ONE
“Who’s a good girl?”
My ’96 Bronco purrs at the praise. Okay, maybe grumbles is more accurate.
Still, she got me here.Ha.Proved my brother wrong. Nashville to Chicago. Four hundred and fifty miles from the only place I’ve ever called home.
I pat the steering wheel for good measure, then hop out to fill up the tank. The frigid wind whips against my cheeks and penetrates my jean jacket, my newly acquired winter coat still packed in my luggage. It was fifty degrees back home two days ago. Here it feels like five below, though the dash says thirty-five.
The nozzle clicks into place, and I lean back against the sky-blue paint that could use a good buffing. The sun peeks through the clouds, catching on the rust spot above the rear wheel well that I keep meaning to deal with. But let’s be honest, there are plenty of upgrades this old girl could use. Like Bluetooth and a sound system from the last decade.
All part of the plans for when I hit the Billboard Hot 100.
The dream that got me here.
Technically, it wasn’t the dream that landed me here. It was the legendary—and notoriously difficult—producer whoagreed to record my debut album. Nashville might be the hub for country music, but this man apparently doesn’t leave his compound in a rural suburb outside Chicago.
But when you’rethattalented andthatsought-after, I guess you get to make your own rules.
The tinny sound of my phone’s ringtone bounces out of the cupholder, and I hustle back, leaning across the seat to grab it. Mia’s picture lights up the screen, along with a text from my manager.
Kendra:
I have an epic collaboration in the works. Fingers, toes, and tits crossed…
I shake my head at her message and answer Mia, “Hey, hot stuff.”
She huffs a laugh. “Hey, yourself.”
“Are you just dying to see me? Can’t wait another minute?”
“You caught me,” she deadpans. “What’s your ETA?”
I pull up the GPS app, and my phone flashes with a low-battery warning as I flip back to the call. “About twenty minutes.”
“How do you want to celebrate your first night as a Midwesterner?” she asks over what sounds like the whirl of a blender in the background.
“Doesn’t Dominic have a game tonight? I figured we’d be going. Don’t you go to all of them?”
“Nah, it’s okay to miss one.”
Then I hear Dominic’s voice in the background. “Only one, la mia fiamma. We need all the luck we can get, and I play better when you’re there.”
“Aww.” I can’t help but tease her. “How’s my ex doing?”
Mia and I spent the summer competing against each other on a reality dating show. Although “competed” is a stretch. She had it in the bag from the start, and I cheered her on.
She walked away with a fiancé—or she ran away and he chased her—but still, the fiancé part remains true. I walked away with new friends, which isn’t so different from my normal dating life, where I somehow collect friends rather than love matches.
“He’s perfect.” Her voice softens in that way it does when she’s talking about Dominic. “One second.”
Muffled sounds of their goodbye filter through the line as the nozzle clicks off. I return it to the pump and retreat into the relative warmth of my truck. I plug my phone in, jiggle the cord, and wait for the charging bolt to show up?—
Nothing.Of course.
“Anyway, tonight.” Her voice is clearer now. “We need a girls’ night. You’re going to be too busy for me once you get into the studio.”
“Never,” I tell her, though we both know my focus has to be on the album. I probably won’t see her as much as I’d like.
