Half-Truths

by Randileigh Kennedy

  “Wes was sitting on my parents’ porch swing when I passed.” I sighed. “I presume he was waiting for me, unless he’s moved in with them and no one’s told me yet.” I rolled my eyes as if that was even a possibility.

  “It’s called guilt, Whitley,” Brie stated matter-of-factly. “He let you go, moved on with one of your ex–best friends, that turned into shambles, and now you’ve waltzed back into Mountain Ridge and he’s reminded of what he lost. That has to eat at him.”

  I told her about him surprising me at the hospital earlier. I knew his intentions were genuine, given how close I am with my family, and I’m sure he sincerely wanted to show his support. But wanting to talk about us—I was not prepared for that. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

  “This is why I don’t come back and visit.” I sighed. “It’s so much easier to live where no one knows you.”

  “I wish I had your guts. To just pack up your stuff and leave like you did. People think about it all the time, but barely anyone does it. You’re amazing.”

  “Not exactly,” I said quietly. “I didn’t do it because I was brave. I was running away.”

  “From what? A boring life in Mountain Ridge? Working as a lifeguard the rest of your life or doing something else around town?” Brie sat up as she spoke. “Whit, you’re like a hometown hero. Leaving it all to follow your dreams—that’s really commendable.”

  “I was heartbroken and angry. That’s why I left,” I said honestly. “Wes didn’t want to save what we had, and I didn’t know what to do with that. I thought we had some kind of plan, you know? And then he gave up on that plan, and I panicked. I sold it to everyone like it was courage, but it wasn’t. I was pissed and unsure of what else to do. It seemed like a more glamorous ‘ending’ for me rather than facing the music and running into the guy who broke me every time I went into a coffee shop.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. You did it, and you’ve made something wonderful out of it,” she said warmly.

  “That’s just it, I haven’t,” I groaned. “I mean, I’m trying, but it’s not working. On the surface it sounds swanky, like I’m some Nashville songwriter dating a superstar, blah blah blah . . . But that’s not the whole story.”

  “It was one song. Let them change your words if they want. It doesn’t mean you aren’t freakishly talented,” Brie continued, perpetually building up my confidence. The frustrating part was that one song was the only one that had been picked up in the three years I’d been in Nashville. Unfortunately, after the label changed the entire thing, it was no longer mine. It’s almost like it never even happened. Brie was truly the best kind of friend, brushing it off like it wasn’t a big deal. “You have a million more songs in those notebooks you always carry around. You have so much more to offer that town. It will happen.”

  “That’s not the only thing I’ve been screwed over by,” I admitted. “There’s also Kip. His name is really Chris. Kip is just the ‘persona’ the record label created to make more money. He’s been cheating on me with his manager. I feel humiliated.” There it was. I finally told her. It felt better to have a conversation like this with my best friend in person, rather than long distance over the phone. It didn’t stop the rage from returning, though. I so badly wanted to confront him and kick him in the exact parts he had pressed against his manager’s miniskirt. “Just a few days ago I walked in on them together. It was mortifying.”

  “Oh, Whit, that’s terrible,” she commiserated. “Come on, he’s just one more for the list, and someday he won’t mean anything to you. When has any guy ever treated us the way we deserve to be treated? You remember Paul Allen from eighth grade? It was a jerk move to ask both me and Chrissy Stevenson to the same dance. How do they learn to be such douchebags at such an early age? I swear it’s in their DNA.”

  “You’re still hanging on to that eighth-grade dance story?” I laughed.

  “That’s where it all began,” she whined. “What about you? Remember when you caught Ryan kissing that girl at the beach party in tenth grade? You thought you could pour the entire keg on him, just to realize you couldn’t pick it up on your own, not to mention the fact that kegs don’t actually dump out like you think.”

  “Yes, and everyone laughed at me and made fun of me for weeks. Thanks for allowing me to relive that horrible moment.” I giggled. Times like this with Brie were the best. She was the only one who really got me. I couldn’t imagine a guy ever being able to see through me the way she could.

