Becky Wicks - Before He Was A Secret (Starstruck #3)

by Becky Wicks

  Conor runs a hand across his stubble. ‘We can’t record today - some emergency session they need the studio for. It’s been moved to tomorrow, but even then we only get six hours.’

  ‘But I’m working tomorrow,’ I tell him as he sits down next to Travis. ‘The schedule has already been posted. Gretchen gave me special time off.’

  ‘Uh oh,’ Travis says. ‘Hospitality career clashes with potential stardom. What’s a girl to do?’

  I throw him a look that says shut up, just as Gretchen walks out of the kitchen. She spots us all and shuffles over with two trays of ribs, one balanced on each palm. ‘Is this songwriter’s club?’ she asks grumpily on her way past. ‘Stephanie, table seven need refills. Did you get the mustard for three?’

  ‘I’m on it,’ I say, springing into action and yanking the pen out from behind my ear. I flip my notepad. ‘What do you guys want?’ I ask them.

  ‘Coke please, with a side of whatever makes you so damn awesome,’ Travis says without a second’s hesitation.

  I roll my eyes. ‘You’re cheesier than the cheese fries. What do you want, Conor?’

  ‘I want you to get tomorrow off,’ he says, reaching out and pulling my hair free from where it’s caught up my apron strap. This one mindful action sends a shiver from my neck right down my body. I look to Gretchen and back to him, lower my voice.

  ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘As well as today,’ he adds. ‘Jackson, we need all the time we can get to write and practice if they’re going to keep screwing us with studio time. We’re not top priority so we need to get as much recorded as we can, while we’re in there. I’ve cleared it with the store. Someone’s covering at Fret...’

  ‘OK, OK,’ I say, trying not to sound as harangued as I feel as I hurry back to the bar.

  ‘Two guys begging for your attention like puppy dogs,’ Indie Pete says, cocking an eyebrow at me as he pours two Cokes and I grab a mustard bottle. ‘I can almost see their tails wagging, Alabama. Who are you gonna take for walkies first?’

  ‘I need to change my shift. Is there any way you can work a double, work the floor?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today and tomorrow?’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  I rush to table three, put the mustard down, hurry back. ‘Please? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important…’

  ‘If what wasn’t important?’

  I spin around to see Gretchen behind me again. There’s BBQ sauce on her apron. ‘The studio time got messed up at Ace,’ I explain on an exhale. ‘I need the rest of today and tomorrow. I’ll make up for it next week, I promise.’

  Gretchen frowns, putting the empty trays on the bar for Pete to clear. ‘I can cover her,’ he says quickly. ‘Stephanie owes me a date with her roommate.’ He’s twiddling his beard, smiling conspiratorially. I roll my eyes.

  ‘I don’t care why you’re covering, and anyway, that’s not the point,’ Gretchen tells us. Her cheeks are flushed, her mousy brown hair is falling from its plastic grip. ‘Stephanie, you come in here exhausted all the time. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends, honey. I need people I can rely on right now.’

  ‘You can rely on me,’ I say quickly as Conor appears suddenly at my side.

  ‘Conor Judge,’ he announces, extending his hand to Gretchen.

  ‘I know who you are. Hearts Community, right?’ she says, ignoring his hand but wiping her own on her apron.

  He flinches visibly. ‘Kind of. Look, I’m so sorry to be taking Stephanie away from her shifts, Gretchen, but this is really important to us. We need to fit our schedules around the studio right now, and our gigs…’

  ‘This is how it always starts,’ she cuts in, folding her arms across her huge chest. ‘I’ve seen this over and over in this town, Mr Judge. You kids swan in, figure you can get some easy job and then blow it all off when something better comes along.’ She swipes a hand over the wild hair escaping from its bun. ‘This town ain’t all about musical dreams you know? Some of us have other dreams. Businesses to run.’

  ‘I know that…’ I start.

  ‘Do you? Because sometimes something better never comes along,’ she says. ‘What will you do then? What will you do when no one else wants to hire some unreliable wannabe?’

  ‘She’s not a wannabe, Gretchen,’ Conor tells her. ‘This girl is the most talented person to have ever walked in here, I can promise you that.’

