We huddle like we’re on a football field. “I’ll come back next year, but only if you come with me,” I say.
“I’m in,” Sam says.
Mom squeezes my hand. “Me too.”
A rush of happiness and love fills me. My family is the best. I lead them back to the Roxy Suite.
“I’ve got an answer for you.” I smile at Jesse. “I’ll compete in next year’s competition. That is, if I don’t have something bigger going on already.”
I might’ve missed a beat, but my performance isn’t over.
Bonus Track
Take Me Home, Country Roads
Saturday, February 13—Annual Hundred Oaks Talent Show
I take a deep bow and wave at the audience. Scanning the crowd, I spot Mom, Dad, Sam, Jordan, and Anna. I blow a kiss at them. My family claps and screams my name. Dr. Salter and Mr. Logan are sitting in the front row, keeping an eye on the reporters. Jesse’s seat is empty.
The reporters he invited are squatting down in front of the seats, holding cameras and waiting to take pictures of the main attraction, which is definitely not my performance of Guns N’ Roses’ “November Rain.” I do think it was pretty awesome though, and the press took lots of pictures of me. I love getting exposure for my music, and not only as “Jesse Scott’s girlfriend.”
The first episode of Wannabe Rocker aired last week, and while I’ve received a billion tweets from viewers about how romantic it was when Jesse leaped off the stage and kissed me, I’ve also received lots of compliments on my audition.
With a final wave at the crowd, I jog offstage. Hannah rushes up to me. “You were great!”
“Thanks! You were too.” She performed a Mozart sonata on piano tonight. I love that she took a chance at going solo and played what she wants to play. She’s still a part of The Fringe, but I don’t think they’re getting as many gigs these days. They all seem to be trying their own thing now.
As I’m blotting the sweat off my forehead, I feel fingers poke me in my sides. I whip around. Jesse’s standing there in his beige cowboy hat, his cowboy boots with the flames, and torn jeans. He runs his hands over my hips and touches me through the back of my black leather skirt. He always has a hard time keeping his hands off me. I love it. I grip his black T-shirt, lift up on tiptoes, and give him a long, slow kiss.
“You did great,” he murmurs in my ear. “Your voice was full, your pitch was perfect, and I could feel the emotion. I wish your skirt had been a little shorter though.”
I slap his chest. “You ready for this?”
“I think so.” He rubs his palms together. A few of my classmates ask for his autograph. “Sure,” he replies. “Right after I do my thing.”
“Good luck,” I tell him, and he squeezes my hand. He walks onstage, and the audience goes insane when they see him.
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” Jesse tells the crowd, pulling a sheet of paper from his jeans pocket. The cheering quiets to where he can speak. “The reason I’m here is ’cause I want to talk to you about music.”
Everyone is focused on him.
“My name is Jesse Scott, and I’m sure many of you know that music is my life. For a long time, my music was all mine. I let other people listen to my music, but I never let anyone share it with me. Then I decided to quit.
“But then somebody told me that I have a gift, and I should use that gift to make other people happy… So if Rêve Records will still have me, I’ve decided I’m gonna take it one day at a time. For now, I’m not going to retire.”
The crowd whoops for him, and the press take pictures. Click, click, click.
Jesse gazes offstage, finding my eyes. Then he looks down toward his uncle and Mr. Logan. “God’s been so good to me. He’s given me great friends. A good friend of mine—Maya Henry—told me how she couldn’t afford music lessons growing up, and it got me thinking. I want to help as many kids as I can learn music.” Jesse pauses to clear his throat. “Maya and I came up with an idea together. I’m starting a music program in Nashville called the Agape Center. It’s a place where kids can make appointments for voice, piano, guitar, and drumming lessons. All lessons will be free.” The crowd cheers again.
Jesse continues, “I’m gonna work on expanding my program over time, but it’ll always be free of cost. We’ll be advertising for it soon, so keep a look out. Thanks.”
