“Where are you?” Todd asks a second time.
“Trying to back the fuck out my driveway!” I holler, glaring at one of the paps.
“I’m sorry, man. I wish there was more I could do.”
I don’t need him to defend the situation. It’s not somethingone thinks about before diving into this career, especially when a child’s involved. But the truth is, if I was in Nashville it would be no different. This is part of the gig.
“Did you talk to the label? What did they say?” I change the subject.
“Do you want the good news or bad news first?”
“I want this guy to get the hell off the sidewalk.”
“Okaaay, we’re going with good. You sound like you need it.”
“Just get to the point, Todd.”
“Right.”
The reporters take the hint, and I finally make it to the street when Todd lays it on me.
“The label is willing to renegotiate the tour.”
A sigh and a brief hit of relief follow his announcement, until I remember there’s bad news coming.
“And?”
“Ifyou finish the album.”
Shit, I mutter to myself. It’s been months since I’ve written a single lyric. It’s not for lack of trying. Every time I pick up a guitar there’s a deep ache inside my chest that no amount of drive or motivation can push past. I don’t know how to fix it.
“I already told them you’d agree to this because I believe in you,” Todd says in the wake of my silence. “Is the new studio done?”
I peek out the front window at the two-car garage with the finished second story. A table saw and drill still sit in the yard from where Will and his crew worked until dusk last night. I haven’t seen it yet because he told me he’d stop by later today to show me the finished product.
When I don’t answer, he assumes it’s a yes. “While your daughter is in school, use the time.”
Whattime? He doesn’t have any idea what it’s like to be asingle parent with no daycare. Thereisno time. Last week was spring break. She was home all the time. The week before that, I weeded the flower beds, cleaned the house, and grocery shopped. Every day was filled with something. A constant sprint. I barely had a moment to breathe let alone write. Creativity takes time and space. Two things I don’t have.
“How long?” I ask him. I need to know the reality of their expectations before agreeing to anything. I’m better off renegotiating at this stage than signing on to something that’s unachievable.
“Five weeks. They want the album we promised them finished the first Friday in May, and they’ll pick up the second half of the US tour dates starting in Denver the following Saturday.”
Pre-accident Rhett could have given that to them in a week, no problem. El was taking care of Quinn full time. I was writing music. Those were our roles. I sit in that for a moment, recognizing how selfish it sounds. Wondering if I told her enough how much I appreciated her for that. She sacrificed a lot for our family. Made this career possible for me. What the hell am I supposed to do now? I agreed to move back here for all the “help” I’d be surrounded with. I leaned into it the first couple weeks, but now it’s a nightmare. My parents are gone, Emma’s working all the time, and Caroline is already around more than I want.
I’ll figure this out on my own. I will.
I have to.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
He cheers. “I knew you would! I’ll have them draft up the new contract and get it emailed over to you by this afternoon.”
I suddenly feel sick.
“’Kay. I gotta go. I’m at Quinn’s school.”
“See ya, Daddy Dawson.” I hear him chuckle again beforehanging up. It sounds so lighthearted, and I kind of hate him for it. Other than managing my schedule, the guy is free as a bird. No expectations, no kids, just work.
