Whiskey Lullaby

by Stevie J. Cole

  I remember thinking all I wanted to do was prove to you that you were enough—I would have loved you had you let me, but I wasn’t enough, and you proved that when you didn’t even fight for me.

  Jesus Christ! She was more than enough, and I would have let her love me had I just fucking known.

  I guess maybe I should thank you because you took the worst part of my life and made it bearable. You promised we’d get through it.

  I got through it. When she passed, even though you weren’t there, I found comfort in your voice on the radio. I went to sleep listening to my song because it reminded me of how it felt. And at that point, I just needed something familiar.

  I placed the letter down and sat back in the chair, the wooden legs groaning. I gulped down what was left of the beer and grabbed another bottle, pacing a few times before sitting back down and snatching up the letter again.

  You told me you cared for me.

  But I loved you, that’s why I told you it wasn’t enough, Noah. I needed you to love me, not look at me like a dear friend. You told me you couldn’t lose me, and yet, you just walked off.

  Daddy asked me to stay away from you, but I didn’t. I loved you too much to have someone tell me what to do. Months after you left, he confessed that he told you to leave me alone, and while that should make it better. It doesn’t, because you didn’t fight for me, you didn’t even argue, and that’s when I realized it was a one-sided love affair.

  We never said goodbye, and it’s hard to let go of someone when there was never any closure. I’ve had many nights lost to the thought of what may have happened had I told you. I’ve woken up one too many times with the taste of your lips heavy on my mind. I want you to know how much you affected me, and I pray that writing this letter will allow me to walk away—to let go of those memories, and the hurt and anger that fires through me when I hear your name.

  You made me believe you were something you weren’t and loving a ghost for this long has nearly ruined me.

  Hannah

  Frowning, I downed the beer while I stared at the words on the page. I loved that girl. Hell, she just said every song I wrote was about her—how could she believe she meant nothing? You don’t write songs about someone that didn’t fucking matter to you.

  An envelope was clipped to the back of the letter, but I didn’t look at it. I’d had enough for the night, so I slammed the letters on the table, grabbed my beer, and I staggered up the stairs to the second floor, past five bedrooms that will never be used, and to the master suite. I tipped my beer back, then placed it on the marble-topped nightstand that cost four grand before I sank underneath the covers of my king-size bed and stared at the ceiling wishing I was back in my shit house in that little town with her asleep on my chest.

  But I’m not. I’m alone.

  ______

  I woke the next morning with a massive headache and rolled over in bed, groaning. One day. I had one day home before I had to go back on tour. Before this was my life, I thought singers sat around in their mansions like some Hugh Hefner clone with guitars. Shit, I couldn’t have been more wrong. You tour for months. One night in Chicago, then fly off to London. Japan, who fucking knew they liked the kind of shit I sing in Japan? Then, when you do come home, you’re writing songs, meeting with people. Recording. Doing interviews and going on talk shows. Grueling, I know, but until you walk in these shoes, you can’t appreciate how it fucks with your head.

  In Rockford, I was just a little shit with a good voice.

  Girls wanted to fuck me. Guys hated me. But I knew who I was, and I knew who my friends were: Trevor and Benji—and I haven’t talked to them in months. But here, everyone wants to be my friend. People use and abuse you. You forget you’re a person because everything is about brand.

  “Think about your brand, Noah.”

  “Oh, you can’t post that on social media, it will hurt your brand.”

  “Smile! You’re a country guy without a care—remember, brand!”

  Brand. Brand. Brand!

  Fuck a brand!

  They didn’t care if I drank myself into a stupor so long as I smiled and made that country accent thick when I said: “God Bless Y’all” at the end of each show. It was such bullshit.

  I sat up in bed, scrubbing my hand over my jaw before I grabbed my phone and dialed Trevor’s number. It rang three times before going to voicemail. I hung up and staggered into the shower, her letters fresh on my mind. The longer I thought about it, the angrier I grew. Had I been that big of a fucking idiot to let her just walk away? I had. I had because I was afraid of getting hurt, and in the process, I just hurt us both.

  She hated me. She had to hate me. She thought I used her… I couldn’t stand it. If nothing else, I refused to let her believe that bullshit. I couldn’t call her. I couldn’t get in touch with her on social media. And I had one day before I left for another stint of the tour.

  “Shit,” I turned the shower off and grabbed a towel as I stepped out, only halfway drying off before heading back to my room. One day was all I needed to make this right. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, both of which stuck to my damp body. I grabbed the suitcase by the door and dumped the contents on the bed before cramming clean clothes inside.

  She loved me, and that changed everything.

  ______

  Four hours later, I passed Grandma’s house. God, I felt like shit for not stopping, but she didn’t know I was in town. No one did. Because the last time I came down, people caught wind of it and Grandma had to call the Sheriff to get fans off the lawn.

  I drove onto County Road 2 and passed the old cemetery. When the black mailbox came into view, my heart suddenly went into a sprint. Sampson sat up on the front porch when I pulled onto the gravel drive and parked underneath the oak tree. As soon as I cut the engine, he howled and bolted off the porch, scampering through the pile of leaves toward my truck.

