I love you
Good luck!!
I haven’t missed one good luck text since we started this, and according to Miles, it’s the key to his wins. He claims their odd losses are flukes. Nothing to do with my lucky texts.
And I don’t want the outcome of the game that determines whether they go to the next round of playoffs on my shoulders.
“Miss Starling,” the artist chides.
I slam my eyes closed and try to take a couple of deep breaths.
Eventually, they move on to my hair, so I’m allowed to look at my phone when it vibrates in my lap again. The preview has me flipping the message open.
Boone Taylor:
Well done.
My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing all day. People I haven’t talked to in years are sending their congratulations and trying to “catch up.” My mama called with the rest of the family on speaker, everyone talking over each other to tell me how proud they are. But praise from Boone makes me extra giddy. I might not even be here without him.
For the Recorddropped at midnight last night, and the streams are already insane. Kendra keeps shoving her phone in my face, showing me numbers I can’t even comprehend. Half a million in the first six hours. A million by this afternoon. It’s trending on three different platforms, and Cash’s management is calling it “the collaboration of the year.”
I’m still smiling at my screen when Cash stands and leans against the wall in front of me. “What’s Hockey Boy saying now?”
“It’s Boone, and he said, ‘well done.’”
“He texted you?” He scrolls through his own phone, brows furrowed.
“Yep. Did you get one?”
“No.” He shrugs, but his mouth tightens. “Why would I? I mean, it’s not likeIwas the one who made it what it is or anything.”
He pushes off the wall and paces a few steps, pivots, and does it again, muttering, “If it were up to him, we’d be putting people to sleep, rather than making them turn up their radios.”
I bite back a smile. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous. I just think it’s interesting that he texted you and not me.”
I hum. “Maybe he likes me more.”
He scoffs and says something mockingly that sounds like “ungrateful shit.”
I grin. I’ve spent the better part of the last two weeks mediating their bullshit, and I can’t say we’ve made muchprogress. Boone still spent the majority of our time scowling at Cash—I’m thankful it’s no longer me, I guess—and Cash challenged every production call he made.
Yet, Cash really seems to want his approval, but I’m noticing that he’s that way with most people. A people pleaser through and through. We have that in common.
The hair stylist steps away, and I almost don’t recognize myself in the mirror.
My makeup is flawless. Hair tied at the nape of my neck in an elegant twist. The fitted, champagne-colored gown has a beaded bodice, the embellishments growing sparser from the waist to the floor. I picked it out of the options they gave me because it reminded me of stars, but it looks like it came straight off a runway. So far from anything I can afford, and even if I could, I probably wouldn’t want to spend this much on a dress.
I look like I belong at the CMAs, among all the artists I admire.
Almost five months ago, I was pulling into a Citgo in Betty, my first stop in Chicago. The first on the journey that led me here. And now, I’m about to perform at country music’s most prestigious award show. I feel like I should pinch myself, and maybe also breathe into a paper bag.
“You look beautiful,” Cash says from behind me.
I meet his eyes in the mirror. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“You’re not going to throw up.” He grins.