  “Hey, I had it the worst,” she continued. “In fact, just a few months back at an engagement party for Becca Walsh, her brother reminded everyone of my period story from the girls’ state basketball championship. Everyone laughed all over again like we were all still seventeen. Guys suck.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. I thought of Sawyer in that moment for some reason. Why was I even bothering with him? He had “letdown” written all over him. Smart guys in suits were not to be trusted.

  “You want to crash here?” Brie asked sympathetically. “Maybe Wes will get eaten by a bear while he waits all night for you.”

  “One can hope.” I smirked and stretched back in the hammock. I closed my eyes, and within minutes the entire world finally shut off.

  ***

  I made it back to the hospital around eight the next morning, and my brother and mom were already talking to some doctors. We didn’t really have any different news. My dad’s condition wouldn’t improve on its own, and there was still no perfect solution to fix him.

  More visitors came and went throughout the day, and I faked smiles and explained my “stellar” life in Nashville to at least thirty people. It was draining. I couldn’t lie to everyone and tell them I’d made it big when I hadn’t yet, and my boring reality would’ve just confused people as to why I’d moved away in the first place, so I settled for some half-truths to get me through the day. Yeah, I write songs in Tennessee. Yeah, I “expect” some of them to do something big someday. Yeah, I’m obviously dating a country hunk, according to a miraculous picture that surfaced of Kip and I attending an awards show together a few weeks back . . . I could go on for an hour offering little exciting bits of myself mixed in with my daydreams. Instead I kept the spiel to a brief, two-minute overview of what I was doing and what I had planned. I kept it generic, and fortunately no one asked too many questions. No one seemed to understand the music industry anyway, so they weren’t even sure what to say to me.

  I headed down to the hospital cafeteria with my mom and brother to grab a late dinner while my dad visited with old work friends who had stopped by to see him.

  “I know you guys feel it’s important for you to be here all the time, but why don’t you go out and try to find some fun? Or at least catch up on some restful sleep or something,” my mom insisted.

  “It’s my turn to stay at the hospital tonight. I’m not missing that,” I chimed in quickly. “Not until things turn around.”

  “I’m exhausted from last night. Those loud machines are horrible,” my brother added. “I barely slept. I plan to go to the house tonight for some quiet. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

  “Well, actually, tomorrow your dad has a bunch of testing scheduled,” my mom explained. “So I know you guys want to hang around for news, but they won’t let you be in the diagnostics room all day for that. I know it seems weird to say right now, but I think you should do something tomorrow. Take a break from all this. Maybe go hang out with some old friends or something for the day. It may do you some good.”

  “Do you know if the Mason family needs a sitter at all this week?” I nonchalantly asked her. She looked confused by my change of subject.

  “Rachel is always looking for some help. Why do you ask?” she replied with raised brows.

  “I don’t know. I just thought maybe I could make some money while I’m here.” I shrugged. The truth was, I needed rent money stat, or I would have a whole new set of problems.

  “I thought your job was going well.
What was that about a big song you had coming out? Isn’t that going to be released soon?” Mom asked in her overly optimistic voice.

  “It’s complicated,” I huffed, forever failing at trying to explain the music business to my fifty-year-old mother. The truth was, besides the only failed song I’d had picked up so far, my words just sat in a graveyard of notebooks. That wasn’t going to get me a paycheck.

  “If you need money, dear, just ask,” my mom replied sincerely.

  “I overheard her tell Brie on the phone earlier that she’s flat broke,” my brother interrupted. I punched his arm.

  “What? What’s going on? Is everything all right? Are you eating okay? How’s your budget? Is it off track? Maybe we can make some spreadsheets tomorrow,” my mom rambled. As usual, she wanted to fix everything.

  “No,” I said in an exhausted tone. “Spreadsheets hurt my feelings. I’m fine; it’s not a big deal.”

  “Don’t you have a rich celebrity boyfriend? Where’s he at? Why didn’t he come?” my brother further pestered.

  “You are seriously annoying, Warren. That’s none of your business. Just let it go,” I sneered. Usually we got along well, but he enjoyed pushing my buttons when he could. “I just need some money for the flight home once Dad gets better.”

