by Becky Wicks
‘Surprise,’ I say, flashing him a grin. I’m pretty sure it’s as fake as the one on Noah’s album cover on the wall behind him. ‘Last minute decision. Lucky I was still on the guest list.’
‘Lucky,’ Denzel replies, but I see irritation cross his face as Stephanie squeezes my hand. I have the distinct feeling I’m missing something but New York’s draining enough as it is without worrying about this guy. It took every ounce of my strength to leave that hotel room. After five days of hell in Memphis with no sign of Micah all I want to do right now is stay in that bed and have messy sex with Stephanie in every way possible till sunrise.
‘You look a little flushed, love,’ he says now, nodding at her. ‘Too many mojitos?’ He winks and she says nothing, linking her arm through mine and leading me over to a black L shaped couch, where Chloe Campbell is talking to some overly-made up girls. They’re so skinny. I’m handed a mojito, which I refuse. I order a beer instead and Noah leans across a table, shakes my hand. ‘Conor, hey, great to see you, I need to thank you for the duets. HotFlush are into you.’
‘Any time,’ I say and I shake a number of hands as he introduces me to his band and some other guys I recognize from somewhere. I don’t know where. The place is cramped. New York always kind of intimidates me. It’s dazzling and frazzled like the people and sure, it’s exciting, but nobody bothers to learn your name unless you’re already “somebody.” It has none of the charm or hospitality of the south. Of course that’s just my opinion. I’ll keep it to myself. I’ve never really visualized my life anywhere other than Nashville.
Travis’s cover song ends and everyone whistles and cheers. He hasn’t seen me, which for some reason makes me feel a little smug. If I know him he’ll be pissed I showed up, but I had to come. The look on Stephanie’s face when she saw me was worth it. For three seconds I forgot about the fact that Micah’s girlfriend turned out to be untraceable. The school she mentioned on Facebook won’t tell me where she went next. I sigh to myself at the irony. So much for southern hospitality.
‘I can’t stop thinking about what just happened,’ Stephanie whispers at my side, dragging my thoughts back to the moment. I feel her smiling as she drops a kiss on my ear. She’s slurring her words and I know she’s buzzed; I could tell that from her lime kisses on the street and the way she moaned louder than she usually does underneath me as I pressed into her trembling body in the hotel room. It makes me hard again just thinking about it. She’s my drug and my remedy right now.
‘Don’t worry, I’m prepping for part two,’ I whisper back as my beer is handed to me, but when I go to kiss her pink, glossy lips I feel a hand on my shoulder. Denzel again.
‘A word,’ he says. I don’t like the look in his eyes. I tell Stephanie I’ll be right back and she’s distracted by Chloe as soon as stand up. I follow Denzel.
Travis is stealing the crowd again, talking into the mic as strips of red and yellow tinsel flap around him under a fan. He’s announcing another song; one he wrote. ‘If you’d be so kind, I’m fixing to keep this one a secret, so turn those cameras off!’ he drawls. ‘Take it as a private performance.’
Maybe I’m being a jerk but I half expect him to sing about ranch dressing.
‘Listen, mate,’ Denzel says, guiding me to a corner no more than three feet away. He waves flirtatiously at a young girl who blows him a kiss as she walks past and I think of E-beth. Didn’t they just hook up back in Nashville? He fixes his crocodile eyes on me. ‘Seeing as you’re here, there are just a few little things we need to get straight if we want your lovely lady over there to win this competition.’
‘I’m all ears,’ I tell him. But I’m not. I don’t even hear his answer because Travis’s song is blasting through the room now, making every nerve ending in my body shoot to attention. I almost drop my beer.
You’re only almost here
A whisper in my ear
The moon when it’s half full, grinning down
Starlight in my coffee cup
The little mouth that won’t shut up
The half of me I have to live without
And I can go on
Write your smiles into a song
Sing it loud, I know you'd be so proud of me
But even so
All the world will ever know
All the world will ever see
Is half of me...
