CHAPTER 2
Beth
Life was not, after all, like a country song.
“Three chords and the truth,” songwriter Harlan Howard famously said about country music. But I was mostly living a lie these days.
I swished and spat from the bottle of mouthwash the makeup artist carried ready in her kit. There was always a bucket positioned in the wings in case I threw up again. Three weeks into the tour, the stage crew wasn’t taking any chances. One of the guys—Jason—whisked it away. The rest went on with their jobs, big men in black shirts moving purposefully in the shadows.
Sharla, the makeup artist, took the wet washcloth she had pressed to the back of my neck and handed it to an assistant. “Better?”
I nodded, feeling lighter. Relieved.
“Good. Eyes up.”
I swallowed, trying to focus on the lights overhead and not the crowd milling in the pit, bellowing along to “County Road.” From the corner of my eye, I could see the blue-and-gold glow of the big stadiumscreen—Colt, looming above the audience, larger than life. In his element.
Only four more shows, I told myself. Only three more days before we went home for my sister Jo’s wedding.
Not that I grudged Colt one moment in the spotlight. He was so talented. I still couldn’t believe he had plucked me from the chorus of a Christmas show to be his. Every singer-songwriter’s dream, right? Every country music fan’s fantasy.
The assistant fussed with my hair as Sharla repaired my makeup. We had a routine down now.
“Don’t say anything to Colt,” I said.
Without comment Sharla ran concealer stick under my eyes.
“I don’t want him to worry about me,” I added.
She met my gaze. “Honey, Colt worries about Colt. You should take care of yourself.”
My mouth jarred open. The assistant adjusted my headset over my hair.
“Lips,” Sharla said.
I pursed obediently. The band launched into the final rollicking verse of the song, accompanied by stomps and screams from the crowd. Rodney, the stage manager, tapped his headset and held up one finger. I swallowed. It was time.
“All set.” Sharla tucked the gloss into the black apron at her waist. Somebody on the sound crew repositioned the boom at the corner of my mouth. “Go get ’em.”
I ran the gauntlet in the semidarkness—sound crew, lighting crew, backline crew. I could barely hear Colt’s voice in my earpiece through the roar of the audience, the buzz in my head. I paused, blinking, blinded by the stage lights.
Rod nudged me forward. I stumbled past the backup singers, earning a resentful look from Mercedes.
Someone grabbed my elbow. Isaiah, at the mic. “Steady, girl.”
I squeezed his hand, grateful for his support. Glanced anxiously at Colt, in the spotlight. He smiled with warm encouragement, only the faintest twitch betraying his annoyance at my clumsy entrance.
“Audiences love you ’cause you’re real,” he liked to say. Well. He used to say it.
“Hello...” My voice trailed off.New York? No, that was last week. Saratoga Springs to Wantagh to... Were we in Virginia now?I swallowed. Waved weakly at the blur beyond the lights, feeling like a fraud. “Hello, everybody.”
Hollers, punctuated by whoops and whistles. Andy, the roadie, handed me my Gibson Hummingbird. I clutched the guitar gratefully, immediately feeling less naked.
“Let’s give them what they came for, angel,” Colt said, taking control, the way he always did. He winked—for my benefit? for his fans?—and launched into the opening chords of the next song, a song I wrote for him, our second Grammy-nominated hit, “Smooth as You.”
The audience responded with an animal roar. I flinched, leaning into the Gibson to check the tuning. Nodded to Andy, who plugged me in. I swallowed, fixing on Colt’s face with painful intensity, struggling to hold on to his voice in my ear. Trying to find the harmonies through the noise of the crowd and the insect whine in my brain.
“The way you go down easy...”
