The Love Song of Sawyer Bell (Tour Dates Book 1)

by Avon Gale

  “Don’t act like a brat. Decide if you want Sawyer in the band or not, Vix. It’s your name, your band. You asked us if we wanted her, and we said yes.”

  Vix did want Sawyer in the band. Goddamn it, that wasn’t even a question. But she also wanted Sawyer, and she was starting to think she couldn’t have both. It was too risky.

  She didn’t say anything, and eventually Jeff let her be. Vix sat by herself in the basement, wondering why the fuck she’d had to go and fall in love.

  Sawyer had apparently spent the afternoon at the nearby Urban Outfitters because, for some reason, she found trying clothes on that she couldn’t afford to be an enjoyable use of her time. Vix hated shopping and she really hated trying on clothes—if the jeans she bought at Target or the thrift store didn’t fit her, she sulkily threw the bag in a corner until she remembered they were there and took them back and returned them.

  “I don’t know how fifty-six dollars for a maxi skirt is a sale price,” Sawyer said, sounding miffed, like the overpriced store had personally offended her. “I mean, it’s, like, one piece of fabric. Maybe I should take up sewing!” She clapped her hands. “I can make all our clothes since we’re gonna be poor traveling musicians.”

  “Okay, Friar Tuck,” Vix mumbled, and Sawyer gave her that bright, happy smile that made Vix’s insides twist like rusty mechanical gears.

  “So? How’d the band meeting go?”

  Jesus. Vix took a deep breath and said in a rush, “I’m sorry. It’s not gonna work out.”

  Sawyer’s smile faded, and she blinked those pretty eyes of hers, brow drawn in confusion. “Wait, what?”

  “It’s not going to work.” Vix shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans and tried not to look at Sawyer. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t—” Sawyer’s voice had dropped, and she was as soft-spoken as she’d been at her audition—before she’d pulled out that fiddle, before Vix had fallen in love with her. “I don’t understand. Did I make someone mad?”

  Vix felt like a heel. She shook her head. “No. Everyone likes you.”

  “Then what . . . what’s the problem? What did I do wrong?”

  Oh, fucking hell. “You didn’t do anything, Sawyer. You’re a great musician and . . . it isn’t that.”

  “Then what is it?” Sawyer’s voice wavered, but her chin went up and her shoulders straightened. She looked like she did onstage. Except angry. “Obviously someone has a problem with me, so what is it?”

  “It’s not you, it’s . . . it’s us.” Vix sighed. She ran a hand through her messy hair. “If something happens with me and you, it could really fuck things up. With the band, I mean.”

  “That’s really our business, though, isn’t it?” Sawyer asked. “What’s that have to do with us playing music together?”

  “Do you think we could be friends?” Vix stepped forward. She reached out and took Sawyer’s clammy hands in hers. “If we had some massive breakup, do you really think you could ride in a van with me, day after day, week after week, month after month, and not have that impact the band? Look at what happened when we were mad at each other for, what, a week? Four days? Everyone was miserable.”

  “You and Jeff managed,” Sawyer pointed out.

  “Barely,” Vix muttered. “And not without collateral damage. Sam quit, our keyboardist before Kit. And Bryant threatened to leave, and it was miserable, okay? And that was, hell, before we had any of the notoriety we have now, which might not seem like that much, but compared to where we were, then? It is. And you and me—Sawyer, I love you, but I can’t fuck this up. It’s not just me, it’s . . . everyone who’s taking a chance on me. Kit, and Connor, and Jeff.”

  Sawyer stared at her, and Vix watched while understanding dawned. “It was you,” she said softly, and yanked her hands away. “You’re the one who doesn’t want me here.”

  Vix thought for a half of a second about blaming Jeff, but she knew she’d never do that. It’d be unforgiveable, and besides. If she wanted to salvage her relationship with Sawyer, she knew she had to be honest. “I want you here. But I don’t think you should be here.”

  “So you’re breaking up with me?” Sawyer sounded dumbfounded.