‘Mate?’ Denzel’s hand is waving in front of my face, pulling my eyes away from Travis. I’m shaking all over, gripping my bottle so hard it should be cracking. ‘Are we cool?’ Denzel says. ‘I know it’s tough, your relationship being something of a secret for a bit, but her and Travis have this… you know… chemistry on stage that could really…’
‘Denzel.’ I hold a hand up in his face. His thick eyebrows knot together and I’m about to blurt it out. I’m about to storm up to the goddam stage and drag Travis off it by the scruff of his too-tight shirt, but Stephanie’s hurrying over on her high heels, reaching for my arm.
‘This is the song,’ she whispers, looping an arm around my waist, ‘the one he sang that night at The Bluebird.’
All the breath leaves my body.
So crack me open, wreck me with the memories of us
If it doesn't break our hearts it isn't love...
‘He’s a flippin’ legend with this one,’ Denzel says, folding his arms as Travis croons on under the lights with his guitar on his lap, his boot tapping gently at the floor. I look between them, then out at the audience. People are mesmerized. ‘Don’t know why he wouldn’t do it at the Ryman,’ Denzel says.
I do. I almost say it but I’m literally biting on my tongue. ‘I need some air,’ I say instead, uncoiling Stephanie’s arm and making for the exit again before she can stop me or follow. When I step back onto the street I feel like I’m about to punch the wall, but the security guy looks at me strangely and I rein it in, walk once around the block, let the traffic rush past me and the breeze tug at my hair. My head’s a kaleidoscope. I have to say something.
Or should I?
Yes.
At least to him.
In minutes I’m back on the stairs, winding through the crowds till I see him, soaking up compliments from model-esque New Yorkers like the limelight-stealing lowlife he really is. ‘Travis,’ I say, walking up behind him. I try to keep my voice calm but he looks genuinely horrified when he turns and sees me. Just meeting his eyes is enough to make my jaw start to clench and my fists curl against my sides.
‘Conor, buddy, hey! I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘We need to talk,’ I say through clenched teeth. Without another word I walk towards the exit one more time. I hear his boots behind me on the stairs and I don’t stop till I reach the end of the block. When I turn around, five meters from Delancey he’s behind me. He holds his hands up as he approaches me right outside a Duane Reade. For fear of doing something stupid in the glaring lights I motion him round the corner to where it’s darker.
‘Conor,’ he says now, ‘I can explain…’
‘Can you?!’ I yell at him as the fury takes over my entire body. ‘Can you really? Because I’m dying to know, Travis, how you were just singing my fucking song at Noah Lockton’s launch party.’
‘It wasn’t all yours,’ he says defensively, folding his arms and facing me dead in the middle of the sidewalk. ‘I made up a new melody.’
The audacity stuns me. I step towards him but stop. I’ve never hit anyone and I don’t intend to start now – he’s not worth it. ‘Those were my lyrics,’ I say, willing my voice to stay balanced; willing my fists not to flatten his nose. ‘Travis, I wrote that song about my brother! Where the hell did you get it?’
He stares at the ground with his jaw twitching. I flash back to looking for my songbook at the cabin, to Lou telling me it wasn’t at the house, to re-tracing my steps, to forgetting all about it entirely, until it hits me. Travis was at The Nice Rack that morning, before we left. Hitting on Stephanie, as usual.
‘Holy
shit, Travis.’ I ram my hands up in my windswept hair. My cell rings in my pocket. I ignore it. ‘You took it from my bag that day, didn’t you, while we were talking with Gretchen? You stole my damn songbook!’
‘I’m sorry, Judge, dammit... I didn’t mean to use your words, OK? It’s just… the pressure, you know?’ His obstinate glares turn to helplessness as he steps towards me now, holding up his hands again. ‘Conor, listen…’
‘What else did you steal to get this far?’ I say incredulously, digging into my palms with my nails. I literally can’t believe I’m stood on a street in Manhattan having this conversation.
‘Just one more,’ he says and I can’t help it now, I laugh.
‘This is insane! You stole my songs to get HotFlush interested in you? Are you kidding me? Travis, how far did you think you would get with this? Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? Did you think Stephanie wouldn’t find out? Or Denzel?’