  “Hey, Sampson.” He circled around me, wagging his tail and sniffing the leg of my jeans.

  The familiar creak of the screen door caught my attention and I glanced up just before it closed with a bang. John walked to the edge of the porch and braced his hands on the worn railing. There was a part of me that wanted to ask him if I was good enough now? But I didn’t. I didn’t care what he thought, I only cared about her.

  “I left her alone, like you asked,” I said, throwing my arms out. “Did that work out good?”

  He dropped his chin to his chest, curling his fingers around the banister. “I shouldn’t have done that…”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have given up so easily.” I took a few steps toward the house. “I came here to tell her I’m sorry, John.”

  “She ain’t here.”

  “I’ll wait.” I leaned against the trunk of the tree I used to climb for her. “She’s not here, Noah.” He glanced up and I noticed how much he’d aged. Deep lines seemed a permanent fixture on his forehead. His hair had more gray than I recalled. I guess the stress of losing Claire had taken its toll. “She moved away after her momma died. She took it hard. We all took it hard.”

  I dragged my hand down my face and exhaled. I felt bad for him. I felt terrible for her. And I felt like the shittiest person ever because I hadn’t been there when I told her I would. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I can’t imagine…”

  “Well, she’s with the Lord now.” I heard a slight catch in his voice and he pushed away from the railing and started back to the door.

  “John! I need to talk to her.”

  He placed his hand on the doorknob and stopped, his shoulders falling on a hard sigh. “I appreciate you wanting to apologize, but she’s been through a lot and I think it’s best if you—”

  “I cared about her more than anything. I need to apologize for leaving.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “You’ve done real good for yourself, you should be proud.” And with that, he stepped inside, the screen door slamming shut behind him.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidd
ing me! Frustration wound through me, tensing my muscles. A low growl crept from my throat as I glanced up at her room. If I closed my eyes, the memory of her standing in front of that window and dropping her shirt seemed so real. The way she kissed me, the way she looked at me like I could be her everything. How could I not have realized she loved me?

  Fuming, I stormed back to my truck and cranked the engine before peeling down the drive. I had no idea where she was, or if she was with someone, and the thought of her falling asleep on another man damn near killed me. Those kisses, those light touches. Those should have been mine.

  By the time the truck lurched over the rut at the end of the drive, my knuckles ached from clenching my fists on the wheel. Her chickens were pecking at gravel in the middle of the drive, so I laid on the horn and they scattered across the yard.

  I caught Grandma push up from the metal glider on the porch. Shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand, she shuffled to the end of the porch, squinting out at the drive. I wondered why she hadn’t told me that Hannah moved. I knew damned well she had to know.

  I slung my door open. The cool autumn breeze blew through the trees catching a few of the dried leaves on its wind.

  “Noah.”

  “When did she move, Grandma?”

  She balled her fist up and dug them into her hips. “So I see you’ve been by the preacher’s?”

  I stepped onto the porch. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You hug me first, boy, or I ain’t telling you a thing.”

  Shaking my head, I leaned over and hugged her hard.

  “Didn’t even tell me you was coming…” she tsked. “That new song of yours sure is doing good. They played it at the end of General Hospital the other day.”

  My head was swarming with emotions. I hadn’t told my manager I was leaving. I had to get back to Nashville for a flight. And I hadn’t accomplished shit.

  “How long you here for?” Grandma asked.

  “I have to go back on tour tomorrow.”

  She arched a brow. “They work you too much, you know that? All this jetting around the world seems a bit unnecessary to me.” She plopped down on the glider. “You staying for dinner, ain’t you?”

  “Grandma!”

  “What?”

  “Where is she?”

  Grandma huffed and crossed her arms. “She’s doing, oh…” She snapped her fingers. “She’s traveling and nursing. I hear it pays a pretty penny. I think they call it a travel nurse or something catchy like that.”

  I scrubbed my hand through my hair and paced the porch. “Where? Do you know where?” It was more than aggravating not being able to find someone in the age of social media. A person had to really try to fly under the radar, and Hannah was staying as low as possible.

  She shrugged. “How am I supposed to know that.”

  I tossed my head back with a groan. “Oh my God, it’s Rockford! That’s how.”

  “Have no idea, I just know she’s gone. Came home last week for Thanksgiving and took off again.”

  “Shit.” I sat on the step and clutched my head in my hands.

  “Imma forgive you for swearin’ like that on my porch since you’re upset and all.” She stood up and walked to the door. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna get you something.”

  I sat, staring out across the yard. I wanted to stay there, I didn’t want to go back to Nashville. I didn’t want to go back on tour and sing those songs, now knowing what I knew. God, that was going to be painful. The hinges on the door creaked and I heard the familiar shuffle of Grandma’s feet behind me before she groaned and took a seat next to me.

  “Well,” she huffed. “Guess you finally realized you screwed up, huh?” She shoved the old bottle of whiskey from her cabinet against my chest. “Drink that then, it’s the only thing that helps that kinda heartbreak, boy. Go on and drink you a whiskey lullaby.”

