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“I did. He’s not happy, but I got him talked down.”

A wave of guilt moves through my chest.

“I’m sorry, man. I tried to make it.”

He clears his throat. “You made it a long time. You need a break now.”

I try to answer, but it gets caught in my throat. “So when’s my new deadline for the next album?”

“Late November.”

“November? Who is this album for?” I turn in a circle, rubbing the back of my neck. It’s a bad sign for my mental health that I don’t even know what I was working on when Jamie pulled me and sent me out here.

“It’s for Casey Bills. You’ll be fine, and if we need to push, we push.”

“I can’t push too far.”

“I already talked to Jenn, and she understands.”

My stomach tightens. Jenn is the manager for Casey Bills, one of the biggest names in Nashville right now. Now that I’m talking with Jamie, the contract is surfacing in my blurry mind.

“What’s the deadline again?” I ask, even though I know he just told me. I’m too tired to retain anything anymore. Jamie knows.

“It was November, but she’s willing to work with you. It’s not announced to the public yet, so we have flexibility. This is a problem for the fall. I have it handled.”

My shoulders sink in relief. I’ve written under extreme pressure for years. Hell, I’ve written entire albums during layovers in the Dallas airport more than a few times. But right now, I don’t have the stamina. My chest feels like it’s crushed in a giant fist.

“Okay, that’s all good. I can do that.”

“You have your notebook, so you can fuck around with the lyrics while you’re out there, but nothing else.”

“Yeah, yeah. I can do that.”

I stretch my right arm, popping the joints. Years of writing has worn it down, giving me constant pain in my thumb and elbow. Now that I’m in Wyoming, I want to stay. For the first time in ages, my brain kind of wants the rest, say nothing of other things like pretty cowgirls who won’t quit making eyes at me.

No, I’m not ready to hit the road yet.

I clear my throat. “How’s Amy doing?”

“Amy? We’ve been broken up for three months.”

Again, guilt twinges through my chest. I run a hand over my face. It feels like the longer I do this job, the worse my memory gets. Maybe it’s how many people I know, how many I meet, how many names I’m supposed to remember so I don’t come off as a douche.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“It’s all good. I’ve been through a revolving door in my love life, so that’s on me.”

“No, it’s just… I’m….” I falter, and the silence grows heavy.

“You good, man?”

I nod. What I want to tell him is how I can’t seem to wake up. How my brain is so tired, it feels like stretched, melted tar on the road in the hot sun. I want to tell him about accidentally walking into traffic yesterday, about giving up the second the water bottle got stuck. How when I stand in airports now, it feels like the world spins around me, but I’m not part of it anymore.

How I’m losing something. Or maybe I already lost it.

Instead, I clear my throat so my voice doesn’t crack. “I’m all good. I’m actually going out with Bill and his daughters to a diner, so I’m looking forward to that. I should probably go. They might be waiting on me already.”

“That’s great,” he says, almost like he means it. “Do that shit. Get yourself grounded.”