  I feel my cheeks flush and my heart pang as I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He really believes in me. No one has ever believed in me this much, apart from my brothers. Thinking of them again makes my stomach muscles clench. David barely earns anything in his job as a store assistant and Cory’s just finishing eleventh grade. Sandi’s been helping us with everything she’s got but the truth is, even with the publishing deal secured I still need more than that and this job in order to put things right back home. I need a freakin’ miracle.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Gretchen says, waving away my words, and my hand. ‘Go if you must. You just make sure you get famous. At least your photo on the wall will still bring people in here.’ I detect a smile in her voice that crosses a little onto her mouth as I lean in and kiss her cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Gretchen.’

  ‘Jackson's already a star,’ Conor says, but I take his arm, pull him away. His skin against mine forces another jolt of something through my body and I let go.

  ‘Don’t,’ I say at his green shirt-covered chest as she scuttles off back into the kitchen. ‘She’s just worried.’

  ‘When can you leave?’

  I swallow, looking up. His eyes burn into mine. ‘Ten minutes, drink your Coke.’ I hand it to him. ‘And give this one to Travis.’ I go to hurry off but I turn back. ‘Where are we going to write? Your place?’ Neither of us say it, but I know that’s probably not what he’s planning. The whole of last night and the way I avoided going into his house is lingering between us in the room like an invisible elephant.

  ‘I know somewhere,’ he says cryptically and I watch Travis’s eyebrows lift.

  I clear some more plates, take a few more orders. When I head back over, Travis finishes the Coke in one long gulp and slams two dollars on the table, stands up and tilts his hat again. ‘I have to go see a man about a song of my own,’ he announces.

  ‘Is this one about salad dressing?’ Conor says dryly. Travis ignores him.

  ‘Pleasure as always. I’ll see you at the Bluebird.’

  I look at him in surprise as he grins and hooks a thumb through his belt loop. ‘I wouldn’t miss your next slot, hot shot. Can’t wait to see what Noah Lockton tweeted was ‘the most exciting duet I’ve seen in Nashville since Keith Urban took Nicole Kidman up on stage.’

  I feel my eyes widen. ‘He did not tweet that! Noah doesn’t tweet!’

  ‘Well, then someone did it for him,’ Travis says. He’s looking at me with interest from under his hat. ‘Ya'll really need to keep up with the big league, seeing as how you’re joining it and all.’ He kisses me on the cheek, slings his satchel full of lord-knows-what over his shoulder as he passes and walks out the door. Conor raises an eyebrow at me.

  ‘Give me five more minutes,’ I say, rattled. ‘Then we’re out of here.' A thought hits me. ‘We’re not going far are we? I need to walk Bob Barker at some point.’

  ‘He can come.’

  ‘OK fine, but we’ll take my car,’ I tell him and he grimaces dramatically, making a slitting motion across his neck. I pretend to swat at him with my dishcloth. The mood’s lifted as he laughs, thank God.

  Thirty minutes later he’s behind the wheel of my Toyota and we’re driving with Bob in the back, lolling his head out the window. The sky has turned dark and it looks like rain and I still don’t know where we’re going, but we seem to be headed for a place called Celina. We drive the I-40 East for over two hours as the radio plays and we make idle conversation about who might eventually record our songs, arguing only over Kelly Clarkson. I think she’
s too pop, Conor thinks she’s not mainstream enough anymore. I pull up Noah’s tweet on my phone. He actually did mention us, and Chloe Campbell wrote a blog, too. ‘Ones to watch,’ I read aloud to Conor. ‘He says we’re ones to watch! Crazy.’

  Conor pulls the car to a stop once we’ve taken a path towards Dale Hollow Lake. It’s really cloudy now, but I fling the door open, fill my lungs with soothing fresh air as my boots hit the ground. We’re surrounded by unimaginable beauty. It’s almost like we’ve stepped back in time. There are no buildings, no neon signs, no nothing; just a crazy green panorama stretching out before us and a turquoise blue infinity of water under the gray sky. It’s so quiet.

