I am as smooth as they come. Of course, I would be the one to spill my coffee on the lead singer of Reverend Sister, burning her hand in the process. With how my luck has been going this month, it’s likely the hand that she holds her microphone with and for all I know I’ve ruined the video shoot today.

That’s the reason I’m here, drinking coffee and trying to ease the pain of the beautiful woman who has cautiously given me her damaged hand. If it wasn’t for Stormy, who spent days gushing about the lead singer and her epically cool hair, I wouldn’t have a clue as to whose hand I’m currently holding and trying to ice.

Weeks ago, I held onto the promise that I made Stormy and made sure that she was at every single audition that had been set up for her. Some of them—mind you—made my skin crawl and we promptly walked out, but others seemed legit. At the end of each night, I wanted to dig Iris up and strangle her for committing our daughter to some of these auditions. My feelings toward Iris only worsened when Stormy told me that most of the time her mother didn’t even bring her, that she took an Uber or asked her dance teacher to accompany her. I wanted to ask Stormy why she didn’t tell me but knew that nothing could change what happened in the months prior so why even bring it up?

I apologize to the woman, whose name I can’t remember as I place a makeshift ice pack on the burn. Her hand, in comparison to mine, is tiny.

“It’s okay. I should’ve signaled before I left the room,” she says, trying to hold back laughter. I can’t and bark out so loudly that others are staring at me. She, in turn, does the same and ends up snorting.

She quickly covers her mouth in total embarrassment. “I can’t believe I just did that,” she says.

“I thought it was cute.” The words are out of my mouth and to her ears before I realize that I’ve said the dumbest thing ever. Here I am, holding this uniquely beautiful woman’s hand and I tell her that her snorting was cute. And Barbara wonders why I’m single.

Our moment, or lack thereof, is cut short when someone takes her hand from mine. They immediately tend to the burn I caused leaving me no choice but to head back to the waiting area. I think about looking over my shoulder to get one last look at her, but I don’t.

As soon as I’m back in the waiting area, Stormy’s eyes are wide, and words are tumbling from her mouth before I can even sit down. “Did you hear that someone burned Zara’s hand and the shoot may not happen today? I mean, how could someone do that to her?”

Two things happen here for me. The first is my mind repeatedly says Zara’s name, and for the life of me, I can’t understand why. The second is acknowledging the fact that I may be public enemy number one if this shoot doesn’t happen and by looking around the room full of dancers, they’d have no qualms maiming me.

“I’m sure everything is fine,” I tell my overly anxious daughter. Never mind the fact that I’m shaking in my boots, wondering if I have ruined everything. I’ve been on the other side of production and can understand everyone’s disappointment when shoots get rescheduled. It’s nothing for a guy like me to move my schedule around, but for others, it can be a downright nightmare.

Not willing to divulge my involvement in the situation, I sit back and pull my cap down a bit farther and close my eyes. I really needed that coffee to stay awake. Since arriving in Los Angeles, I haven’t exactly been sleeping very well. Iris plagues most of my thoughts at night. Then there’s the lingering voice in the back of my head asking me what the hell I’m going to do with two teenage daughters. My mama will be on hand, as will Barbara, but I’m now in a situation that I never thought I would be in. Even with Iris being flakey, I always thought she’d be around to help me out.

The beauty of being here is that no one knows me. I’ve taken both girls to school, walked through their halls and haven’t been noticed. I even ventured out to the grocery store and looked at all the rag-mags on the newsstands to see if I’m anywhere in there. I haven’t been asked once for an autograph or picture at any of Stormy’s auditions, but I have been propositioned by a few of the other mothers. You know, these nice ladies are very sorry for my loss as their fingernails trail down my arm. Honestly, though, it’s been nice to stay under the radar and just go with the flow.

“Shoot’s on, I gotta go,” Stormy says. By the time I lift my hat to watch her leave, she’s in the mix of a sea of other dancers heading into production. This soundstage isn’t anything that I’m not used to, although most of my music videos are shot in airplane hangars or warehouses.

It’s not long before the music starts and I swear my ears are starting to bleed. For a brief moment, I feel like my mother used to when I would strum my guitar and sing out of tune. God bless her for putting up with me.

I sigh when the music stops, only for it to start up again, this time it’s much smoother. If I had to guess, someone was way off key with the first go round, but not this time. From the first beat of the drum, I’m tuned into listening and the riffs that follow on the guitar really have my attention, but it’s her voice that has me sitting up and listening a bit more. I won’t even talk about the goose bumps that have formed along my arms or the fact that my heart is racing a bit more.

