Wiping the mustard from my lips with a napkin, I finish chewing the last bite of my bratwurst. “Yeah, I have a couple of weddings booked. Otherwise, it’s the same set at the distillery.”
Parker nudges me with her elbow. “You killed it last night. The bachelorette party went ballistic when you covered Chappell Roan. You’re an evil genius.”
“What can I say?” I brush imaginary lint off my shoulders. “Hopefully, they tipped well.”
“They sure did. I don’t think a single one of them liked whiskey. Lord knows why they added a distillery tour to their itinerary.”
Parker and I work at the Smokey Barrel Distillery on the outskirts of town. She’s one of the few female lead distillers in the state, and on top of overseeing the intense and complex distilling process, she also manages guest tours. I flip between bartending and entertaining the patrons in the evenings on stage.
Singing has been second nature for me from a young age, from impromptu performances at home to school plays. My mom was the one who introduced me to my love of country music. There was always a record spinning in our house, whether she was cooking dinner or slow dancing with my dad in the kitchen. I was seven years old when I first heard the rapturous voice of Emmylou Harris.
From that day forward, I was hooked.
My heart isn’t set on the big stage or anything requiring attention from more than a couple hundred people. Songwriting is where my passion lies.
Weaving lyrics with the strings of my guitar never gets old. Whatever the song is about—new love, old love, lost love—the emotions bleed from my fingertips. When the hairs on my arms prickle and emotion wells in my chest, I know it’s a winner.
I mostly perform covers, but every now and again, I’ll sneak in a Harriet Thomas original. At first, I was happy with my career, and then a year ago, I started yearning for more.After a major pep talk from the girls, I took the plunge and started a social media account, promoting my songs and uploading recordings. I even went as far as attending networking events in the music industry and learning how to get my name out there—which is unfortunately where my path crossed with Peter.
Living near the country music capital of the world helps, but the industry is saturated and difficult to break into. The long-term goal is to sell the rights for a handful of songs and hopefully hear them on the radio one day. Basically, I’m manifesting a miracle.
“Ooh!” Margot bounces on her stool, almost toppling sideways. “We should go to the haunted house.”
Parker groans, the tattoos on her arm flexing as she grips her glass. “It’s October third—too early for Halloween.”
I poke her furrowed brow. “There’s no such thing.”
“Don’t be a party pooper.” Talia blows a raspberry and rubs her belly. “I’m in, plus I need to walk off this beer and schnitzel.”
With our trash disposed and a light buzz zipping through my veins, we cross the muddy field toward the fairground. Kids speed past us, screaming in delight as obnoxiously loud horns and buzzers sound all around.
The line is short, and once we’ve bought our tickets, we’re directed inside, though not before being forced to sign a waiver.Promising.A pair of plastic gargoyles stand watch over the entryway of the rickety house and darkness consumes the start of the sunset when the door slams shut behind us.
Screams from the group ahead ricochet off the walls. We must look ridiculous, four grown women dressed in frilly dresses, clinging to each other like our lives depend on it.
The deeper we move, the darker and creepier it gets. TackyHalloween decorations morph into severed heads, and mannequins turn into real people.
“Um, I thought this was for kids?” I whisper.
“It is…I think. I didn’t read the waiver.” Margot shivers.
“Seriously? Have I taught you nothing?” Talia hisses, the lawyer in her making an appearance. Her death grip cuts off my circulation. “I swear to god, if someone jumps out and—Agh!”
A man dressed as a werewolf springs from the shadows, and our bloodcurdling shrieks tear through the air.
“No! Fuck off!” Margot screams and attempts a karate kick.
I think it’s the first time I’ve heard her swear.
“I peed.” Talia, who isn’t even Catholic, signs the cross over her chest.
Only Parker is having a good time, laughing and waving every time someone jumps out to scare us. “This is great. I fucking love Halloween.”
Hand in hand, we shimmy our way down the corridor, searching frantically for the exit. My heart is beating out of my chest. I can’t make out my friend’s expressions, let alone see where I’m stepping with how dark it is.
We’re lulled into a false sense of security when a warm light glows from the next room, and our steps become urgent. Parker leads the way, with me at the rear. My foot hovers in the air when a ghoulish face materializes in front of me. Snarling, gnashing, rotten teeth snap inches away from my nose.
It’s fight or flight, and I fucking fly.