  “No,” Vix assured her. “I want us to be together. But we can’t, not if we’re going to play music. And if we’re going to play music, we can’t be together.”

  Sawyer was so mad, her cheeks flushed bright red, and Vix could see tears trembling in the dark of her eyelashes. “Okay, first? I asked you—I asked you—if you were sure about me joining. I told you if you didn’t think it was a good idea, to tell me before you brought it up to the rest of the band.” Sawyer dashed her hand over her eyes. “Goddamn it, Vix, I fucking asked you and you said you wanted me!”

  “I do want you!” Vix protested. She raised her hands. “God, Sawyer, it’s not that. I’m trying to keep everything from being a huge mess!”

  “When we break up,” Sawyer said, flatly. “Because apparently, you see so little future in this relationship, your main concern is what’s going to happen when it’s over.”

  “My main concern is I don’t want to ruin anyone’s life.” Vix wished she could make Sawyer understand. “I almost lost this band once before, and I can’t do it again.”

  “So, what? You assumed I’d be your little lady waiting at home?” Sawyer scoffed, shaking her head. “I don’t think so. You clearly think we’re doomed, and there’s still the whole thing where I asked you not to bring this up with the others unless you yourself were sure. Is there some reason you didn’t do that? Oh, wait,” Sawyer said, her tone of voice so ugly it made Vix wince. “You wanted to make sure we could still have fun before the tour ended, right?”

  “You know that is totally not true,” Vix insisted. “Yeah, okay, I should have said something and I didn’t. But it’s not like this is easy for me, either.”

  “I’ll make it easier,” Sawyer said, and for a moment she looked like the girl from high school, the one etched on the corners of Vix’s memory—awkward and unsure, half-hiding in the fall of her dark hair. “I quit. And we’re breaking up. There you go. No more hard decisions for you.”

  “Sawyer,” Vix said, but that was it. Only her name, and there were no other words she could think to say that would make this better. “Can’t you at least think about why I’m saying this?”

  “I probably could have,” Sawyer said, crying. “If you’d have said any of this before, when I asked you about it. I would have listened, and we could have made it work. Now? It sure as hell looks like you want me gone.”

  “It’s not that I want you gone. Can’t you see what a risk this is?” How could she make Sawyer understand that?

  “Yeah, actually. And I was willing to take it. It’s that you’re not, and I wish you would have told me instead of letting me think you did.” Sawyer marched off into the bedroom, and Vix heard her rummaging around, clearly packing up her things in a hurry.

  When she came out, she looked at Vix across the room. “I’ll see you at the show tomorrow night. Because I’m a fucking professional, even if you seem to think I’m not.”

  Vix lasted until Sawyer closed the door behind her before she threw herself on the couch and cried. She wished she were back in Dallas or Little Rock—anywhere but here. They said home was where the heart was, but in her case, home was where it broke.

  The thing about walking out of the basement was that Sawyer didn’t actually have a way to get home. Meaning she was standing out in the oppressive Memphis heat with her bag and her violin case, fighting tears and fumbling in her purse for her sunglasses. She saw the tour van in the driveway and lost the battle with the crying, which made finding her sunglasses harder.

  “God, really?” She gave up and glanced around wildly, wiping at her eyes and trying not to look like she’d been crying when a car turned down the street. It slowed as it got closer, and Sawyer sniffled and tried to look perfectly normal, standing there crying with a musical instrument, an overstuffed duffe
l bag, and a purse.

  “Take a picture,” she muttered as the car kept slowing, then she realized it wasn’t any car—it was Jeff’s. The car stopped in front of her, and he rolled down the window.

  “Hey. You need a ride?”

  She did, but she didn’t know if she could take talking about what had happened. Still, if she was going to be a professional about this, then she was technically still in the band for one last show. “Home. Yeah, if you don’t mind.”