‘Are you gonna tell her?’ he asks. His voice is shaking. He looks like he’s on the verge of tears as he slides down onto the curb, puts a hand over his hat.
‘No, I’m not going to tell her,’ I spit. ‘She’ll never sing with you again if she finds out. And unlike you, Stephanie isn’t doing all this for herself! She’s doing this to help her family. Jesus, I can’t... I can't believe this.’
He covers his eyes. I loathe this guy in front of me right now; this selfish, arrogant, conniving asshole. ‘It’s up to you to tell her,’ I say and he turns round. ‘After the Ryman show. Wait till the world has seen what she can do. You owe her that chance, Travis. You should be able to keep up your damn appearances till then, seeing as you’re the world’s best liar.’
He stands up again, eyes watering. ‘Thank you, thank you for not humiliating me in there…’
‘Give me a break. Don’t ever think I’m doing this for you!’
An elderly guy jumps and hurries on past me with his walking cane, eyeing us anxiously. I lower my voice. ‘If it wasn’t for Stephanie I’d sell your whole goddam sorry story right now to Chloe Campbell’s blog, or any of the other journos in that room. See what they think of this. I have a feeling Noah Lockton wouldn’t be so forgiving once he found out you haven’t written about anything besides a fucking ketchup bottle your whole life. How did you win the songwriter of the year, Travis?’
He winces visibly and I realize I don’t even need an answer. I already know the rumors were true. If he used any skills at all, they weren’t his song writing skills, because he doesn’t have any.
I walk fast, back up the street towards the bar. My cell’s still ringing in my pocket and I know it’s Stephanie. It’s going to take an acting performance beyond my ability to pretend everything’s fine for her sake until that damn show at the Ryman.
23.
Stephanie
‘It’s bigger than I thought,’ I muse, and Conor wraps his arms around me from behind, kisses the side of my neck.
‘That’s what they all say.’
I turn around against the railing and loop my own arms up around his neck. We’re at the top of the Empire State Building, the first people up here and out of the elevator. ‘I meant New York City, wise-ass. But that’s the first joke I’ve heard you make all morning.’ He pulls me against him, sighs against my forehead. ‘Are you OK?’ I say.
‘I’m OK,’ he answers for the hundredth time and something in his voice tells me to stop pressing him. I can read his moods by now and this one started last night. He swears it’s not about the photos that have started to appear of me and Travis. He didn’t say a word about Denzel’s proposition when I told him. In fact, he said it didn’t surprise him; they need a new duo and love stories sell records. He gets it. He’s done nothing but show his support no matter what they’ve thrown at me, but I know he’s got a lot on his mind trying to find Micah.
‘Come on,’ he says, releasing me, ‘we need to get to Tiffanys before they stop serving breakfast.’ He leads me back to the elevators and I follow him through a throng of Chinese tourists.
‘Are they still dishing up diamonds with the granola?’ I say as he pulls me through the open doors and hard against him in the packed elevator.
‘When I buy you diamonds, baby,’ he smiles, ‘they’ll be way too big to fit in a cereal bowl.’
I grin, press my hands against his chest as we head down, down, down to the bustling street. I’m happy he’s found his sense of humor again, but he doesn’t say a word as we walk along Madison, and he says even less as we hit the subway uptown. I write a song in my head as we walk past all the stores I’ve only ever seen on the television. Or the idea for a song, at least.
New York is diesel and cigarettes and hotdog stands and furious, flashing consumerism. People push, people rush and chatter, taxis speed and screech, avoiding people. People speed and screech, avoiding taxis. Crossing the street is a game of patience. When the lights are red, cross the other way. Follow the grid till you reach your destination. Stay awake. Stay focused. Keep writing that song.
‘What are you thinking?,’ Conor asks as we leave Tiffanys empty-handed, buy bagels with cream cheese and start walking towards Central Park.
‘Everything,’ I tell him, gesturing around me with my coffee cup. ‘There’s no room in my brain for anything else right now.’
