by Meghan March
Logan flips on the blinker and turns right into Gran’s gravel drive before slowing the truck to a stop close to the house and shifting into Park. He turns toward me in his seat.
“I would’ve thought this was the last place you’d come running to.”
A million memories await me inside this house—and whatever mess Mama left behind after she broke in and helped herself to some of Gran’s most prized possessions.
I take a breath, my shoulders rising, and then let it out slowly, straightening. “I guess when you decide to make a run for it, the most natural place in the world to run is back to your roots. I’ve only been gone nine months, but so much has changed. I wanted a bigger life, and boy, did I ever get it.”
I don’t even think before I speak, the truth of my feelings spilling out of me.
“But it’s gotten so big, it’s like I don’t know who I am anymore. I thought if I came back here, maybe that would give me the answers I can’t seem to find anywhere else.”
“You made a run for it?”
I’m not surprised that’s the part he picks up on. “It’s a long story.”
Hoping to leave it at that, I reach for the handle and push the door open before jumping down to the ground. Practically need a damn stepladder for that thing.
I hoist my purse up one more time and meet Logan at the front of the truck where he’s holding my bag. He follows me up the front steps to Gran’s purple porch.
She picked that color the summer before she passed because she was banking on it pissing off her crotchety old neighbor. She was right. Gran was always right. I guess the real reason I came back is because I’m hoping I can find her guidance and wisdom here, even if she’s not.
I unlock the dead bolt and push the front door open. Dust motes float in the air. I guess getting picked up and tossed in jail got in the way of Mama doing some cleaning.
Logan drops my bag just inside the front door. He takes a step back, and I slip inside.
“Thanks. For the ride and for the help with the car. You can leave a message on Gran’s machine when it’s ready. I’ll be checking it.”
“Ain’t no trouble.” He’s standing with his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his coveralls, and I have no idea what he’s waiting for.
I start to push the door closed, but Logan says, “Be ready at eight.”
“Wha—what?”
“You heard me.”
“But I . . . What?”
“You came back to find your roots, Holly. I’m gonna reintroduce ya.”
I told myself I wasn’t going to go as I crawled under the clean sheets of my old bed and didn’t set an alarm. I told myself I wasn’t going to go while I ignored the high-pitched chime of the doorbell at seven forty-five. I told myself I wasn’t going to go while I covered my head with a pillow to muffle the pounding coming from the door.
I told myself I wasn’t going to . . . until Logan Brantley was standing in the doorway of my old bedroom.
Stunned, I shot up in bed. “What the hell? How’d you get in here?”
“Told you I was coming at eight. Figured you wouldn’t be ready, so I came early. Now get your ass out of bed. We got places to go tonight.”
“What part of me ignoring you for the last fifteen minutes hasn’t clued you in to the fact that I’m not going?”
He strolls into my room as if he’s right at home and leans against the lilac-printed wallpaper. “You came here for a reason. I recognize someone looking to hide away and lick her wounds, but that don’t help much. Trust me. I know.”
I push the covers down, thankful I opted to sleep in my sweatshirt and some leggings. “You’re really going to drag me out of here?”
“Kicking and screaming, if I have to. Given that any picture of you is going to end up online somewhere, you might want to fix your makeup.”
My jaw drops, and I blink at his blatant honesty. “Jesus, it’d be a wonder if you had a girlfriend. You’ve got zero tact.”
His lips quirk into a lopsided smile. “Maybe I’ve got more than one. Tact isn’t exactly what the ladies are looking for these days, Wix.”
“Whatever. Get out of my room.” I jerk my head toward the door, in case he isn’t getting the message loud and clear.
Logan laughs, and I can’t help but appreciate that the man grew up real nice. He changed out of his shop clothes into worn jeans and a clean thermal Henley, this time in a deep forest green. From the way it stretches across his chest, I can tell the man is built.