“I take it this is the first time you’ve heard her sing?” A woman across from me says. I glance at her and smile.

“It is. This isn’t my type of music,” I tell her.

“Where are you from?” she asks. “I like your accent.”

The inner boy in me turns bashful. I have no doubt that if the lighting was better, she’d see that my cheeks are red. I don’t even know why I’m embarrassed by her question.

“Nashville,” I tell her, hoping that my answer doesn’t give away anything. I’ve rather enjoyed no one knowing who I am.

“That was your daughter with you earlier?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s very admirable of you to bring her all the way out here for this. Not many parents would.”

I nod a thank you to her and sit back, letting the vibrations of the music work their way through me. The lady smiles before she reaches into her bag, pulling out two knitting needles. I watch as she weaves in and out of her stitches, working on what looks like a scarf but is probably something else. I remember my Memaw and how she used to do this every day. My memaw tried to teach me how to knit, but I was too focused on teaching myself how to play the guitar. And before Stormy and Willow moved to L.A. with their mama, she tried showing them, but they weren’t interested.

After a bit, the redundancy of the song takes its toll. The other parents who are still here have all occupied their time by reading or sleeping with headphones on, watching their iPad, or yammering on their phone. I’m the only one sitting here with nothing to do except people watch. Thankfully the brim of my hat shields my eyes so no one can really tell if I’m staring at them or not.

It’s about lunchtime when Stormy returns. She looks exhausted but has a beaming smile on her face.

“Y’all done?”

“Nah. It’s lunchtime,” she says and motions for me to follow her outside. There’s a tent set up across the way, and the dancers are all in line, waiting for lunch.

“We can go over to the cafeteria,” I tell her knowing full well that one call to Barbara and I’ll have access to the finer foods on the lot.

“But this is where we’re supposed to eat,” she tells me. I want to give her credit for putting herself in the same light as the others, but also want to shake her because I work my tail off to make sure she has the finer things in life. I know if my mama were here, she’d tell me that Stormy is teaching me a lesson in humility, and she’d probably be right. Stormy is trying to make a name for herself and hasn’t used me to do it.

“You’re right. However, I don’t think they want your daddy eating here, so I’m going to run over to the cafeteria. I’ll be back though.” Much to my surprise, Stormy kisses me on the cheek. It’s the first real emotion, that isn’t part of the grieving process, that she’s shown me since I broke the news about her mother. I’m taken aback briefly, but try not to let her see how much that simple gesture has affected me.

I don’t have to walk far to find a food truck, which will serve its purpose and is better than having to call Barbara to get me a pass into the lot’s café. Honestly, the fewer people that know I’m here the better.

With a burrito in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, I head back to the sound stage and choose to sit outside for a bit so I can enjoy the sun. It’s funny to be on this side of things. The side where people aren’t catering to my every need, making sure that I’d have a seat to sit on as opposed to getting my jeans dirty from the concrete.

Oddly enough I find myself laughing at the situation. Here I am, a mega superstar with a boatload of Grammys, number one hits and sold out tours and not a single person today has recognized me. It’s either that I’m fugly and no one has had the nerve to tell me, or I’m doing a damn good job staying incognito. I’m going with the latter because my mama would never lie to me and she tells me I’m handsome all the time.

“Do you always eat alone?” the melodic voice of the beauty with wild hair stands before me with her pants tucked into her combat boots and a tight shirt that accentuates every toned muscle of her abdomen. But it’s the gloved hand that diverts my attention. I swallow hard and adjust the way I’m sitting on the ground.

“How’s your hand?”

She lifts it and shrugs. “It burns, but it’ll be okay.”

“I’m truly sorry,” I tell her as I stand, instantly towering over her.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says, laughing. She quickly covers her mouth and looks away, making me wonder if she’s afraid to snort again. “I’m Zara.”

“Levi,” I tell her as I shake her non-damaged hand. “My daughter is in your video.” I nod to where Stormy is standing and gawking at me. Normally, she’d come over, but I have a feeling she’s tongue-tied. That would definitely be a first for her especially since she’s grown up under the spotlight.

Zara looks over her shoulder and back to me. “She’s our lead in the video. I hope she makes you proud.” She winks before walking away, leaving me a bit speechless at not only her comment but the fact that I don’t think I was done talking to her.

It’s only a matter of seconds before Stormy is in front of me, trying to block me from watching Zara climb the steps that will take her back into the studio, except she doesn’t go in. Instead, she stands there and looks at me. I can feel her penetrating gaze as if it were boring into my soul.