Music begins playing over the loudspeakers. I figured he would perform “Second Chance,” because it seems most appropriate, but of course he had to do “Ain’t No City Boy,” because I applied to Vanderbilt’s music school in Nashville for next year, and Jesse’s staying here with me, and “Ain’t No City Boy” is about making love on a tractor, after all. Not that I’ve agreed to do it on a tractor.
At the end of his song, he waves and walks offstage to massive applause. After the curtains shut, he picks me up and twirls me in a circle. “I love you,” he murmurs.
“I love you too.”
He lowers me to the floor. “Okay, who wants an autograph? I gotta leave soon to get ready for my pool party.”
“Who throws a pool party in February?” I ask.
He points at me. “Don’t forget, clothing is optional.”
• • •
My family takes me to dinner at the Roadhouse to celebrate my talent show performance, but we don’t spend a whole lot of time talking about me, because Sam keeps going on and on and on about wedding plans. Mom loves hearing about them, but he discusses the wedding so often the rest of us want to put on earmuffs. Even Jordan wants him to shut up, and she’s the one with a glittering diamond on her left hand.
“Carter said his restaurant would cater the dinner for us,” Sam says. “And I’ve already got the cake picked out—Jordan said I could be in charge of the cake. It will have three layers: one raspberry, one coffee, and one vanilla. And it will have the Detroit Lions logo on it.”
Jordan hurls a french fry at his head.
“Do you think Jesse would sing at our wedding?” Jordan asks. “He’s so sexy.”
Sam throws a peanut at her. “Can we stop talking about how sexy Jesse is already?”
“Seconded,” Dad replies.
After dinner, it’s time for Jesse’s party. It starts right as the clock strikes midnight, just in time for his birthday. Fancy cars and limos are already parked in Jesse’s circular drive when Dave, Xander, and I arrive.
I ring the doorbell, and a few moments later, even though it’s about forty-five degrees outside, Jesse answers the door wearing only a towel and his beige cowboy hat. He has a mixed drink in one hand and his phone in the other; he’s talking to someone. Casper darts out the front door. I barely catch her before she disappears into the night.
“Thanks for calling… Bye.” He hangs up.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“My mom. She and my dad can’t make it tonight. They have to get up early tomorrow.”
“How boring.”
“Damn straight,” Jesse says with a smile and gives me a kiss, then slurps the pink drink through a straw. “Y’all are just in time for the piñata.”
“Oh good God,” I say, following him through the house. I peek in the living room to see how he’s doing on his decorating. He’s up to a whopping five framed pictures now: a print of him, Mark, and Holly backstage at the Grammys; a picture of Dr. Salter and Jesse at a concert; the picture of him and me on top of the Empire State Building; a photo of him challenging Dave to a game of pickup basketball (I took that picture); and my favorite—a photo that a fan sent of me and him singing together on the Belle Carol.
We step onto the patio, where I set Casper down so she can chase bugs. The cat dashes past the executives Jesse invited from Rêve Records, Mr. Logan, and Charles, his lawyer. Holly and her husband are huddled on a lounge chair, shivering next to a large heater.
Dave and Xander strip down
to their bathing suits and jump in the guitar-shaped pool, yelling about how cold it is outside.
“You actually got a piñata,” I say, staring up at the giant heart hanging from the deck’s awning. His birthday is on Valentine’s Day, so he’s got this whole pink-and-red tropical motif going. I like the white, pink, and red lights he strung in the trees, but the ugly inflatable pink palm trees look like they came from an alien planet.
“I am in charge of decorations for all future parties,” I say. “This is heinous.”
“Not heinous, hilarious. Just wait until you see what’s inside the piñata,” Jesse replies. “Can I get you a drink?”
I nod at a glass bobbing by on a waiter’s tray. “I’ll take one of those pink things, thanks.”
Jesse leads me to this tiki bar he rented and asks the bartender for a strawberry piña colada daiquiri.
“Fancy,” I say. “No alcohol though, right? I wouldn’t want you falling in the pool.”
