by Erin Hahn
I release my breath and look out in the audience, catching Jefferson’s eyes, shining with pride.
“I wrote this song for a boy. A boy I fell in love with against impossible odds. So this award is for you, Jefferson. If I had to choose my favorite, you’d be mine.”
epilogue
Annie
It’s hard to believe it’s only been a year since Jefferson showed up on my front porch, hungover and put out that he’d been dragged to rural Michigan on a fool’s errand from the label.
It feels like a lifetime ago. As if we’ve lived a lifetime in those months of push and pull and heartache and discovery. I expect if you’d tallied up our experiences in those months, they’d rival any college student’s freshman year and then some. Maybe one day I’ll know for sure, but for now, I’m head over heels for this life I’ve chosen, regardless of the fame merry-go-round.
Of course, that’s easy to say right now. We leave on tour in a week, but for the moment, sitting under the willows, with Jefferson’s head cradled in my lap and the laughter of our friends and family in muffled echoes around us, it feels like we can do anything. Even survive another summer on the road.
My fingers smooth over and over in the sandy hair falling across his forehead, and my bones seem to sink into the cool, dry grass beneath us. I think if we stayed here, I’d melt into the earth, I’m so content. Everything outside of this moment feels a million years away.
“Trina says I have to get a haircut,” he mumbles softly, his eyes closed. He reminds me of a cat like this—his long limbs stretched, his tone barely above a happy purr. “Says I look like a surfer bum.”
“I like your hair long,” I reply, equally soft.
“Then you must like surfers.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say. “Although there was this one guy my sophomore year who was on the swim team. Does that count?”
“You’re ridiculous,” he grumbles.
“He wore a Speedo,” I continue. “It was very distracting.”
“Poor, innocent fifteen-year-old you.”
“Well, I wasn’t so innocent after that.”
“Wait. Didn’t you date Jason your sophomore year?”
I pause my fingers. “Maybe.”
“Diaz was a swimmer?”
“Not a real great one.”
“You’ve seen him in a Speedo?”
I grimace at the memory. “I was a dutiful girlfriend and best friend, which requires some sacrifices, so yes.”
“But you said it was distracting. Like, distracting how?”
“Why? Are you jealous?”
“I’m not sure yet. Answer the question.” But he’s smiling as he reaches blindly for my hand and gestures for me to keep up with my ministrations. I continue pulling my fingers through his hair, my eyes searching out where I know Jason is sitting at the picnic table with Fitz and Kacey and my aunt Carla. I force myself to think back to those days. The kid used to make jokes about swimming the breast stroke at least ten times a day back then. I wrinkle my nose. Lord, he was annoying.
“Definitely distracting in the way that it felt like I was seeing my brother’s junk. It wasn’t pleasant. No reason to be jealous.” I know, objectively, that Jason’s filled out and is a good catch for someone, but I can’t ever unsee the Speedo days. I change the subject. “Kacey thinks he’s got some secret love affair he’s keeping from us, but I’m not so sure he’s emotionally capable of that.”
“Diaz?” Jefferson seems thoughtful. “I think you sell him short. He’s got some depth to him. Not to mention, he’s always glued to his phone. He’s either got a Candy Crush obsession or a girl on the line.”
I consider that. He does stare at his phone an awful lot. And he rarely dates. Not that this life is super conducive to dating, but … “Huh. Maybe you’re right.”
“Usually am. So speaking of secret love affairs, have you noticed anything different about the fiddling fiddlers?”
“Hardly a secret. If you mean have I noticed that they seem very domestic these days, then yes. He practically lives in her loft.” Kacey and Fitz have graduated from hotel boinking to loft boinking. Which is perfectly okay by me. Last month, I needed to borrow Kacey’s leather jacket and walked in on them in a very compromising position. Jason’s Speedo days had nothing on Fitz in a cowboy hat and a smile. Jefferson, of course, thought it was hilarious. “She invited me to go to IKEA with them last weekend. Said they were picking out throw pillows or bath mats or something?”
“Thank God,” Jefferson groans. “I told him if he bought one more stupid decorative pillow for my couch, I would make him eat it. I don’t need that shit.”
I twirl a strand and tug it gently. “Clearly. Who needs pillows when you have me?”
“Exactly. Nothing like it.”
I bend over and give him a quick peck on the lips. “That was very cute.”
“That’s me,” he says, flashing a charming grin. “Cute.”
“It’s cuter if you don’t acknowledge it,” I whisper.
“Noted.”
