don’t ever get used to it. Always be amazed.” He leans back, keeping his finger on the button. “Keep that fresh-eyed excitement. Stay passionate. That’s what’ll translate into stardom. You have all the talent in the world, Delta, you just needed the right break.”

I’m choked up, trying to breathe through it and failing. “Why, Rob? Why are you doing all this for me?” My voice breaks on the last word.

He shakes his head, and his smile turns from encouraging and wise to compassionate. “Because I believe in music, honey. I believe that if someone has the kind of raw talent you have, they owe it to the world to use that talent, to share the music with the rest of us. The world deserves to hear the music you have inside you, Delta. I feel like it’s my duty to get that music out there.”

“What if no one likes me? What if I fail? What if I get up on stage in front of a real crowd for the first time, and I bomb? What if . . . what if I’m nothin’ but a one-hit wonder?” Doubts pour out of me faster than I can verbalize them. “What if I just suck? What if I put out this EP and it doesn’t move any copies? What if Alex hates it on the road and I have to stop touring? He has to come first, Rob. I can’t and I won’t sacrifice his future for my stupid dreams.”

Rob lets go of the button, leaves the production booth and comes in to stand in front of me. He takes my face in his hands with the gruff gentility of a loving grandfather. “That there is fear talkin’, honey-pie. Shut that shit down. People love your first single. They love your voice, they love your lyrics, they love the video . . . they love you. That song is rocketing up the charts, okay? The Highway picked it up for their On the Horizon program, and people went apeshit for it. Before you know, it’ll be charting on the top thirty. You’ve got it, Delta.

“If you fuck up, you just smile and apologize and play your goddam guts out anyway.” He lets go and backs up a step, gesturing at Alex, visible through the window, absorbed in his show, oblivious to this conversation. “And if he hates touring, you figure something out. I don’t have all the answers, babe; I’m just your producer. All I know is I’m damn good at spotting talent and making it pop out there in the big ol’ world, and that’s what I’m gonna do with you. So stop overthinkin’ everything.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Now. Play me a song. Nothin’ too heart wrenching, but not too peppy either. Somethin’ catchy and commercial.”

I blow out a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay. You’re right.” I strum an open chord, pick a few strings. “Catchy and commercial.”

I find the right song, find the right chords, try to remember the melody and the lyrics. “This one is called ‘Just Need Tonight,’” I say.

“You got me like whiskey

So baby just kiss me

Tip me back and drink me down

Pick me up, take off my gown

I ain’t no Cinderella, no fancy glass shoes

You ain’t no Hollywood fella, on a list of who’s who

So just pay the tab

Call us a cab

I’ve had a few drinks, can you taste ’em

Don’t have many hours, so don’t waste ’em

You got me like whiskey

All you gotta do is kiss me

Tip me back and pour me down

Pick me up and take off my gown

Don’t need a pick up line

So don’t ask me the time

I like whiskey, don’t drink wine

Don’t need salt, don’t need lime

This ain’t a date,

So baby don’t wait

Don’t mind the hangover,

Won’t ask to stay over

Don’t need a promise, don’t need a call

All I want is this, baby that’s all

Sweaty skin and whiskey lips

Beat of your heart and hands on my hips

Bodies in motion, shadows like oceans

Touch like devotion, kiss like a potion

You got me riled, so baby be wild

No number to dial, just keep me a while

Don’t need tomorrow, just need tonight

I ain’t no virgin, don’t wear white

Take me out and show me around

Pick me up, show me the town

Butter me up, I might go down

Don’t need my number, ain’t a booty call

This ain’t love, and I won’t fall

All I want is you and me naked

Take me to bed, I won’t fake it

Baby just get me screaming

And then leave me dreaming

Won’t hear me weeping

This ain’t love, I don’t want keeping

Here comes the sun

Baby, it sure was fun

Don’t need a pick up line

So don’t ask me the time

I like whiskey, don’t drink wine

Don’t need salt, don’t need lime

This ain’t a date,

So baby don’t wait

Don’t mind the hangover,

Won’t ask to stay over

Don’t need a promise, don’t need a call

All I want is this, baby that’s all

Sweaty skin and whiskey lips

Beat of your heart and hands on my hips

Bodies in motion, shadows like oceans

Touch like devotion, kiss like a potion

You got me riled, so baby be wild

No number to dial, just keep me a while.”

I end the song and glance at Rob to gauge his reaction. He nods, leans back in his chair and fiddles with dials and buttons for a while, lost in thought. After a minute or so, he leaves his side of the glass and comes over to mine, bringing a chair with him. He sits across from me with the chair reversed so he’s straddling it with his arms resting on the chair back.

