She’s right. It’s time I stop trying to hold the reins so tightly. Maybe if I gave up a couple of them, I wouldn’t feel so overwhelmed all the time. I face my dad. Maybe this is thereason I came here. I trust my parents’ judgment above all else, and I need their guiding hands. “Would you look at my books, Dad? The finances for the store, I mean.”
His eyes soften. “Of course.”
Immediate relief fills me. “You might see something I’ve missed.”
“Hopefully I will. How’s tomorrow morning?”
My impulse is to tell him not to waste his weekend working for me, but I smother it. “That sounds great, but only if you’re sure. We can do next week, too.”
“Tomorrow works for me.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I stand, stretching and feeling loads better, like I’ve taken some of my piles of stress and handed them over to my parents. I come here every week for dinner, and I fill them in on what’s going on in my life. But apparently, I don’t fill them in on the important things, or I wouldn’t have amassed such a heavy burden. “I love you both.”
They each hug me tightly, giving me the affection I’ve been craving since I walked away from Dorian’s house earlier. They don’t know I got a ride here, so I order another rideshare, because I don’t want them on the roads this late with their terrible eyesight. When my car arrives, I hug them again and leave, feeling the slightest bit hopeful.
Maybe Dorian won’t forgive me so easily, but things are better already. Some things, at least.
The driver, Dax, turns down the country station in his Dodge Durango and looks at me through the rearview mirror. “So, any fun plans this evening?”
“Just hung out with my parents.”
“Nice. My mom’s in Orlando. I wish I could hang out with her.”
“What brought you to Nashville?”
“Work.” He pauses. “I’m trying to make it in the business.”
Where country artists are a dime a dozen. “It’s tough,” I say, though I don’t really know.
He blows a raspberry. “Which is why I’m giving you a ride tonight. But I have a gig next weekend, so who knows? Things could pick up.”
“I hope they do.”
It’s quiet for a while before he speaks again. “What do you do for work?”
My immediate response—I own a bookstore, something I always say with pride—stalls in my throat. It’s the truth. I could say it. But it’s not actually the thing supporting me, is it? It’s not the career making my bookshop hobby a possibility. I glance out the window and take a leap. Maybe if I’m not looking at him, it’ll be easier to say.
“I’m an author, actually.” The words come out soft, breaking at the end. My nerves are fried.
“No way. That’s sick.”
A smile curves my lips. “Thanks.”
“What’s your name? Anything I’ve heard of?”
“Still trying to make it,” I say. “But I write under the name Clancy Calloway.”
“No crap, seriously?” He looks at me so long that the car veers, but then he readjusts it and fixes his attention on the road again. “I’ve read one of your books. The one with the”—he snaps his fingers twice—“doctor, that’s it. He’s connected to all those people, but then you find out he’s crazy? It was dope.”
“Thanks.” My face warms. His praise is filling me with the coolest feeling right now. “What are the chances that you’ve read one of my books?”
“Pretty high, actually. That book was everywhere last year.”
I laugh. Fair enough.
“So why did you choose Clancy?” He glances at his phone. “Your name is Piper, right?”
“I went with two last names—Clancy Calloway. I wanted people to see the cover and not know my gender. Then they’d enjoy the story without preconceived notions. That was the idea, at least.”
