Hotels in downtown Nashville are not cheap. We opted for one on the outskirts of the city with a single queen bed to save on costs. The sleeping together part of that sentence is accurate, just not the sexual innuendo.
My joke works. She giggles, but then her eyes widen.
“Dang it. I forgot Henry’s hat!”
I recall her stuffing it between her folded seat. It must have fallen through the crack and onto the floor when she sat during my come-apart. This is my fault.
I shuffle through gum wrappers, hair ties, several tubes of lip gloss, and crumbs before I pull out our rental car keys from the bottom of my purse. I toss them in the air, and she catches them.
“I’ll go get it and meet you at the parking garage.” I turn around before she can stop me and make a break for the window-covered building that looks like a UFO landed on top of it. The one—as I was about to discover—with the no re-entry policy.
4
EVERETT
ANashville crowd knows how to do a country music concert right, and this one is no exception. Fans are on their feet, dancing and belting out the chorus. Eating up every lyric I throw out there. Normally it’s a high I feed off of. I worked my ass off to become Rhett Dawson. There’s no one I’d let down more than myself if I didn’t put on a good show.
But tonight, in this arena, I’m going through the motions. Relying on the thrum of guitar strings, the pulse of a drumbeat, and the resonance of vocal cords to guide me. It’s worked so far, until it doesn’t.
Under a shower of applause and screams of excitement, I’m on the edge. I’m Elsa in cowboy boots. A voice chanting inside my head,Don’t let it show.
How many songs have I made it through?Five?
Six…seven…eight…
I go back to counting. I always go back to counting when it’s loud and I’m locked in a cage of static. One that’s blocking out the band behind me.
I strum a chord. The one I know I’m supposed to play next.
“Your—Rhett—line.” My music director’s voice chops its way through my IEM.
Shit. I missed my entrance. That much is clear.
“Over—start.” Steven’s voice muffles. Jumbles. Causes immediate panic.
No.
“Doing—are—what y—?” Ithinkthat was Casey’s voice—my drummer.
This is not happening. In all the songs I’ve sung, in all the stadiums I’ve performed, it’s never happened on the stage before, and I don’t know what to do. I make myself believe it’s the speaker’s fault as I press it closer to my ear.Lieto myself.
Deep down I know the truth.
A beam of light cuts a four-foot circle around my body, and I tug at the collar of my shirt.
“Rhett—up—come.” Casey’s words scramble again into an incoherent mess.
What is he saying? What does he want from me?I’m not sure of anything anymore.
Through the beam of light, I know there are thousands of eyes watching. Waiting. Listening.
You can’t hide it this time, the voice in my head says, and something clatters to my feet, oblong and wooden.
The guitar. It lands on the drum. The crowd silences as the thump echoes through the microphone.
I stare at it.Glareat it.
If I pick it up I’ll have to explain why I dropped it, and I can’t do that.I’ll never do that.