“So you think he’s getting ready to propose?” I say, getting back to our friends.
He shrugs against my thighs. “I don’t know. He hasn’t said it, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“But they’re still so young!”
“When you know, you know.”
“Do you really believe that?”
He opens his eyes. “Yeah. I do.”
A thrill runs through me, even though I know we’re not technically talking about us. It’s just that something in his eyes feels like forever. Not like I’m in a hurry for forever, and neither is he. I’m still unpacking all my baggage from my parents, and he’s still unpacking, period. But if I really gave over to the idea, I could see it. Him and me making a real go of it.
Him and me changing the trajectory of our lives.
“Me, too,” I say simply, grinning. I cradle his head between both of my hands and run my fingers through his hair. He lets out a low moan, and for a second, I’m distracted by the sound. Just as I’m leaning forward to place a lingering kiss on his upturned lips, Jason comes barreling over.
“Dinner’s ready,” he says, his smirk telling me he’s reading my thoughts. “If you can tear yourselves away for a hot minute and join us. You do realize you’re in full view of God and your grandparents over here, right?”
“Easy, Diaz, it was just a kiss,” Jefferson says, sitting up and reaching for his Cubs hat, replacing it over his mussed hair.
“That’s not what Annie’s face was saying.”
Jefferson’s eyes dart to mine. “Really?” He looks far too pleased with himself.
I roll mine, lightly. “Get over yourself, rock star.”
Jason holds a hand out, offering to help Jefferson up. I watch them for a moment, feeling a rush of happiness at the sight of their bickering. Jefferson’s heckling my best friend over the Speedo thing, and Jason’s slugging him harder than necessary in the arm.
I haven’t forgotten when Jason for real punched Jefferson, and I haven’t forgotten when Jefferson deserved it. But I figure that’s what makes us a family. Going through all the garbage and coming out the other end, still caring about each other.
The other day, someone from People’s country music issue came out to interview us. They wanted the scoop on our two bands. We answered questions about the tour from last summer, Jefferson’s battles with drinking and grief, me living in the shadows of Cora and Robbie … our on-and-off-and-on-again love …
And when you lay it all out there like that, it seems unbelievable. Truly. The stuff of a country song, even.
But I don’t know. Isn’t life in general pretty unbelievable? In my mind, if it’s not, you’re doing it wrong.
“You coming?” Jefferson’s a few yards ahead of me, waiting. I take in the sight of him: strong, standing tall, comfortable in his own skin. His face is shadowed under the brim of his cap, but I can still see his white teeth flashing in an easy, l
oping smile. He looks younger than when we first met. Less world-weary and angry. It shows in his music, too. He’s going to blow them all away this summer.
If they thought bad boy Clay Coolidge was sexy, just wait until they feast their eyes on brilliant and glowing Jefferson. I’m gonna need to tattoo my name on his forehead to fend them off.
He raises his hand, holding it out to me. I reach for it, closing the distance between us and wrapping my arms around his neck, leaning back to see him more clearly.
“They can see us,” he reminds me.
“Who cares?”
“Well,” he teases. “Pops might. I don’t think I could stand another night of old war stories from ’Nam.”
“Could be worse. He hasn’t taken to cleaning his hunting rifles in front of you like he used to with Robbie.”
Jefferson shudders.
“For Pete’s sake, Coolidge, your brother was a Marine.”
“Yeah, but I’m a singer.”
I press my lips together, and his eyes follow the movement, causing my stomach to do a little flip. A year later and it still flips every single time. I hope that never goes away. “You’re so much more than a singer, Jefferson.”
His lips quirk. “As long as I’m yours, I don’t care what I am.”
“Dang, boy. Where’d you get your lines?”
“My girlfriend’s a songwriter. She’s taught me a few things.”
I press closer to him so that our lips are millimeters apart. “Maybe it’s time you teach me a few things.”
He groans, taking my lips against his. When we pull apart, he shakes his head. “You are evil, and your grandpa is gonna murder me in my sleep.”
“You still love me.”
“Couldn’t stop if I wanted to.”
“I have an idea.”
“I’m all ears.”
“We should go on tour together.”
“I thought we already were.”
“Shh. I know that. But hear me out. Last time, it was sort of forced on us. Like fate was pulling the strings or whatever. That whole speeding-train, inevitable-conclusion, we’re-probably-hurtling-toward-disaster-but-we’re-masochists-for-fame kind of thing.
