by Robyn Nyx
“Awesome. You’re going to love it. I can feel it.”
Gabe tucked into the rest of his waffle and Louie picked up her gooey, lukewarm biscuit. Everything was falling into place nicely. The voice that was telling her this run of luck couldn’t possibly last was bleating quietly. She closed her eyes, imagined it belonged to a person she could be face-to-face with, and squirted it with a hose. It tumbled backward down a long hill and into a dark, sticky pool at its base. That’ll keep you busy for a while. She hoped it would be long enough for her to find her place in Nashville.
Chapter Eight
Heather sat on the edge of her tub and turned on the tap. She looked up at the many jars and bottles of foams, oils, and salts lining the shelves looking pretty and inviting, but her brain was too exhausted to begin to make any kind of choice. What was supposed to have been a couple of hours with Savana had turned into the rest of her day. Savana was impatient to launch her new image at Rocky Top; she wanted an album of number one songs, a slick new look, an album launch date, and a burst of tour dates in all the major cities. Oh, and she wanted it all yesterday. Almost immediately following the moment Heather’s prized portfolio was stained with coffee, the ghost of what was to come fell upon her like a ravenous golden eagle on a deer. Savana’s soft approach peeled away with each demand, and the person Heather had hoped Savana would be had faded much like the daylight hours.
Heather couldn’t argue with what Savana was trying to achieve, and it wasn’t that she was being unpleasant. What Savana wanted to do made perfect sense, and she was being brave to challenge expectations of the way she looked and the music she was giving to the world. But when Savana finally called an end to their meeting after eight hours, Heather felt like she’d been picked up by a tornado, thrown around two or three states, and tossed back to the ground from three hundred feet up. She hoped that the performance might just be Savana’s uncontained enthusiasm at the opportunity to finally let loose from under the watchful eye of her manager, Joe.
Heather stepped into the bath, unwilling to wait longer for it to fill. She needed the warmth of the water to wrap around her body and comfort her. She would’ve preferred the company of a woman to do the same job, but she’d almost forgotten what a lover’s embrace felt like. How long had it been? She wasn’t sure she wanted to remember. She’d said good-bye to her partner in Tacoma when Alison confessed to cheating on her. Heather hadn’t been angry. She’d needed a push to leave the relative safety of her hometown, and Alison provided it. Heather should probably write and thank her, but she couldn’t bring herself to be quite that magnanimous.
She cupped the hot liquid in her hands and let it fall onto her body. Water was about the only thing she’d been in intimate contact with for five years. Jesus, five years? She’d put everything on hold when she’d come to Nashville. She felt a distance from her family that didn’t sit well, but it was probably for the best. They were never supportive of her passion for music and brief visits with them always involved Heather waiting for the inevitable question of “When are you coming home?”
Heather sipped the red wine she’d poured herself, promising that it would just be the one. There were so many clichés in this town, and a reliance on alcohol was one she had no intention of falling into. As lonely as she was, there was no mileage for her in numbing it. And though it would be easy to drink every night when she scouted, she didn’t want her senses anesthetized to the music. It was only through feeling every note that she could find the raw talent in the “shit pile of coal,” as Donny so poetically phrased it. What did she have to show for her life? A job hundreds of people would love, and she was moving ever closer to her dream of starting her own label, where she’d have control over the talent she found. It would be a place for artists to truly develop and grow their own identity, not the one forced on them by label heads too chickenshit to push the boundaries.
She’d have a place that would be a haven for talent like Gabe Duke. What she’d do with a voice like his. And he was young enough to develop a career that could span decades with the right management. It would be a few days before her meeting with Donny on whether or not he might offer Gabe an audition, but Heather was trying to figure out just how much information she needed to give him beforehand. On the one hand, she didn’t want to blindside him. Donny liked to have as much background on the talent as possible. He’d even come up with a form for her to fill in to help him make his decision. But as much data as that gave him, it didn’t include ethnicity. Donny had never explained the reason for its exclusion, but Heather suspected it was to keep his vetting legal. Any discrimination he would practice, it’d be without documentation. On the other hand, if she did tell him what Gabe looked like and Donny still offered him an audition, Heather would be satisfied to know that her boss wasn’t as racist as he was chauvinistic. She did know that if Gabe was a young white guy, he’d be through the door and entering the country processing farm faster than a squirrel running from a BB gun.
She took another small sip of wine before carefully placing it on the shelf beside her. She turned off the tap with her toe and tried to relax. She’d kind of forgotten how to do that too. Every waking and sleeping hour was all about Rocky Top Country Music. She was struck with the thought that she could be the one being racist. She should just prepare Gabe’s talent paperwork precisely the same way she prepared everyone else’s and see what happened. And if Donny turned him down, maybe Gabe would still be an unsigned gem when she finally pulled enough money together to start her own record label. She’d be proud for Gabe to be her first signing.