  Jeff popped the trunk without a word, and Sawyer put her bag and violin case in and snapped the door shut. She climbed in the blissful air conditioning of Jeff’s Hyundai and slouched in the seat. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay.” Jeff turned the car around. “But can you tell me where you live, at least?”

  She gave him a half smile and her address, and he set off for her house. They were two minutes into a silent drive when Sawyer said, “I wish she would have told me she didn’t want me in the band before she asked everyone else.”

  “I thought we weren’t talking about it,” said Jeff.

  “We’re not.” She peeked over at him. “Was it bad? When you two broke up, I mean.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I mean . . . it did almost end the band. Not so much the breakup, though. The part before, where we weren’t getting along and were pissed off and sniping at each other constantly.”

  Sawyer wondered how to point out that they all did that with each other, but it made her heart hurt. “Um.”

  “And I know,” he said with a wry smile. “Yes, we do that now. But it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t good-natured. It was tense all the time, and it affected a lot of shit. I think we were worried that breaking up meant the end of the band, but really, it’s the only thing that saved it.”

  Sawyer sniffled again.

  “There are some napkins in the glove compartment,” Jeff offered.

  Sawyer yanked it open and pulled out a stack of napkins. “I feel like she’s not giving us a chance.”

  “Look, Sawyer, I don’t know what to say. This band is Vix’s life. It’s all she’s ever wanted and it’s everything to her. And I think the idea of something going wrong, again, with a bandmate . . . I think she can’t think past what happened before.”

  She nodded, wiping at her eyes with the abrasive cotton. “All I wanted was for her to tell me that, you know? Up front. Not . . . try and make it sound like someone didn’t want me.”

  “I think she’s afraid,” Jeff said, simply. “She sings to an audience every night, but it’s easier when you don’t know who you’re talking to. When they don’t matter.”

  He cursed at a car that cut them off and swerved to avoid a collision. Sawyer gripped the side of the door handle, relieved she wasn’t ending the worst day of her life with a car accident. Someone would probably rear end them and destroy her violin.

  Sawyer thought about what Jeff said, but said nothing. Jeff didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the conversation, and that made sense to her. They were quiet until he pulled up to her house, and he surprised her by getting out of the car and going around to get her stuff out of the trunk.

  “I always knew you were a gentleman,” she said with a watery smile.

  He deposited her stuff next to her feet and drew her into a surprisingly tight hug. “I’m glad we get to play one more show with you. And for what it’s worth, I think it’s badass you’re going to follow your heart and play the music you want to play.”

  “Thanks,” Sawyer choked out, and hugged him back. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the show. Thanks for the ride.”

  Jeff saluted her and got back in his car, and Sawyer went in to talk to her parents. Just because Sawyer wasn’t going to be a member of Victoria Vincent wasn’t changing her mind about her plans.

  When Sawyer had gotten the call from the admissions staff member at Juilliard telling her that not only had she been accepted, she’d received a substantial scholarship, she’d been finishing up a history paper in her room. The words had barely been out of the woman’s mouth before Sawyer’d been flying down the stairs so fast she was surprised she hadn’t tripped and broken her neck, heading for the living room where her parents had been watching television after dinner.

  The conversation after that phone call was a lot different than the one they were having now. About the only thing that was the same was the location.

  Sawyer sat perched on the edge of the ottoman, knees pressed together and ankles crossed like she was at a sorority rush party, fingers laced tightly together. Her parents sat across from her on the couch, staring at her like she’d lost her goddamned mind.

  “Sawyer,” her father said carefully. “We’re . . . I think your mother and I understand, no, I know we understand that you don’t want to return to Juilliard.”

  Her mother nodded emphatically. “Absolutely.”

  “And we—we’re fully supportive of you transferring, of course, but honey . . . you can’t be serious about dropping out of college altogether. It’s out of the question.”

  Sawyer had always been a fairly obedient child, and yet the urge to say, You can’t tell me what to do! was nearly overpowering. Maybe because she’d never gotten to say that as an actual teenager. She took a deep breath. “It’s my decision, Dad.”

