“Seems like I poked a sore spot.”
I ignore him. “This is happening. Look over the terms, and if you come across any points of concern, please let me know by the end of the week. Please make this a priority.” I feel his stare as my clumsy, shaking fingers work the silver key from its ring.With it finally free, I toss it onto the coffee table with a dull clink. “It was nice to see this place one last time.”
I walk away. My hand is on the doorknob when he deals his parting blow, his voice a fractured plea. “You know you’re still my best friend, right? I bet that sounds pathetic.”
“Yeah, Wes, it does.”
But if he’s pathetic, so am I.
When I get home, I close the door of my apartment slowly, so as to not wake Evelyn, who’s staying the night before heading home to Nashville in the morning.
Still, when I creep into my bedroom, she raises her head from where she’s nested in my bed, dark hair flattened against one side of her face. “Where were you?” she croaks.
I lift the covers and slide in to join her, like how we used to when we’d have sleepovers as kids. “Nothing important, just out on a walk to clear my head.”
She stretches and yawns. “Oh. All right. Good night.”
Nothing important.
Even so, as my eyes grow heavy with sleep, I go back to when things were better, when there was no one to perform for.
Just a boy, a girl, and a handful of songs.
Track Two
In 2004, best-selling novelist Hudson Sloane moved himself and his daughter, Avery, to Caper, Tennessee, a small farming town. Sloane was known for his contemporary fiction work, often leaving long author notes at the end of his work detailing the globe-trotting adventures he and his daughter went on for research.
Even without his novels, Sloane made a name for himself at a young age in the society pages. Son of Ivy and Nolan Sloane, for a time he was the successor to Sloane Holdings. But after a public dispute with his father, he renounced any claim to the coveted position.
Jared:Wes and Avery already knew each other for years before the band. He made it clear early on. If he had to make a choice between her and the band, he’d always choose her. They had this history that we met in the middle of.
Avery:Wesley Hart? Honestly, I don’t know him that well. But if you’re talking about Wes Gaflin, yeah, I might even call him my best friend.
Avery
Late Summer 2004
The tires of our new SUV kicked up dust from the packed dirt road. With my nose pressed to the window, fogging up the glass with my exasperated breaths, I watched as cow spotted grassy fields rushed by. We’d crossed the county line ten minutes ago, and I was already certain Caper, Tennessee would be the most boring place Dad and I had lived.
“You’ll love it. It might take some time, but you’ll love it,” he promised for the hundredth time, easily picking up on the distaste my melodramatic twelve-year-old self was broadcasting for anyone to see. “I know it’s not London or Phuket, but there’s so much waiting for you here.”
Sure, as long as you liked cows or lying on your back to watch the clouds pass all day. Nashville was the closest city and over two hours away.
But Dad had a way of spinning anything into an adventure without sounding patronizing. He was a novelist who swore by seeking out new experiences. We’d already moved a dozen times, across oceans and continents as inspiration struck.
The boxes containing medical journals in the backseat thudded as we drove over a bump in the road. From the bulky journals and calls he’d been making to doctors, I assumed he was writing a rural medical drama.
I was inclined to believe him, despite my petulance over leaving Chicago. We were always a team. My mother, a woman he’d shared a weekend with and didn’t want the responsibility of a child, wasn’t in the picture. From what I was told, Dad hadn’t known about me until she showed up at his door asking him to take me when I was one-year-old. Still, I never felt unloved or resented.
It was just us from that point on. I had Dad. Dad had me and his friend George, who he promised I’d meet on this trip.
They’d met in college, and George had a kid about my age, so they’d compare notes. My childhood was filled with frantic calls.“George, what do I do if she ate an entire bag of grapes by herself?”or“George, she can read. Is that normal or is she a genius? Please tell me she’s a genius.”
I never spoke to him, but in my mind, there was no reason Dad couldn’t just visit for his book research instead of uprooting our lives. Unless George had convinced him otherwise. So, at twelve, I had made a sworn enemy of a man I’d never met.
“Here we are,” he said as we slowed and pulled into the driveway.
Our new home was massive compared to what I was used to. A squat blue ranch-style house with white shuttered windows. Paver stones wound through cut grass to where a boy about my age and a woman sat on the porch steps.