Her phone buzzed twice for her attention, and she knew it’d be her mom. They hadn’t spoken since Memorial Day, always a tough day for her mom because Heather’s grandfather had died in the early years of the Vietnam War. Heather made an effort to call her on that day without fail, but that conversation had ended with the usual question of when Heather was going to come home and give up on her “musical nonsense.” She picked up the phone and debated whether or not to open the message. Her mom always used an app that showed when Heather had read messages, and it felt like another way to control her. She closed her eyes, deciding whether she had the emotional capacity to deal with her mother tonight. Maybe she’d seem less intense compared to her day with Savana.
Are you free to talk?
She was very rarely free, and the concept of spare time had become alien. As soon as the message indicated it was read, she could see her mother was typing again. She didn’t wait for the second communication to come in.
I’d love to.
Barely three seconds passed before her phone was ringing.
“Hello, Heather.”
“Hey, Mom.”
“How are you?”
“I’m great, Mom. How are you doing?” The initial exchange didn’t vary. Stilted and cold. A series of words said perfunctorily before the conversation could start in earnest about whatever topic was bothering her mom.
“I’m concerned. Your brother, Mason, is talking about giving up teaching.”
She didn’t need to be told his name. She was thankful to only have one brother, seven years her junior. A mini mistake but not treated as such. Rather, he was the golden boy of the family after Heather and her sister hadn’t pursued the paths their parents wanted them to by following in their footsteps.
“How can he give up something he’s not even doing yet?” Heather tried not to sound as disinterested as she was. Just once it’d be nice if her mom asked sincerely about her life before launching into her own woes.
“You know what I mean, there’s no need to be pedantic. He’s talking about quitting college. I need you to talk some sense into him.”
What did that phrase even mean? Sense as in her mom’s arrow-like trajectory for his life? She picked up her glass to have another sip of wine, liquid courage to continue the conversation, but stopped herself. Was she turning into her mom? A bubble bath and a bottle of wine every evening? She promptly replaced the g
lass but decided to stay enveloped in the clear, hot grip of the water. “What has he actually done?” Heather knew her mom’s penchant for the theatrical. She was happiest when lamenting some problem or other to an attentive audience, but Heather’s interest in her mother’s perceived troubles inched closer to boredom.
“He’s finished his classes for the year and says he might try something different when he goes back in the fall.”
Heather closed her eyes and shook her head, thankful she wasn’t on FaceTime—her mom would be sure to see her now total lack of concern in her plight. “At least he’s not thinking of quitting.”
“No child of mine has ever been a quitter, and I’m not about to let Mason start a new trend.”
Heather felt no need to resist the obvious answer to her mom’s grand statement. “I quit.”
“That’s not the same. You took a chance, and you were lucky it paid off. I would have hoped Mason learned from your silly-hearted action.”
Heather swallowed the more aggressive retort that came to mind and tried to quell the unpleasant version of herself she became when in verbal combat with her mother. She had only ever supported the safe choices Heather had made in life, the options her mother approved of as intelligent and worthwhile. Quitting her job as business and strategy manager of a national music and bookstore franchise hadn’t fit into that category. And when Heather exchanged her dream of being the talent to discovering the talent, her mother crowed about how right she was, and that Heather’s little gamble with fame failed as swiftly as she’d predicted.
“Are you still there?”
Heather jumped at the sharp tone of her mother’s voice in an irritatingly similar way to how she’d reacted as a child. “I am, but I’m tired, Mom. Maybe we can talk tomorrow?” It was a half-hearted gesture and her mom would read it as such.
“You say that, but you won’t call me back. You never call home to see how your father and I are doing.”
That’s because you’re not interested in anything I have to say. “I’m so busy, Mom.” The rote excuse fell from her mouth so easily. She wondered if she’d ever have the courage to engage in an honest conversation and give her mom the chance to try the kind of mother-daughter relationship Heather had hoped for. But as the opportunities passed, that hope lessened. “And I often don’t get home until after midnight.” She would occasionally like to speak to her dad, too, more out of parental obligation than a real desire to converse. He may as well have been a stranger. He’d spent such a lot of her childhood working long hours that he was usually too tired to engage with her and her siblings when he was at home. The expected daughterly respect she had for him diminished as she’d grown older, and he hadn’t earned any other kind because he was barely around to do so. Now he always seemed terribly unhappy, and she simply felt sorry for him. He’d missed out on raising his family while he was busy providing for it. Or maybe he was just staying out of her mom’s way as much as he could get away with.
“I often stay up late reading, Heather, you know that.”
“I can barely keep my eyes open, let alone hold a conversation.” Heather put her hand on her forehead and tried to rub away the ache that had gripped her temples and was squeezing harder with every word from her mom’s mouth.
“You could just listen to the news I have to share with you from home. It doesn’t always have to revolve around you.”
Heather’s hand fell from her forehead to her mouth in order to stop a Tourette’s-like tirade from escaping. This was such typical behavior. No doubt the next barb would be about her sexuality.
“Speaking of you though, Tom’s just starting his teacher placement with our school.”
