“Did we play Colorado Springs? I’m supposed to be in Austin on Thursday.”
Someone else answers, “Today is Thursday, Mac. We have to cancel the rest of the tour.”
I turn toward the direction of the voice, shocked to see Gene, the owner of my record label, sitting in a chair, looking like he hasn’t slept in days.
“What are you doing here?”
He raises his brows, and I dip my chin. With any other record exec, I’d assume he’s trying to calculate his losses. Gene’s here because he wants to be. Because he actually cares. He has from the beginning.
When Gene and I first met, I was living in a trailer park on the outskirts of Nashville, putting every dime of my songwriting royalties intomymusic, recording my own albums and managing my own tour schedule of all the finest honky-tonks Tennessee had to offer.
I’d written a song about the twin heartbreak of finding neither love nor acceptance in Nashville. The biggest label in town offered me double to rearrange it and fix the obviously sapphic lyrics so their male headliner could put it on his next album.
I refused. In my soul, I knew that now was the time, and this was the song.
Two days later, I learned about a new studio in town: Out There Records. They labeled themselves as progressive and queer-friendly. On the coldest day of the year, I walked in the door to see what they had to offer. Despite my many years in Nashville and dozens of songwriting credits, it was the first time the person at the desk knew who I was.
“We’ve been waiting for you, darlin’,” she said, grinning broadly.
I hadn’t even seen an executive yet, and I was nearly brought to tears by her welcoming words. Literally, no one had ever been waiting forme.
Gene met me up front a few minutes later and took me back straight away, another first. Halfway through the first song, he leaned over and paused the playback on his laptop. I slumped, wondering if I’d been wrong about this being the song to get me there. When I looked up, however, there were tears in his eyes.
Reaching his hand across the desk, he gripped my hand. “Mac? You and me? We’re about to make history.”
Gene wasn’t lying. He brought me in, set me up in a nice apartment by the studio, and we recorded my song with one of the best producers in town. I barely graduated from high school, but it was the college kids who couldn’t stop listening to me.
Social media platforms were flooded with posts and videos of young folks covering my heartbreak song. When one college student’s video about using the song to come out to their parents went viral, well, everything changed after that.
Within days, I was fielding invites to open for some of the biggest stars in country music. I went with the massive singer who’d always openly supported LGBTQ rights. I’ve been on the road ever since, and now I’m the headliner.
Only…I don’t think that’s the case anymore.
Coming back to the present, I ask, “You canceled the tour?”
He nods. “I checked with Doc, who’s talking to the neurosurgeon right now.”
“What do you mean, neurosurgeon?”
“We had to consult with a neurosurgeon to see if you needed surgery, but she didn’t think it was necessary.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “Thank God. I’d look terrible bald.”
Mason and Gene don’t laugh at my bad joke, mostly because it wasn’t funny. Thankfully, the uncomfortable silence is broken when we’re joined by a short, squat woman in a white jacket holding an iPad.
“I’m just sad I didn’t get to drill any holes in your head, Ms. Nash.”
Scrolling through the screen, she continues, “I’m Dr. De León, and I’m the neurologist in question.”
“I don’t get it, Doc. How did this happen?”
“Have you seen your touring schedule, Ms. Nash?”
“Been a busy couple of years.”
Gene lowers his head and…damn. I know he’s going to blame himself, even if I’m the one who set the punishing schedule.
“Mm-hmm. I’m guessing your diet has been exemplary.”