  I expect Conor to get the guitars but instead he lets Bob run free and motions for me to follow him. ‘You wanted to come all the way out here for a lake?’ I say, narrowing my eyes suddenly.

  ‘Not just any lake,’ he says, beckoning me forwards across the grass. ‘Can’t you feel it?’

  I let him lead me to the edge of the crystal clear water and follow his eyes to the immaculate shoreline all around us. I look at him in confusion. ‘It’s beautiful but…’

  ‘Magic,’ he says. ‘My mom used to tell us there were mermaids in this lake. We sent our wishes out to them when we went out on the kayaks. There’s hardly ever any wind.’

  I scan the horizon, notice how the trees are eerily still. Conor bends down now at the water’s edge, picks up a stone and skims it across the surface. Bob Barker sniffs his way along the shoreline, watches the stone with interest but doesn’t rush in. Part of me is wondering why we’re here. Aren’t we supposed to be perfecting our songs and writing more; getting ready for our studio time?

  ‘You should see it in the fall,’ Conor continues, turning to me and I notice his eyes travelling up and down my light pink sundress; my boots, my hair, which I’ve left down around my shoulders. ‘It’s like the banks are on fire,’ he adds, ‘just a sea of orange and red. We’ll have to come back when the season turns.’

  He stands up again. My stomach jolts but I don’t meet his eyes as he walks right past me, back towards the car. ‘Let’s go,’ he says. ‘Before it rains.’

  ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘Not far.’

  I watch Bob pad after him and reluctantly I follow. The further away we get from Nashville, the more alone I feel with Conor. The more I want to throw my arms around him and take his pain away. I fill my lungs to full capacity with air. Un-fall. Un-fall.

  In less than five minutes flat we pull up again in what feels like the middle of a rolling meadow, under a sheltered parking space, right next to the cutest little wooden cabin I’ve ever seen. I can’t help the gasp that escapes my mouth. ‘Conor, woah. What is this place?’

  ‘Family treasure,’ he says, winking at me. He opens the door, gets out and opens mine. Instantly Bob’s jumping past me and running free again.

  ‘Are you serious? It looks like a movie set!’ I say, getting out. The log cabin has a pointed tin green roof and matching green panels around the windows and doors. Conor heads up the steps and I follow to a wide porch with two rocking chairs on it. Wagon wheels sitting on the rockers form the arms. There’s a stainless steel grill too, and a silver table and dining chairs. The view all around us is nothing but green, green grass and trees. I can see the lake we were just at, glistening over the top of them.

  ‘Wow,’ I mouth, stepping to the wooden railings and resting my hands on them. The breeze up here ruffles my dress and hair. Conor steps beside me. I can smell shower foam again and shampoo on him; the familiar scent of his laundry powder. I realize I’m tracking his every movement now; every breath, every touch. His shirt brushes my arm as he rests his hands next to mine.

  ‘The Red Oak Ridge Trail is three miles that way,’ he says pointing over the porch into the trees. ‘Eighteen miles of it. We used to trek and ride horses out there when I was a kid. Holly Creek Marina is that way,’ he adds, pointing in the other direction. Kind of feels like you’re further away from everything than you actually are.’

  ‘It’s heaven,’ I say as Bob bounds ecstatically across the grass in agreement.

  ‘My father brought me and Micah here to fish when we were kids,’ Conor tells me, digging in his pocket and pulling out some keys, motioning to the grill. ‘We’d herb them up, sit right here, watch the lightning bugs.’

  ‘Sounds idyllic,’ I say.

  ‘Things weren’t always bad.' He unlocks the the wooden door, motions me inside ahead of him and I fall in love on the spot. A gray three-seater couch and two separate chairs surround a glass coffee table, standing on a red patterned rug. Leather-skin lampshades surround two lights in each corner. There are white three-quarter-length frilled curtains on the tiny square windows, hanging in front of blinds and to the far wall is a piano. I feel my nerves kick back in when I see it, but Conor’s hand is on my shoulder now.