Bingo. Tom was the son of her mom’s best friend. Both mothers had wanted her and Tom to marry and live happily ever after with three rug rats, two chocolate Labradors, and a clever speaking parrot. Maybe the parrot was an exaggeration, but there were still expectations that Heather knew early on in her youth she could never live up to. Tom’s sister, Meg, was a far more appealing prospect, but she’d never ponied up and made a move. It was an opportunity missed on Heather’s part, because her mom had recently taken immense delight in telling her that Meg had disgraced the family by running off with Tom’s fiancée. That night, her mom’s sensitivity level had been particularly low. Heather had resisted the temptation to ask if her mom felt the same about her. Instead she checked out of the conversation by concentrating on what it might have felt like to be under the hand of the boyish Meg. It was an even more interesting fantasy since Heather had only ever slept with long hairs, like herself.
She tuned back into the exchange. “That’s nice. I’m happy for him. His mom must be proud.” Would her mom ever be proud of her? Heather acknowledged the unkind thoughts knocking on her frontal lobe, desperately seeking voice. No more. “I have to go, Mom. I have an early meeting with a new client.” She laughed quietly. She was working with country royalty, and she hadn’t told her mom the amazing news. That was the kind of relationship she craved to have with her mother. One where what she did and how well she was doing in her job mattered to her mom. A slew of self-pity sloped its way over her. She had one friend in the world, and the only thing keeping her warm at night was her ambition. It was beginning to feel like it might not be enough.
Chapter Nine
It was like the universe was breathing a sigh of relief that Louie was finally following her destiny, and that breath had blown in a handy helping of good luck. Okay, the universe being involved was maybe a step too far. Louie wanted to believe she had control of her fate. She was willing to accept a certain number of life’s chips falling outside her control, but that was after she’d decided one way or another. Her mom had taught her that there was always a choice, but that knowledge was the proverbial double-edged sword; her father had chosen the easy path when he left them. He’d made a conscious decision never to come back. He’d taught Louie all about the power of choice without ever having met her.
Louie held her arms out in front of her and shook her hands out. She closed her eyes and visualized the distracting thoughts as mere letters falling from her fingertips. An abstract alphabet was far less painful than putting words to the memories. Or lack of them.
“Are you casting a spell? I don’t think witchcraft will help you build a career in Nashville.”
Louie turned to see Gabe smiling. “Aw, dammit. That’s what I was counting on.” She snapped an imaginary wand and let her hands fall to her side. “Useless piece of wood.”
Gabe laughed then tipped his head to one side. “Seriously, though, what were you doing?”
“Are you worried you’ve invited a crazy person into your home?” Louie crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.
“I live for crazy. Bring it on.”
Gabe flopped onto the sofa and didn’t press further, but Louie sensed he still wanted a real answer. “It’s a coping mechanism someone taught me. I got into a lot of fights at school so they sent me to see a psychologist. She showed me how to visualize the bad stuff in my head and let it go.” Once again, Louie surprised herself with the personal information she was sharing so freely. Still, she didn’t feel like telling Gabe the why of her fighting. “Sometimes I do that physically; other times I visualize the action. Depends where I am. If I acted out a lot of my visualization, people would think I’m crazy.”
Gabe had been nodding as Louie explained herself. “Sounds cool. I like it. Maybe you can teach me one day?”
“You seem the kind of laid-back guy that doesn’t let anything faze you enough to need something like this. But sure, let me know.” The conversation had taken a more serious turn, and Louie felt the need to escape it. “It’s my first night in Nashville. Where are you taking me?”
Gabe stood and draped his arm around Louie’s shoulders. “There’s only one place anyone should go on their first night in Music City, and I have reservations.” He swept his arm theatrically through the air in an arc. “The Bluebird Café.”
“Sure thing, LouLou.”
Louie grabbed Gabe’s shoulder as he moved to leave. “Unless you want me to call you GayGay, please never let that nickname pass your lips again.”
“Too girly for you?”
He grinned and his eyes sparkled with mischief. Louie had never been at all curious for boys, but she could see the appeal in Gabe. “Too everything I’m not.”
“No problem.”
He closed the door behind him. Louie positioned her bag on the sofa in the deep dent Gabe had left. Tomorrow, she’d go and buy a half-decent bed. Maybe a California king-size would fit if she stuck to just a couple of dressers. Her height usually meant her toes poked out of the comforter if she snuggled down some.
Louie pulled out a simple black long-sleeve shirt and some fresh jeans before she went for a quick wash in the en-suite. It was another in her long list of things she thought she might never experience and made going to the bathroom in the middle of the night in a shared household a whole lot simpler. For her or anyone sharing her massive bed. Who am I kidding? Despite her work at the WoodBack, Louie wasn’t interested in entertaining a stream of women whose names she would never learn. She longed for the real thing. The desire and search for true love fueled the content of her songs. If she ever did fall hard again, how might it affect her songwriting? Would she be able to write anything if she were happy and in love?
She dressed quickly, sprayed a little cologne on her neck and wrists, and fixed some beach spray in her hair. She grabbed her jacket as she left her new bedroom, then shoved her wallet into her back pocket and snapped the leather clasp on the wallet chain to a front belt loop. She stopped at the hallway mirror briefly to check that she was ready to make her first impression on Nashville’s nightlife. She caught Gabe’s reflection as he stood in the kitchen sucking on a long-neck beer.