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We don’t talk for a while as Dad finishes his meal and I take his plate. I help him up, and we walk together upstairs. He doesn’t like it, and the minute we’re in the hallway, he pulls away, giving me a pat on the head. He was always so attentive, taking care of Serena and my every need, and I know it’s killing him that we're the ones helping him now.

“I got it from here, baby,” he says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight,” I whisper, watching him head to the bathroom.

My heart hurts. There were some seasons of life I didn’t have to think about things like this, and all my problems rested on more capable shoulders. Now, I’m the most capable shoulders on this ranch, and God, am I tired already, not even a year in.

Quietly, I go downstairs and start cleaning.

CHAPTER TWO

COEN

On the plane ride here, I turn on one of my favorite movies, one that never fails to catch my attention and soothe my head. Instead of watching, I sit with my forehead against the window and listlessly stare at the dark gray clouds outside. The trip is three hours. I barely remember it. I might have fallen asleep, but I can’t remember.

That was when Jamie stepped in and said it’s time for a break.

When I started having gaps in my memory.

The plane hits the runway harder than usual. I jolt up, grabbing my notebook to keep it from falling. The woman beside me grabs her coffee, holding it high to keep it from spilling. Blinking, I shift in my seat and reach for my bag to tuck my earbuds away. The lights come on, the pilot’s voice splitting through the speakers.

“Goodness, that was a bumpy ride,” the lady says.

I smile, keeping my head down. Sometimes, I get recognized, definitely more often than not now, and I’ve never gotten used to it. It feels like performing when I’d rather be off the clock. She starts talking to the man on her other side. I can’t tell if it’s a friend, or she’s just very chatty. I pull the phone from my pocket and shoot a text to Jamie.

Made it.

He won’t reply for a bit. He’s in a meeting at the production company, trying to smooth things over. It wasn’t the idea of multi-billion dollar West Creek Records to send me out to the backwoods of rural Wyoming. No, it was my million dollar man, Jamie Iron. He’s been my agent, my best friend, and my compass in navigating the rough waters of stardom for over twenty years now. He was the one who stepped in when I started crumbling. Now, he’s in a boardroom like a guard dog, arguing them down on my behalf, just so I can take a few months off.

God, they owe it to me.

I haven’t taken a break in…fifteen years. Not since the first hit blew up across the charts, across radio stations. Not since I got everything I wanted, and it was the worst thing that ever happened to me.

The aisle starts clearing out. Slowly, I grab my stuff, pulling my carry-on from the overhead bin, and head down the walkway into the airport. Everything feels far away, like I’m in a movie, and this is all sets and extras. I clear my throat and try to ground myself. I know Jamie had a rental truck parked for me in the lot outside. He gave me the keys a few days ago so I can drive to Maxwell Ranch. I just need a water or something before I go.

I drop my bag on the ground, fumbling for my wallet.

I try to grab it and fail. My hands go still.

Goddamn, I’m in a bad way. I just need some sleep.

Taking hold of the wallet, I pull out a few dollars and insert them into the machine, hitting the code for water. It rattles as the lever rises, then stops.

Okay then.

I wait, but it just keeps whirring and ticking. Whatever. Gathering up my things, I start walking in the direction of the exit, eyes on the overhead signs. My boots feel heavy, strange. They usually put me in cowboy boots under my jeans when I’m on stage or at an awards show, but I didn’t grow up wearing those. I’m back in my familiar footwear from when I was a teenager—plain work boots, cracked leather, dark brown with some decade and a half old mud ground into them.

Stepping outside, I blink in the bright light.

I think I could use a Camel. Jamie doesn’t let me smoke much, even though he does. It’s bad for my voice, he says, but Jamie isn’t here right now. I turn, heading down the sidewalk, and cross the road, digging in my pocket.

A horn rips out, inches from me.

I startle, whirling. A sedan slams on its brakes, and the driver throws his arms out the window, shouting. Jesus, I just walked into traffic. I lift my hand in apology and sprint to the other side, where the cars are parked. A shot of adrenaline courses through my veins as I retrieve the key fob from my pocket and click it. A Dodge truck beeps. Still feeling like a deer in headlights, I cross the lot and climb inside, tossing my bags in the passenger side.

I take a beat, doing all the grounding shit my therapist taught me.

Taking a breath. Counting everything I can feel, hear, touch.