  ‘Sorry, I should have warned you…’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I say. I straighten up, walk over to it, run my hand along the top towards a framed photo. A younger Conor is sitting in the middle of a smiling man and woman. The man looks like an older version of him, the same square jaw and thick dark hair, the same brown eyes. I can’t help feeling irritated at him, knowing what he’s done to his sons. There’s another boy next to his mom, older, no more than ten. Micah. My heart pangs as I look at it and Conor walks up behind me.

  ‘That’s him,’ he says softly, taking the frame and running a thumb over the glass. He looks so thoughtful and I know how much it must hurt to see his brother, never knowing how to reach him, or if he’s even alive. I stand on my tiptoes and impulsively I plant a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘It feels good here,’ I say as he looks at me in surprise. ‘I love the quiet.’

  I walk around the piano, looking at the books on bookshelf. Conor reaches for a button on the wall by the door and the fan above us starts spinning. I notice it’s wooden too, with four glass lamps hanging underneath like an odd chandelier. There are stairs by a flat-screen TV on a stand that start by the small kitchen and lead up to a loft space. All the way up the stairs, in frames, are photos of horses. I can see the balcony. The bedroom is open, overlooking the living area. It’s like something from the Waltons.

  Conor steps past me, opens all the blinds. ‘Not sure who was here last, or when,’ he says, opening a window to let more air circulate. ‘Sometimes we rent it out. Drink?’

  ‘Water please,’ I say, dropping my purse onto one of the chairs and following him to the kitchen, which is really just an extension of the living area. The white refrigerator, stove and microwave almost look out of place against all the wood. He runs the tap for a moment, fills a glass and hands it to me, then opens the fridge. It’s empty except for a jar of pickles. He shuts the door again, just as the pitter-patter of rain on the windows draws our attention to outside. I haven’t seen rain since I got to Nashville.

  Conor leans against the counter, sipping from his glass and drumming his fingers on the cupboard door below him. The distance between us feels huge, but not big enough somehow. Is he as nervous as me? ‘So, what should we work on first?’ he asks.

  ‘The piano,’ I reply.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. The more I play, the more I remember how much I love it.’

  ‘The more you play, the more I love it too,’ he says. As I read into his words he takes a deep breath, walks back through and sits at the piano stool. He turns to me tentatively as I follow him. ‘Can I play you something first?’

  ‘Please,’ I say, sitting down on one of the chairs with my drink resting on my knee.

  ‘You kind of gave me the idea…’ he trails off, but I watch as his fingers find the keys and as soon as he starts to sing I can’t even control the lump that springs up in my throat again.

  We’ve cried ourselves to sleep with all the secrets we can’t keep

  Tucked away like guns under our pillows

  Yet every time you thun
der into view

  An avalanche of only you

  I cannot speak

  I cannot find the peace I seek

  I’m too weak

  We’re enlightened but willingly turning a blind eye

  Frightened to live, frightened to cry out

  And what kind of god

  What kind of god would want that

  The holy water burns

  We’re floating driftwood, then we drown

  In what we love and what we hate of love

  And there’s no beauty in catastrophe

  The ashes of what’s left of me

  Smoldering and holding me in place

  And still we pray

  We’re enlightened but willingly turning a blind eye

  Frightened to leave, frightened to cry out

  And what kind of god

  What kind of god would want that

  Your church without a steeple

  Piercing skies and hearts and people

  Never speaking out and saying how they feel

  But whispers in the shadows

  Turn to lightning bolts and I know

  Something’s coming

  A solution

  Revolution will be real

  I hate myself for hating you

  For crushing every truth

  Tell me what kind of god

  What kind of god would want that…

  ‘Conor,’ I put my glass on the table, walk towards him, put my hand on his shoulder. I’m shaking and so is he. ‘It’s making me cry,’ I say suddenly, laughing from out of nowhere and swiping a tear from my eye. He pulls his hands off the keys, puts his over mine immediately and every cell of my body is aching to throw my arms around him; to try and soothe his soul, the one he’s just spilled so beautifully. I have no words.

  ‘I guess it’s my story,’ he says.

  ‘You should play it to your father one day, maybe he’ll listen,’ I manage after a minute. ‘Do you ever play him anything you write?’ I say. ‘Does he come watch you?’