“So I’m asking you this time. Forget the contracts and haircuts and set lists. It’s just me, Annie Mathers, asking you, Jefferson Coolidge, if you’d like to sing with me this summer?”
Jefferson takes a half step back, his expression solemn. He holds our hands loosely between us, his thumbs stroking the insides of my wrists. His eyes pierce me, and he smiles.
“There is nothing in the world I’d love more. I’m in, Mathers.”
acknowledgments
I will be forever grateful to everyone who read Annie and Clay’s story and thought it might look good on a shelf one day.
To my agent, Kate McKean, who has the unenviable task of helping me to “cultivate my chill” and who’s had my back from the very first. Every author needs someone so outstanding in their corner.
To Alicia Clancy. When it mattered most, you were one of You’d Be Mine’s earliest cheerleaders. Thank you.
To my editor, Vicki Lame. I’m fortunate to have found someone who really gets the rich history of country music but can also objectively edit kissing. It’s a rare and beautiful combo and you have it in spades, my friend.
To everyone at Wednesday Books who took this story (and me) on. You’re doing a mighty work in the industry and I’m thrilled to be a part of it. Thank you.
To my good friend and critique partner, Karen McManus. You deserve every bit of the success, glitter, and pies that come your way. Thanks for believing in me, even when I wrote terrible science fiction.
To my crew of talented CPs: Dr. Jenny Howe, “Twinsie” Annette Christie, and Meredith Ireland. Your thoughtful feedback and advice keep me going and make me look better than I am. You are far more than CPs; you’re dear friends who are stuck with me for life.
To my early readers: Samantha Eaton and Jenn Dugan. Sam, you are Annie and Clay’s fairy godmother. I hope your mom reads this and doesn’t mind the lack of horses too much. Jenn, this book is missing Teen Wolf, but we have a lifetime of books ahead of us to remedy that.
To Deb Jenkins and Cassie Vrtis. Mom, I learned how to be a strong and fearless woman at the knee of Mary Chapin Carpenter, Reba McEntire, Martina McBride, and YOU. Cassie, I said it at the beginning. We did it, Little Sister.
To my siblings: Kyle, Krish, James, and Bridget. I thought it might be fun to see your names in print somewhere outside medical journals and honor societies. Love you, Smarties!
To the Vrtis, Jenkins, Hahn, Stomp, and Dick families: everything I write is colored with words and experiences I’ve shared with you. Special shout-out to Katie Childers, who helped me get Annie out of Indy, and Kristine Deem for knowing the name of “that one song you all line danced to” when I was pulling out my hair drafting this book.
To Mike. You spent three hours yesterday calmly searching YouTube videos because I couldn’t get my keyboard to function. As I tearfully hiccupped back to work, you underlined the words “I love you” in my notes. THAT’S why you inspire every love interest I write. You are my best friend and biggest fan and I love you infinity times three.
To Jones and Al. When I thought of quitting, I couldn’t, because of you. You are my Reason.
Finally, I am constantly overwhelmed by the generous mercy of God in my life. He lifts me up when I’m determined to be down and listens to me even when I cuss. “It makes no sense, but this is grace.”
about the author
ERIN HAHN started writing her own books when her little sister gave her shade about a country music–themed Twilight fanfic. By day, she likes to help kindergarteners make snakes out of Play-Doh. By night, she writes swoons. She married her own YA love interest whom she met on her first day of college, and has two kids who are much, much cooler than she ever was at their age. She lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, aka the greenest place on earth, and has a cat, Gus, who plays fetch. You can sign up for email updates here.
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contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
1. Clay
2. Annie
3. Clay
4. Annie
5. Clay
6. Annie
7. Clay
8. Annie
9. Clay
10. Annie
11. Annie
12. Clay
13. Annie
14. Clay
15. Annie
16. Clay
17. Annie
18. Clay
19. Annie
20. Clay
21. Clay
22. Annie
23. Annie
24. Clay
25. Clay
26. Annie
27. Annie
28. Clay
29. Annie
30. Annie
Epilogue: Annie
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
YOU’D BE MINE. Copyright © 2019 by Erin Hahn. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.wednesdaybooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Leslie Worrell
Cover photograph of woman © Melanie Defazio / Stocksy
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
/> Names: Hahn, Erin, author.
Title: You’d be mine: a novel / Erin Hahn.
Other titles: You would be mine
Description: First edition. | New York: Wednesday Books, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018029191 | ISBN 9781250192882 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250192905 (ebook)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3608.A444 Y68 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018029191
eISBN 9781250192905
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: April 2019