“Delta, can I be honest with you?”

I nod. “I hope you always will be, Rob.”

“A lot of your songs have a running theme to them, I’ve noticed.” He sighs, tapping the chair with a finger, hesitating. “You, just looking for a good time for the night.”

I shrug, half-nod. “More or less. A lot of the songs guys write are about drinking and picking up girls, and I decided I wanted to write from the opposite perspective—that we girls like to have fun, too.”

He nods. “I get that, I do. I just . . . I’m not sure that’s the image you necessarily want to go for.”

“What image, Rob? The slutty one?” I talk over his protests. “It’s who I am, and I’m not going to apologize for it. I lived my life hard and fast until I had Alex, and a lot of my material came out of that. Trying to accept who I was, trying to figure it out, come to terms with it. My image won’t ever be squeaky clean and shiny, because there ain’t a single thing about me that’s squeaky clean and shiny.”

Rob holds up his hands to slow my tirade. “And sweetheart, I get all that. I ain’t asking you to change, or to apologize, or to be anything you’re not.”

“Then what are you asking, Rob?”

“I’m asking you to dig deeper. As a songwriter, as a musician, dig deeper. Find me the song that tells a story, tells me as the listener something I can identify with, something that makes me feel.”

“You said catchy and commercial, and that song felt catchy to me.”

He nods. “It is. It’s a damn good song, and I plan on fine-tuning it for later. But to end this EP, you need something that captures a part of who you are.”

I blow out a breath and nod.

I’ve had something rumbling around my head for a while, and I play the chords as they come to me. I grab the notebook and pen on the floor by my feet and work out the lyrics. Rob is patient, willing to chat with Alex and wait me out. It doesn’t take me long to fall into the spell of song writing, strumming a few chords, testing transitions, playing with tempo and phrasing and melody until I feel the song fall into the groove.

After ten or fifteen minutes, I feel confident that I have it down, and I play the melody through a few times, thinking through the lyrics. I feel it, now. Whenever I write a song, I have to work through it and figure it out, and then suddenly I feel something just . . . click. The moment when the song becomes a complete entity, no longer only an idea in my head but a real physical thing, there’s this mental, emotional, physical click, when I know it’s complete. It’s not always fast, sometimes I have to work on a song for hours or days or even weeks before the click comes, and sometimes, like with this one . . . it’s a matter of minutes, of letting the song pour out of me into what it’s meant to be.

“I think I’m gonna call this one ‘Faking This,’” I say, as I play a short music intro, and then start in on the lyrics. As I start singing, I let myself really feel it, let the emotions take over, let myself really miss Jonny, and I put all that into the way I sing, giving myself over to it completely.

“If I take this moment, will there be any more?

If I let you go, can I watch you walk out the door?

If I take this moment and own it,

It’ll be the end of us, won’t it?

There’s a million reasons why written in the sky

They gleam like the moon

They tell of you leavin’ me soon

A million reasons you can’t stay

A million reasons you’re walking away

If I just lie here in the dark maybe I’ll dream of you

If I pretend my hand is your hand, maybe I’ll scream for you

If I close my eyes and wish, maybe I’ll remember your kiss

But I’m not all right, baby I’m just faking this

This won’t be the end of me

So baby don’t pretend for me

But did you have to look back?

The kisses, the whispers, was it an act?

The way you held me from night till the morning,

The way you took my heart without warning

Were they just lines, was it a game?

I said it’s all too much, and you felt the same,

Your touch is more than a memory,

Your kiss, what it meant for me

Your words, what they did to me

Getting lost in the stars, it felt like a dream

You left and you’re gone, was it what it seemed?

Did you love me, or were we just sex

Do you love me, or am I an ex?

If I just lie here in the dark maybe I’ll dream of you

If I pretend my hand is your hand, maybe I’ll scream for you

If I close my eyes and wish, maybe I can remember your kiss

But I’m not all right, baby I’m just faking this

I’m just faking this, faking this, faking this . . .”

The last note quavers in the booth, and I feel it echoing inside me. I look up, and Rob is grinning ear to ear, pointing at me through the glass and then slow clapping.

He leans forward and hits the button. “That! Honey, that is it!” he hollers. “That’s the one, babe.”

“Okay, so should we go through it again?” I ask. “I feel like I could improve it in a few places.”

Rob shakes his head. “Nope, that’s it, just like it is. I’m not doing a damn thing to it. You and your guitar, your raw vocals and the feeling you put into it, that’s all you need.”