“Smart-ass.” He looks at the bag dangling from my wrist. “Did you get me a present?”
“Happy Birthday.” I pass him the gift bag. It’s nothing compared to the gift he gave me for my birthday in January: he rented a silver Lamborghini for a night, and I drove it all over Nashville and Franklin. The best part was when I pulled up at Sonic in front of kids from school, then proceeded to order a cherry limeade.
Jesse sets his drink on a table, opens the bag, and holds up the CD I burned. “Aw, did you make me a mix tape?” He reads the playlist on the back. “Queen, James Taylor, Queen, James Taylor, Queen, Jesse Scott? You put one of my songs on a mix tape for me?” He laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Do you love it?” I flirt.
“I do.”
I stand on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “I’ll give you the rest of your present later.”
His eyebrows shoot straight up to the sky.
“Wanna go swimming?” I ask.
“Sure.” He starts to drop his towel.
“You’ve got something on under there, right?”
“You know me. Go big or go home.” He yanks off the towel. He’s wearing red swimming trunks.
“You ass.”
We take our drinks in the heated pool. Steam rises off the water, wafting into the starry night. Jesse and Dave play a game of basketball in the shallow end while Xander and I sit on the steps and make fun of them for being so bad at sports.
Then Dr. Salter arrives, and Mr. Logan wanders over. My principal says to Jesse, “I’m glad to see everyone disregarded the skinny-dipping instructions on your invitation.”
“And why did you send said invitation to the president of Rêve?” Mr. Logan asks. At least he’s smiling.
“It said skinny-dipping was optional, not required,” Jesse replies.
The party is a blast. Jesse cranks up the stereo system, and nearly everyone, well, everyone except for his uncle and lawyer—thank God!—changes into bathing suits and gets into the pool.
Jesse’s song “Waiting for Christmas”—the one I just recorded with him—starts playing slow and strong over the speakers. It still surprises me every time I hear it. It sounds so professional and clear. I’m not sure if it’ll ever be on the radio, but Jesse wants to use it as part of the advertising campaign for his Agape Center. And I’m excited at the possibility of that. Still, it’s weird hearing myself sing a solo.
Everyone at the party cheers for us. It kind of embarrasses me though. I dunk my head underwater and swim toward the deep end. When I come up for air, I shake the water out of my hair.
“Hey, Maya!” Jesse shouts over the music. “Marco!”
He stands up on the steps in the shallow end, giving me that half-cocked smile I love so much, and dives into the water and swims to the deep end. He comes up for a breath, slinging water all over me.
“Polo!”
And under the bright, twinkling stars, I wrap my arms around his neck and we kiss, perfectly in tune.
Jesse’s Girl Playlist
Any Man of Mine – Shania Twain
Take My Breath Away – Berlin
I Think We’re Alone Now – Tiffany
It’s My Life – Bon Jovi
Girls Just Want to Have Fun – Cyndi Lauper
I Wanna Dance with Somebody – Whitney Houston
Total Eclipse of the Heart – Bonnie Tyler
To Make You Feel My Love – Garth Brooks
Don’t Dream It’s Over – Crowded House
Come Undone – Duran Duran
Carrying Your Love with Me – George Strait
She’s Got It All – Kenny Chesney
Express Yourself – Madonna
Acknowledgments
For my high school’s career day, my teacher asked me to write down what I wanted to be when I grew up. I loved singing, so I wrote down that I wanted to be a country music singer. Like Maya, I was in my school’s show choir, and I loved singing in the church choir on Sundays, but I wasn’t all that good.
Somehow, my high school got me a ticket to a Grammy symposium in Nashville, and I spent the day listening to some famous singers—most notably the Dixie Chicks—talk about their careers. It was awesome! And while I didn’t end up becoming a country music singer, my experience that day gave me the idea for this book. I’m still surprised that my school got me a ticket to that Grammy event. It always makes me think about how, if you want something, you have to go after it. You have to tell people your goals and tell them what you need. You’ll never know what you can accomplish unless you put yourself out there. Whatever your dreams might be, I hope you go after them.