I might be a married woman, but I’d be doing the sisterhood a disservice if I didn’t take a minute to appreciate the fine specimen in front of me from an academic standpoint. I make a shooing gesture with my hands, and he finally turns and walks out . . . and I’m obligated to appreciate the back view as well.
Shaking my head, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and reach into my bag. I pull out a pair of jeans and a longish black sweater. I search until it becomes clear that I didn’t pack any socks. At least I remembered to bring underwear. That reminds me of being backstage with Creighton and him freaking out when he thought I didn’t have any, and that I’d have to do my show in a dress without panties.
Why is it we seemed to find our rhythm in the midst of the craziness that’s touring, but as soon as we step foot back in his world, I nearly have a nervous breakdown? What does that say for our future?
I push away the insistent question. I’ve got time to figure this out. I just need to get right with myself before I can start trying to figure out the rest. So instead, I head for the bedroom bureau and score some socks alongside the other odds and ends I left and never came back for.
I’ve been meaning to come back and clean the house out and sell it, but something always stops me—and not just the general lack of time in my schedule. When I wrote a check for the property taxes a couple of months ago, I told myself it was time.
But I haven’t been able to pull the trigger. Even now, I’m not quite ready to let go. Which is ironic because in so many ways, I couldn’t wait to shake the dust from this town off my boots. And once Gran was gone . . . coming back was too overwhelming. And yet, like I said to Logan, it was the only place I thought to run. Life is funny that way.
I, being the Kentucky girl that I am, recall a line from the movie Days of Thunder. Tom Cruise’s nemesis, Rowdy Burns—the guy who becomes his friend after they smash their rental cars all up on the way to dinner—says something about how as a kid he farmed so he could race, but later he was just racing so he could get back and live on the farm. At least I think it went something like that.
It may not be some classy, iconic movie quote, but it always stuck with me. Just one more way of saying the grass is always greener on the other side. I’m not in the same position as Rowdy Burns, because I don’t have some burning desire to come back to Gold Haven permanently, but I can’t help but wonder if, someday in the future, I’ll be singing and touring my ass off to save enough to quit.
It’s unfathomable.
I freeze in the act of pulling a sock on. Did I just imagine my future without Creighton in it? Because if Creighton is part of my future, money surely isn’t an object, right?
And then comes the bigger questions: if Creighton is part of my future, will I still be touring and singing ten years from now? Even if this does work between us, at what point is he going to think the country music gig—while cute—is getting old?
Stop borrowing trouble, Holly. I make a conscious decision to bury the questions again for tonight. I’m not ready to answer them yet. Maybe having Logan show up at my doorstep was some kind of serendipity in the form of a welcome distraction.
Stripping out of my leggings, I pull on the jeans and trade the sweatshirt for the sweater, and look at my reflection in a mirror that saw me through the awkwardness of my teen years. It’s easy to catalog all the ways I look different now.
My hair is longer and shinier—courtesy of using the products my stylist recommended and not Suave. My e
ntire body is slimmer—thanks to the restrictive diet and calorie counting. But would you believe that my boobs are perkier? No, I didn’t sell my soul to the devil; I discovered the miracle of push-up bras and was actually fitted for one in my size. My face, to go along with my slimmer body, is narrower, my cheekbones sharper, and my eyebrows have been professionally shaped. But beyond that, I’m still the exact same girl I was when I left.
Is that girl ever going to be enough for Creighton?
“Stop it,” I scold my reflection. “Just stop.”
“Hurry up, Holly!” Logan yells up the stairs, interrupting me.
“Hold your horses, you breaking-and-entering fool,” I yell back.
I grab my makeup bag and use the concealer to cover the circles under my eyes, and then add a swipe of bronzer over my cheeks and another coat of mascara and lip gloss. That’ll have to be good enough.
Logan’s idea of reintroducing me to my roots starts with food at Mr. Burger, the only fast-food joint in town since McDonald’s won’t bother setting up a franchise here. It’s surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night, but that suits me just fine.