He shoots me a lopsided smile. ‘That’s New York.’ He drapes an arm around my shoulders. ‘Are you missing Nashville yet?’
‘Not when you’re here,’ I tell him, honestly. I watch as his expression changes right before he kisses me. There’s definitely something he’s not telling me.
I’ve almost forgotten as we jump in a carriage and take selfies while our horse trots around the lake, but a tweet from Travis flashes up on my screen and reminds me I’m not just here to have fun with Conor. Where are u!? it says. It sounds a little desperate. I tut to myself and delete it. I have no intention of communicating with Travis or anyone else here until Conor’s on his flight to Memphis. Denzel's suggestion that we pretend to be a couple is playing on my mind like a bad song. There's no way in hell I want that. But I do need the money from the show. I need it bad. Foreclosure is not an option, not if I can help it. I lean into Conor, slide my phone back into my purse and watch the park roll by.
When we reach the hotel lobby some two hours later, my feet are aching and my head is full of new song ideas. Conor’s talking about how he’s planning to bring his mom to the Ryman. It crosses my mind that him bringing his mom to hear me sing is probably a pretty big deal, considering how she and that entire community rooted for him and his ex for so long. I’m just about to say something when I feel him freeze on the spot halfway across the lobby. I follow his gaze over to the window seat.
A girl is sitting on the bench, surrounded by purple cushions. She’s looking at her phone but she lifts her head when she senses us staring.
‘Conor,’ she says suddenly, standing up quickly. I drop his hand as she runs for him, throws her arms around him. I step backwards as he reciprocates. Her eyes fill with tears as she pulls away again and she looks to me sheepishly for a second.
‘Grace,’ Conor manages.
My insides lurch.
I feel sick. I can’t even speak. She’s shorter than I imagined. Auburn mid-length hair and the kind of full, shiny lips you see on lipstick commercials. She’s dressed in black jeans and a tight, black leather jacket over a red shirt. ‘Grace,’ he says again, turning to me now, then back to her. He’s clearly as shocked as I am. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, to me now, more than him. I watch as he puts a hand to her arm. ‘I’m sorry, I know we said we wouldn’t talk for a while but when I found out, I called your mom again and then when she told me you were here in New York I had to see you.’
‘Grace, what’s wrong?’ he says. ‘Found out what? Are you OK?’
‘I’m more than OK here, Conor. This isn’t about me. It’s your father.’
Fear knots my stomach as Conor stands b
etween us, looking thrown. ‘I’ll wait for you upstairs,’ I hurry, but as I go to walk away he catches my elbow.
‘Jackson, stay,’ he says, eyes lasering into mine. ‘Grace, this is Stephanie, my girlfriend.’
Grace’s eyes widen unmistakably. She clearly hasn’t heard about me. I can’t help reeling at the images that flock to my head en masse like torturous, pecking birds but she pulls herself together fast and forces a smile at me. I return it as yet more birds peck, peck, peck. He was with this gorgeous girl for seven years?
‘What about my father?’ Conor asks her, leading her back over to the window seat. I can see he literally needs to sit down. He motions for me to pull up another chair and when I sit in a daze I take in her green eyes, lined with kohl, the glossy mouth that laughed with him and lashed into him, the person he wrote all those songs about. She shakes her head despondently, crosses her legs to face him. I force the thought of them together out of my head when I suddenly think how Conor must have felt meeting Brock. He never said a word about that either.
‘He’s sick, Conor. He told my dad. And my dad told me because he’s worried about him. He says your father’s alone now your mom’s gone.’
Conor sucks in a deep breathe through his nose. ‘He hit her, Grace. And he cut me off from Fret. He doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. Did the Pastor tell you that?’ His face has turned white. I can tell he’s struggling to take all this in and I can see how much this is breaking him, no matter what he says.
‘Conor, this is me you’re talking to!’ she responds, lowering her voice. ‘You don’t have to justify anything. Our fathers wanted you to find this out from me, you know what they’re like.’
'My dad told your dad we broke up before you could do it, didn't he,' Conor says. Grace lets out an anguished noise and I realize exactly how controlled they've both been for so long.