“Rob, you’re crazy. You can’t put that on the EP like that. It’s the first time I even played it through. I literally just wrote it!”

He laughs. “And that’s why it’s perfect. I’ve been saying we need this to be raw and real. You don’t need to be produced, babe, you just need to be recorded.”

“Can’t we go over it once more?”

He shook his head. “Nope. You’ll lose the edge of the passion if you do it again. It’s gotta hit with that ragged edge you gave it. It wasn’t perfect, and that’s why it is perfect. Your voice shook in a couple places, and I swear to God I felt how deeply you feel about that guy, whoever he was.”

I sigh and try to put aside the feelings I unearthed. “You’re the expert.”

Rob’s eyes pierce a little too deeply. “I’ve been tryin’ to keep you locked in on the music the last few weeks, ’cause I thought maybe that was what you needed. But, babe, it’s been damn near a month since we left Florida, and you’re still digging some pretty ragged hurt out of that situation you left down there.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

With a glance at Alex, who is now playing a game of some sort, his tongue sticking out of the corner of this mouth, Rob once again joins me in the recording booth, straddling the chair. “Sure it does.”

I shake my head. “No, it really doesn’t. He’s gone and I’m here. It was never going to be anything, and we both knew it.”

“Don’t make it hurt any less.”

“No, that’s for sure.” I try to smile at him and only partially succeed. “It is what it is.”

Rob growls. “That’s a load of bullshit.”

I frown at him. “What do you mean?”

“Folks say ‘it is what it is’ when they feel like there ain’t shit they can do about something, but that don’t mean you can shove the way you feel under the rug like it doesn’t matter.” He taps my guitar. “You can put your hurt into a song and sing your way to a number one hit, but that doesn’t count as dealing with it, Delta.”

“I don’t want to deal with it. Dealing with it means thinking about it, and I’m doing a pretty damn good job of living in denial.”

Rob shakes his head. “That’s no good, Delta. It won’t work.”

“Yeah, well, it has so far.” I pluck a string and adjust the tuning a touch. “It’s worked my whole life.”

“Just because it’s what you’ve been doing don’t mean it’s working, honey.” He tugs on his beard. “Listen, I know what I’m talking about, okay? I’m successful, and I’ve never been told I’m ugly, but I’m single, and why you think that is? Because I’ve always done the same thing you’re doing. Ignore the hurt and hope it goes away. Shove it all under the rug and don’t talk about it, don’t deal with it, and it stops hurting so much, eventually. Pretend I’m fine, keep on going, act like all the shit I’ve been shoving deeper and deeper ain’t eating a hole inside me. That shit ferments on you, Delta. Turns to acid, and burns a hole inside you.”

“Rob, I can’t just—”

“I ain’t sayin’ you gotta unload it all on me. I’m just a retired producer, what do I know? But I also hope we’re friends.” I start to protest again, and he holds up his hand to stop me. “I won’t bore you with the whole story, but here’s the short version. I was married for near on twenty years. Met her back in Texas, when I was a hungry young buck working the honkey tonks down that way, trying to bust out of the local scene. She was a stone cold fox, and I fell in love faster than fire burns paper. We had things good for a spell. I pushed out of Texas and got the attention of some folks here in Nashville, and we got married, moved here. Kept writing and eventually got into producing and realized that was where my real talent was, more than writing or performing.

“For me and Lisa, though, it wasn’t so golden. I got caught up in the excitement, made some mistakes, did some stupid shit that hurt her. And she retaliated in kind. Turned into this escalating thing we never acknowledged or talked about, just kept piling hurt on hurt until we forgot what our love looked like. We tried to fix it, tried therapy and all that shit, but it had soured until there wasn’t anything left but old hurt. And the thing about old hurt you ain’t dealt with, Delta? Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s lost its potency. More often that not, just like whiskey, old hurt stings all the harder because it’s old and all knotted up inside you.”

I shake my head. “Rob, it’s not the same. I met a guy, we had a fling, and it ended. That’s it. Not worth dwelling on.”

“Aw, now you’re just talkin’ out your ass and whistlin’ Dixie, Delta.” He stares hard at me, and I know he sees through me. “That lie don’t sell, babe.”

“Rob, goddammit.” I rub the strings and set the guitar into the stand and put my face in my hands, sighing and scrubbing.

“It ain’t just the boy, is it?” He jerks thumb at Alex. “And by boy, I don’t mean that one. I mean the one who was watching you from outside the fire like he was fixin’ to leave behind half his heart.”

“It’s . . . it’s everything!”