We order and slip into a back booth to wait for the server to bring out our food. The joke around town is that Mr. Burger’s is so slow because they have to go kill the cow first.
It’s twenty minutes before two loaded cheeseburgers, seasoned fries, and chocolate milkshakes are sitting in front of us. I haven’t consumed this many calories in one sitting . . . probably since the last time I ate here. This meal is miles away from the decadent steak that Creighton ordered in our hotel room.
The food is amazing. The company isn’t half bad either.
I don’t have much to say, but Logan fills the silence, even though I get the feeling he’s not normally this chatty of a guy. He tells me about coming back to town after leaving the Marines. He won’t say exactly what it is he did in the Marines, so I suspect it was something interesting.
He came back to town just days after I left for Nashville, and knew he couldn’t be idle, so he applied for a job at the garage he worked at all through high school. Apparently he spent a lot of his down time in the service restoring classic cars, so Chuck, the prior owner, hired him back on the spot.
“When Chuck told me he planned to retire about three months later, I knew that I couldn’t let him sell it to someone else. Coming back to that damn garage was the best homecoming I had. He wasn’t surprised at all that I didn’t want him to sell it to anyone else, and was cool enough to help me buy it from him. I’ve almost got him paid off, so the bank loan for the renovations was a leap of faith. It’s turning out just fine, though.”
I’m amazed that in six months he’s managed to buy the place, renovate the whole thing, and turn Chuck’s old garage into a sought-after place for classic car restoration and repairs. To say I’m impressed would be an understatement. It appears that I’m not the only one who’s capable of going after a dream.
I’m also slightly stunned that we get out of Mr. Burger without being bothered. I guess I’m not such a big deal, even in my own town. Apparently only Miranda Lambert is famous in a small town.
Act II of Operation Reintroduce-Holly-to-Her-Roots takes us right back to the place it all started—Brews and Balls. I should have figured, since it’s really the only place for people to go for entertainment in Gold Haven.
The reception I get there is much different than at Mr. Burger. You’d think I’m the returning hero who has been away for years and years, which clearly, I’m not.
“Hot damn, look what the cat dragged in,” Benny yells over the percussion of balls hitting the lane and striking pins. He shuffles over as fast as his cane can hold him, and yanks me into a hug.
“Hey, Ben. How ya been?” It’s the same way my gran greeted him for years, and it rubbed off on me long ago.
He pulls back, lowers the old wooden cane back to the floor to steady himself, and tilts his head to one side. “I think I’m more interested in how you’ve been, Mrs. Billionaire Country Star.”
Heat burns in my cheeks. I don’t want to talk about the me that exists outside this town. That’s not why I’m here.
“I’m fine. Just taking some time off.”
He opens his mouth to ask something else, but shuts it just as quick. I glance sideways at Logan, and he’s giving Benny a hard look. Shielding me from questions?
“How about some shoes and a lane, Ben?” Logan asks.
The older man nods enthusiastically. “Of course. Anything for my girl here. Except, there’s a catch.”
“Ben—” Logan starts, but I interrupt. I know exactly what Benny’s going to throw out as the catch.
“I’ll sing one song. But not one of mine.”
“Done. Go bowl a few games, and I’ll meet you in the bar later.”
We bowl two games, and the easy camaraderie I feel with Logan surprises me. It’s not the heightened anticipation I seem to have every moment I spend around Creighton, but it’s also a lot less stressful.
It’s just . . . easy.
It’s also impossible not to compare the men, one rough around the edges and the other smooth and cultured. Both dangerous in their own way.
I know how to behave around a guy like Logan, and not just because I’ve spent a lot of time with Boone on tour. Logan’s upbringing wasn’t all that different from mine. I can throw sass at him and give as good as I get, all without feeling awkward or trashy.
I give as good as I get with Creighton too, but when I’m in his world, I lack confidence because I’m totally out of my element. On tour, things were better, but that was him playing in my world. Wasn’t there some old saying about a bird and a fish falling in love? Are we just too different?