  “Sawyer,” her mother said, again, as if repeating Sawyer’s name would turn her back into the child they thought they had. “You— Honey, you have one year left.”

  “I have one year left in Juilliard’s violin performance program,” she said. “It’s not what I want to do. Even transferring with my general education requirements will put me back a few years.”

  “We understand that,” her father said, though she doubted either of them did. She barely understood it herself—the Juilliard website didn’t really make it easy to figure out transferring. As if they couldn’t believe anyone who’d gotten in would want to. “And that’s fine. We know this is going to take some time to think through, sweetie. If you want to stay home and get some of your credits you’ll need for a different degree, you can do that. What you absolutely can’t do is give up your entire education and . . . join a band.”

  Her father put his face in his hands. “I can’t believe I just said that to my daughter. I always thought that was something your aunt Bev would have to say to your cousin Rachel.”

  To Sawyer’s surprise, her mom made a little noise like a laugh.

  “I’m going to find a job as a professional musician,” Sawyer said. “That’s not the same. I’ll be working, recording and playing music, and performing.”

  She concentrated on her parents’ faces, determined not to cry in front of them. She couldn’t do that, not if she wanted them to understand that this part, at least, she was sure about. Her failed relationship—yeah, not the time.

  Her mother exchanged a glance with her father. “This is a serious decision about your future, Sawyer. You’re not asking to borrow the car for the weekend.”

  “Which you’re not, if you’re going to run off in it to play music in bars,” her father muttered.

  “Look,” Sawyer attempted. “It’s not like this is something I can’t ever go back to—my education, I mean.”

  “Did you like living in a van that much?”

  Sawyer felt a surge of annoyance at her father, but what had she expected? They were practical people. This was the most impractical thing she had ever done in her whole life. Except it wasn’t, and she wished they could see that.

  “I auditioned for Juilliard because I love playing music. I spent three years being miserable, and now—now I’m not. I’m finally happy playing music, and that’s all I want to do.” Sawyer realized she was starting to sound like a tenth grader and made herself stand up. She exhaled. “I’m not saying it’s forever, I’m saying I want to take this chance and see what happens.”

  Before they could say anything, she continued. “And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I wanted to go to Juilliard too. And tha
t I spent three years being miserable and trapped. That’s true, absolutely. I know that. And I’m not going to lie and say that I might not hate this too, because that’s what got me into trouble the last time. I want to try and see what happens. Good or bad.”

  “Sweetheart,” her mother started.

  Sawyer looked her mother in the eyes. “I had to run away to learn how to walk away, Mom. Can’t you trust me that I’ve learned my lesson?”

  There was silence in the room, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock in the entranceway.

  “Wow,” her dad said. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

  Hanging out all summer with a girl who wrote music would do that to you. Sawyer didn’t want to think about Vix, though. “I meant . . . I learned a lot about myself. About what I wanted. I was—I was too afraid at Juilliard to admit that it wasn’t it. And maybe this won’t be it! Maybe I’ll make a huge mistake and I’ll have to live with that. But isn’t that what life is all about?”

  “In coming-of-age movies, maybe,” said her dad. “Not real life.”

  “I have practiced for years to become a musician,” Sawyer said, chin raised. “I’m done practicing. I’m ready to play.”

  “Put you in, Coach?” An echo of a smile traced her father’s mouth. “We can’t talk you out of this, can we?”

  “No.” Sawyer shook her head. “You can’t. And if this turns out to be a mistake, I’ll stand in this room and admit to it. I won’t let myself be miserable or unhappy. But that means . . . I have to try and be happy, even if it’s not how you’d want.”

  Her parents looked at each other, then back at her. “We think this is a mistake, Sawyer. At the very least, you should consider some online options for school.”

  “I will. I’m not putting college off forever, just for now.” She smiled at her dad fondly. “Like Uncle Tupelo says.”

  “This is my fault for having good music taste,” her father groused. “I should have let you listen to Nickelback.”