  ______

  I drank the rest of that whiskey, got drunk, and passed out on Grandma’s couch.

  I barely got back to Nashville in time for the show I had to do.

  The opening act had just finished. I could hear the dull roar of the crowd chanting my name and clapping when I made my way through the backstage area. My manager, Debra, stood by the stairs that led to the stage, tapping her foot on the floor, glaring at me.

  “Nice of you to show up.”

  “I try to be fashionably late and all,” I said.

  “Look, I went with country because I didn’t want to deal with the crap rock stars do, so don’t you start this shit.”

  I shook my head while the assistants fussed with my hair, my shirt. They slipped my earpiece on. Someone handed me a guitar. “I’m here.”

  She grabbed my shoulders and shoved me toward the steps. “Well, thank you for doing your job.”

  I waited for them to announce me. I waited for the cheers to get nearly unbearable, and then I stepped onto the stage, slowly making my way to the center. The lights all directed onto me when I stopped in front of the mic. “Good evening, Nashville. How are y’all this fine evening?” The stadium erupted in cheers. “I just got back from Alabama, sorry I was a little late. So, why don’t we get the show started?”

  I strummed over the strings, humming into the microphone. I sang the first line, closing my eyes and thinking of Hannah just like I did every show. When I got to the chorus, the words didn’t come out. I played it off, letting the audience sing along. I glanced out over the packed arena. I’d gone from a nobody from nowhere Alabama to the guy on stage with sold out venues and CMAs. So how in the hell did it feel like I’d just lost everything. Sure, I had money, a nice house, fame—I had fame, but I had nothing because I didn’t have her.

  Every song I played was the equivalent of dragging a razor blade over skin. Cutting, making me bleed. By the end the show I knew I couldn’t keep doing this, I’d drive myself crazy.

  Those fucking letters…there had to be a way to get to her.

  39

  Hannah

  Jet lag is a cruel beast. I was dragging when I went to work that Friday. I’d been back for a week, but I’m a firm believer jet lag takes forever to get over.

  Margaret walked out of the hospital and waved. “Dr. Henley is in a chipper mood today.”

  “When is he not?”

  “Very true.” She laughed as we passed each other.

  The distinct, high-pitched ring of Facebook Messenger came from my purse. I knew it was Meg, she was the only one that called on that thing. I stopped underneath the palm tree right by the hospital entrance to dig my phone out. I only had five minutes before I had to clock in, but, I rarely got to talk to her because she refused to acknowledge I was in a time zone seventeen hours ahead of her.

  “Hey,” I said as I walked into the lobby.

  “Don’t get on the internet!” she blurted.

  “What?”

  “Don’t check the internet for…”—she huffed—“maybe the rest of your life.”

  “What in the hell?”

  “Where are you?”

  The automatic doors that led to the ER whirred opened. “About to clock in.”

  “What? What fucking time is it there? Isn’t it night?”

  “No, it’s six in the morning.”

  “Oh my God, I thought it was night there when it was day here.”

  “Basically, but it’s already Friday here.”

  “What the… you’re a day ahead!”

  “I have told you this a thousand times.”

  “Well, just don’t get on your phone at work. Wait until you’re at home for that shit.”

  “Meg…”

  “Just trust me.”

  I swiped my badge and waved at Dr. Henley. “Why would you do this to me.”

  “Because I don’t want you to have a meltdown in public.”

  “A meltdown…” I sighed. “Look, if it’s another song. I’m used to it; besides, does he even write his own songs?”

  “Yes, he does. We’ve c
hecked that three times now, and it’s not a song.”

  My curiosity had been piqued. “Okay, well, whatever it is. I’m fine.”

  “Nope. You won’t be.” She sighed. “Call me when you get off, okay?”

  “It’ll be two in the morning there.”

  “It’s fine.” She groaned. “Just call me.”

  “Alright.”

  I hung up and stared at my phone. I’d like to say that after a year I’d gotten over Noah, but I hadn’t. I thought about that abstinence video they showed us in high school, the one where a girl is holding a clay heart in her hand and all these guys come up and take a piece from it until she’s left holding a tiny little shred of what the heart once was. He didn’t take a piece of my heart; I gave it to him.

  Some things you never get over, you just learn to live with. Or ignore.

  Patient after patient came in, and soon enough, the fact I was to avoid the internet indefinitely slipped my mind. After a case of heatstroke, an allergic reaction to shellfish, and a motorbike accident, I went to grab a water from the employee lounge. A group of nurses surrounded one of the break room tables, Jill Makenzie smack dab in the middle, holding up a phone. She grinned, her red lipstick making her teeth look about as white as a Colgate commercial while everyone anxiously watched the screen over her shoulder.

  I grabbed a water from the fridge and started toward the table. One of the nurses nudged Jill while clearing her throat. Jill glanced up and dropped the phone to her side, her cheeks turning bright red. “Hey, Hannah!” she said loudly.