My thoughts are distracting enough to make me throw a gutter ball. Damn. There goes my three-hundred game, which I’m perfectly capable of bowling, thank you very much. And that’s just another skill a billionaire’s wife probably shouldn’t have on her résumé.
I excel at bowling, deep-frying pickles, and singing songs about pickup trucks and broken hearts. I hate feeling like this, so inadequate, and I hate that I’m the one digging the slices in deeper. How can I ever truly be good enough for Creighton if I never believe it myself? Annika’s words jab at me again and again.
Logan throws a strike, thankfully distracting me yet again. He can also bowl a three hundred. I watched him on plenty of dates when I worked here in school. Just another difference between the two men. Brews and Balls is the kind of place a guy like Logan brings a date. I try to picture Creighton here and find it utterly impossible.
But I was so determined to shake this place off and never come back, so what does it matter if I can’t picture Creighton here? I wanted a bigger life, and I got it. When am I going to get the guts to live it instead of just float along and let the tide pull me in and out?
I grab my ball, line up . . . and throw another one into the gutter. Turning away from the lane, I drop into the molded blue plastic chair and rest my head into my hands.
“Holly, what the hell?” Logan asks.
“I can’t do this. I need to stop thinking. I don’t want to think any more tonight, and this isn’t working.”
Logan sets his ball back into the ball return and lowers himself into the seat beside me. Underlying the woodsy scent of his aftershave or deodorant is that combination from the garage—oil, exhaust, rubber, and citrus.
It’s not unpleasant. It’s real.
But it’s not Creighton.
“What can I do? How do we get you to stop thinking?” he asks.
I can only think of one solution. “Let’s get drunk.”
Logan shakes his head. “I’m driving.”
“Then I’ll get drunk.”
He doesn’t speak for the space of a breath. Finally, he leans his elbows on his knees and looks sidelong at me. “You sure?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” I may not know the answer to any other question I need to answer, but this one, I have handl
ed. Like a boss.
With a shake of his head, he says, “Pick your poison then. And maybe get that song in for Ben before you’re too lit to be able to sing it.”
“I think tonight is a tequila kind of night. And I can never be too lit to sing.” I scrunch my brow. “I don’t think. I guess we’ll see.”
“Fuck, I know this is a bad idea.” But go along with it, he does.
Shots are lined up on the bar, and I forgo the salt and the lime, opting instead to take my shots straight and chase them with beer. This decision is probably one I’ll regret later. Almost certainly. But I’m already feeling the buzz and forgetting to care.
Benny is already cuing up a song when I grab the microphone from the stand. I don’t even care what it is. I just want to get onstage, even if it’s a tiny stage in a Podunk bowling alley, because this is one place I feel completely confident. I’m going to sing my heart out tonight. These people may have come to bowl and drink, but they’re about to get one hell of a show.
The music that comes from the speakers makes me laugh, a real, honest-to-God belly laugh. Something I haven’t done in longer than I can remember. Somehow Benny always knows where my head’s at. He’s cranked up Miranda Lambert’s “Famous in a Small Town.”
I belt out the lyrics and find my happy place.
Benny plays song after song, and the tequila keeps flowing. I don’t count the songs or the shots, or the number of people gathering in the small bar of the bowling alley. I don’t keep track of any of it. I don’t notice the whispers of the crowd, the flashing cameras, or later, the people stepping aside to let someone pass.
My eyes are closed and tears are welling in them as I sing the last lines to Sara Evans’s “Born to Fly.” It’s the song that started it all on this very stage. A little overwhelmed, I slide the microphone back into the stand and lean over, hands on my thighs, trying to reel myself back in.
“Another shot, Holly?” someone calls.
I hold my arm out, making a thumbs-up sign. And that’s when I hear a familiar deep voice say, “I think you’ve had enough, my dear.”