“Well now, when you say it’s everything, that can cover a whole lot of everything. Maybe try to narrow it down a mite?” He holds up a finger. “Hold on a second. I think we need some liquid honesty for this.” He vanishes, comes back with a bottle of whiskey. “Looks like your little soldier there is getting sleepy, so why don’t we take this conversation back to your place?”

So we end up in Rob’s fancy little car, Alex in the tiny back seat, yawning and trying to act like he isn’t. Rob did indeed find me a really nice apartment in Nashville, ground floor with a patio and good schools if we end up staying.

I had a little bit of money saved up, and I used it to pay a couple months of rent up front so I can focus on recording. If this gamble doesn’t pay off, I’ll be screwed, but I’ll hate myself if I don’t try, so I’m putting it all on the line and hoping.

Rob wanted to help with rent, but I drew the line there, because that was starting to feel a bit too much like charity, and even though I get the feeling Rob is a genuine person with genuine motives, I’m far too jaded to let myself be in any kind of financial debt to him. I’m not sugar-baby material, but a lonely older guy with money and a younger woman in a desperate situation? Yeah, I wasn’t about to let him start paying my way in life. A guitar, sure. Some studio time, sure. He’s part owner of the studio, so he’s not losing money on this, as we’re working around the schedules of other artists, wedging in time when the booth is free.

Thus, we end up at my apartment, Alex in bed, snoring before I get the blankets up to his chin. Rob has whiskey poured out in juice glasses and is sitting on my patio with one glass on the ground under his chair, feet kicked out, picking a slow, sweet melody on Gloria.

He sees me coming out and hands the guitar over. “Here. I was just playing her for old time’s sake.”

“She’s your guitar, Rob.”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I gave her to you. But I wouldn’t mind if you let me play her now and again.”

I take a drink and watch Rob play, envious of and amazed by his effortless mastery, the way he can make a simple melody so compelling. After a few minutes, he quiets the strings with his palm and lifts his glass to his mouth, takes a long sip, and eyes me.

“So. Everything, huh?”

I sigh. “Why do you wanna hear this, Rob?”

“Because we’re friends. Because I want you to find your way to something better out of your life, emotionally speaking, and you can’t get there by bottling it all up.” He takes another drink. “And because you need a friend. Your sister has her own shit to deal with, and I get you aren’t willing to burden her with yours.”

“What do you get out of this, Rob?”

He laughs. “I spent my whole life thinkin’ about me and only me. I took what I wanted from Lisa, from my friends, from my clients, from everyone. I never invested in anyone or anything unless I could get something out of it. For my whole life, I was the one asking ‘what’s in it for me?’ It got so bad Lisa left me, and then I had a health scare and ended up retiring earlier than I was planning, and then damn near died in that freak storm down in Florida.

“All that has me wonderin’ if maybe I oughta start thinking about other questions, maybe start asking what I can give, rather than what I can get.” Another laugh, a more cynical one. “Plus, if you succeed, I make money. And if you’re happy, you’re gonna make better music.”

I frown. “What was it you said? You’re talking out of your ass and whistling Dixie.”

He chuckles and sips whiskey. “Nah, not exactly. Truth is, I like you. You remind me of me, just a whole hell of a lot prettier.” His gaze as it flicks to me is sharp and insightful. “I hope I don’t have to say this, Delta, but . . . I’m your friend. I’m your producer and sort of your manager. Ain’t nothin’ else.”

I let out a breath, because I don’t sense any duplicity in him. “I’ve been lonely my whole life.”

“That’s a long time to be lonely.”

“Yeah. I had a dream, and I went after it. Busted my ass going for it, did everything right, everything I could. Kept myself free of entanglements, you know? I was laser-focused on making it, and there wasn’t place in my life for anything else. But I just . . . I never made it. I almost did . . . but it fizzled out.

“And then I was trying to survive and got knocked up by a random asshole and had Alex, and then it wasn’t just survival, it was trying to give him everything I could. He’s all I’ve got, that boy in there, and I’m all he’s got. But . . . he’s just a baby.”

I sniff and cover it with a sip of whiskey, hissing at the burn. “My folks, Ava, Chris . . . what were they gonna do when I had Alex? Bail me out? Watch him while I try to revive my dead music career? Nah. They were there, they love me, I know that. My folks . . . they’re flaky. They’re focused on themselves. They weren’t bad parents, but Ava and I both left home young because they . . . they kept us alive and we knew they cared about us, but they were . . . flaky. I don’t know how else to put it. Don’t get me wrong, I know I was lucky. I grew up with two parents in a middle-class neighbourhood—I had it easy. But I couldn’t depend on them, emotionally. I couldn’t rely on them, so I didn’t.”