I started writing this book five years ago, and while it was definitely the hardest book I’ve ever worked on, it’s also my favorite. I’m thrilled I stuck with it, and I hope you, my fans, enjoy it as much as I loved writing it.
Many people helped me shape this novel. A humongous thanks to Tiffany Reisz, for being Jesse’s biggest fan and for coming up with the name of the book! Tiffany Smith, an awesome librarian/diplomat/pianist, helped me to refocus this novel. Thank you to Chris Crellin for helping me get my guitar facts straight. To my first readers, I couldn’t have finished this book without your helpful feedback: Rebecca Sutton, Julie Romeis Sanders, Robin Talley, Sarah Cloots, Tiffany Schmidt, Trish Doller, Alyssa Palmer, Natalie Bahm, Sarah Skilton, Andrea Soule, Ellice Yager, and Michelle Kampmeier. As always, thank you to my agent, Sara Megibow; my editor, Annette Pollert-Morgan; and the entire team at Sourcebooks. And most of all, thanks to my husband Don for reading this book eight hundred times in all its various iterations. You are the best.
To my fans, I love your emails, your tweets, and your letters. Over the years, many of you have asked to hear more of Jordan and Sam’s story. I hope you enjoyed seeing them in this book. Thanks to all of you. You rock!
There’s no playbook for love.
Don’t miss
Catching Jordan
a hail mary and a harem
the count? 21 days until my trip to alabama
I once read that football was invented so people wouldn’t notice summer ending. But I couldn’t wait for summer vacation to end. I couldn’t wait for football. Football, dominator of fall—football, love of my life.
“Blue forty-two! Blue forty-two! Red seventeen!” I yell.
The cue is red seventeen. JJ hikes me the ball. The defense is blitzing. JJ slams into a freshman safety, knocking him to the ground. The rest of my offensive line destroys the defense. Nice. The field’s wide open, but my wide receiver isn’t where he’s supposed to be.
“What the hell, Higgins?” I mutter to myself.
Dancing on my tiptoes, I scan the end zone and find Sam Henry instead and hurl the ball. It flies through the air, a perfect spiral, heading right where I wanted it to go. He catches the ball, spikes it, and does this really stupid dance. Henry lo
oks like a freaking ballerina. With his thin frame and girly blond hair, he actually could be the star of the New York Ballet.
I’m gonna give him hell for his dance.
This is my senior year at Hundred Oaks High, and I’m captain, so I’m allowed to keep my players in line. Even though he’s my best friend, Henry has always been a showoff. His antics get us penalties.
Through the speaker in my helmet, I hear Coach Miller say, “Nice throw. This is your year, Woods. You’re going to lead us to the state championship. I can feel it…Hit the showers.” What the coach actually means? I know you’re not going to blow it in the final seconds of the championship game like you did last year.
And he’s right. I can’t.
The University of Alabama called last week—on the first day of school—to tell me a recruiter is coming to watch me play on Friday night. And then a very fancy-looking letter arrived, inviting me to visit campus in September. An official visit. If they like what they see, they’ll sign me in February.
I can’t screw this season up.
I pull my helmet off and grab a bottle of Gatorade and my playbook. Most of the guys are already goofing off and heading over to watch cheerleading practice across the field, but I ignore them and look up into the stands.
I spot Mom sitting with Carter’s dad, a former NFL player. My dad isn’t here, of course. Asshole.
Lots of parents come to watch our practices because football is the big thing to do around here. Here being Franklin, Tennessee, home of the Hundred Oaks Red Raiders, eight-time state champions.
Mom always comes to practice—she’s been supporting me ever since Pop Warner youth football days, but sometimes she worries I’ll get hurt, even though the worst thing that’s ever happened was a concussion. Sophomore year, when JJ took a breather, the coach brought in this idiot to play center, the idiot didn’t cover me, and I got slammed hard.
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