And Ava and Christian were . . . I don’t know. Chris’s success was so meteoric I felt like I couldn’t be a burden to them, and I wasn’t about to take handouts from them, so I just . . . I stayed in Chicago and kept my head down and did what I had to do to take care of Alex.”

“But that’s all you ever did,” Rob finishes for me.

“Right. All through my shot at music and ever since, I’ve been alone. I’ve never had a serious relationship, never. I dated this one guy for two months, when Alex was a baby. He knew I had a kid, and it seemed like he was cool with it. But then when it started to get more serious and we talked about him meeting Alex and spending time at my place rather than me going to his . . . he was like, nah, I’m good. He just bailed, dumped me before work one day. And I didn’t blame him, honestly. I mean, yeah, it was a dick move, but I got it. It wasn’t ever gonna go anywhere.

“That’s all I’ve ever had. Quick and easy and cheap and shallow. Nobody has ever . . .”

I have to stop, because this more real than I’ve ever gotten with anyone.

I take a deep breath and start over. “No one has ever made me feel special. No one has ever made me”—I shrug—“just feel. Like, deep down. My songs are all about heartbreak and getting drunk and hooking up, because that’s all I’ve ever known. I gave them what they wanted, but deep down . . . I’ve just . . . all I want is . . .” I can’t quite finish the thought.

“Someone to give a shit,” Rob fills in.

“Yeah,” I laugh, through a sniffle, “someone to give a shit. And Jonny, I didn’t know him long, but it felt like he gave a shit. He made me feel. More than just, you know, the sex stuff, wanting him and being attracted to him and all that . . . Jonny made me feel real emotions.”

“Such as?”

“Fear. Need. Curiosity. Desperation. Helplessness.” I swallow hard. “He made me feel like . . . like I wasn’t so alone.”

“Now you’re here, and he’s . . .?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

I thought I was strong enough to handle the end of whatever Jonny and I were: more than a hook-up, less than a relationship—some fucked up amalgamation that wasn’t quite one and wasn’t quite the other. I’d known it was going to hurt, but I couldn’t help taking what I could get from Jonny, because despite being all too brief and not quite enough and also far too much for the short time we had, it was better than anything I’ve ever known. Physically, it was incredible. Emotionally, it was . . . a tease.

Nowhere near enough.

I’ve been avoiding this realization for the last month, but now I can’t ignore it anymore:

I miss Jonny.

Ironically, I’m exploding onto the music scene, getting the break I never thought I’d get. Success is in my grasp. I’m about to go on tour with some of the most famous country music stars in the world, and people are learning my name and the sound of my voice and the flow of my lyrics. I’m making it.

It’s tempting to say it doesn’t mean anything without Jonny, but that wouldn’t quite be true, and I’m not really into unnecessary melodrama. I wanted this long before I met Jonny, and if I never see him again, this sudden and unexpected success will still be just as sweet.

But long term? Without Jonny . . . when the lights go out, when the recording studio is empty, when I’m alone in my bed, I’ll still miss him. I’ll still always wonder what could have been. What should have been if my life didn’t seem determined to screw me out of love.

God, why is nothing ever easy?

I end up with Gloria on my lap, a song in my head, a melody emerging. I’m unaware when Rob left, but I find myself alone on my porch, the glass of whiskey forgotten, working on a song.

My first live performance in front of a crowd in fifteen years is in three days, and even though I’m excited and happy and incredulous, it doesn’t taste quite as sweet as I want it to because, deep down, I know I was wrong to let Jonny walk away. I was wrong to let him. He was wrong to go. I was wrong to think I could be strong enough to forget him, to move on without him. We were both wrong to think that what we had was going to be easily forgotten or healed.

I shouldn’t have touched him. Shouldn’t have kissed him. Shouldn’t have fucked him. Shouldn’t have slept all those nights in the sand with him behind me. Shouldn’t have woken up beside him, smelling him, hearing him, feeling him. Shouldn’t have let him inside me, into my heart, into my head, or between my thighs. None of it. Because all I have now are a few hot memories and a gaping wound in my heart, where he should be, where he was, where he never will be.

Yeah, it’s stupid. He gave me the tingles. That should have been the biggest and reddest of red flags. I barely know him. I spent less than a week with him. It was a little bit of sex and some intensely emotional situations.

But . . . even though it doesn’t make a damn bit of sense, he’s . . . inside me. I don’t mean that in the dirty way, either. I wish I did, because God I miss the feel of him.

I shouldn’t be in love with him, but I am.