  “Sweetheart, why didn’t you come to me sooner? We should talk about this. Let’s make a budget,” she reiterated. “You know how important it is to be financially responsible, Whitley. Budgets may not be fun, but they’re important. What about the future? I can get you some information on Roth IRAs and such. Do you have a Roth?”

  “What are you even saying? It sounds like you have a lisp.” I shook my head.

  “Why would she ask you if you had a Ross?” my brother scoffed.

  “What?”

  “If she had a lisp, Roth would be Ross. It doesn’t even make sense. She’s not asking you about boyfriends,” he mocked.

  “Just shut up, Warren. You’re not helping anything,” I huffed. “I’m fine, Mom. I don’t need spreadsheets right now. I’m going for a walk,” I declared, standing up from the blue plastic cafeteria table. “I’ll be back later, once everyone clears out.”

  I walked away and felt their eyes on me, but I didn’t care. I just needed a break from it all, something to take my mind off this horrible hospital with bad food and ugly, cream-colored walls. I checked the time on my phone and was surprised to find it was almost eight o’clock.

  The park. Did I really want to meet Sawyer tonight? What was I even doing? As Brie and I had discussed last night, guys were clearly just a waste of time. Although I had nowhere else to go, and he was the only person who didn’t know a thing about my life. I welcomed that kind of company at this point. If I went anywhere else, I would likely run into someone I knew from my past, which was the last thing I wanted.

  I left the hospital and made my way down the bike path to Moonshine Park. Typical for this time of night, the area was perfectly quiet and the swings were still. I smiled as soon as I caught a glimpse of the silhouette sitting on a bench. He had two glasses with him and a couple of brown paper bags. Classy.

  “If there’s anything fancier than Boone’s Farm in those paper bags, I’m walking away right now,” I teased as I approached. He was far more casual-looking tonight, dressed in dark jeans, a fitted, light-gray shirt, and a baseball hat. I liked him dressed up, but somehow he looked even sexier like this.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about how to keep a girl’s attention, it’s clumsiness and cheap alcohol,” he joked. “I believe I’m successful in both those areas. First the coffee incident, and now this . . .” He pulled out one pink bottle and one blue bottle of Boone’s. I smiled. “His and hers.”

  “You know how to throw a park party,” I said sarcastically, sitting down next to him on the bench. The sun had just set, and the stars began to appear above us. He held out a glass to me, but I shook my head.

  “You can’t drink Boone’s out of a glass.” I smirked. “It’s best straight out of the bottle.”

  “Wow, full homeless alcoholic style. I knew I liked you.” He passed me the pink bottle and held up the blue one for himself. We twisted off the caps and clinked the bottles together before each taking a hefty slug. “That is as disgusting as I imagined it to be.” He grimaced.

  “You’ve never had this before?”

  “Nope, I was never a teenage girl.” He laughed. “That’s who this stuff is made for, right?”

  “Probably,” I razzed. “So what did you drink back in the day?”

  “Energy drinks and tea,” he replied with a smile. “I wasn’t exactly a partier.”

  “Right, nerd conventions. I should’ve had you pegged. What exactly do you do for a living anyway? Tech stuff or something?”

  “I’m a doctor,” he said casually. I definitely spat out some of my drink. I couldn’t even reply. “Are you okay? Are you testing me right now to see if it’s true? Do you need CPR? You’re drooling and kind of gagging. Is it because you’re drinking pink rubbing alcohol? I swear to you I will check your airways if you need me to. Blink twice, and I’ll do it.”

  “How are you a doctor?” I asked with an exacerbated voice.

  “Um, I think med school is the answer you’re looking for?” he said jovially. “What about me makes you think I can’t be a doctor?”

  “I don’t know. That’s, like, a really important job. And here you are drinking teenage liquor with a stranger on a park bench. I think we’re actually committing a felony right now. It’s a state park. I thought you were a nerd convention guy.”

  “Well, it’s science, so . . .”

  “I know, I just mean . . . I don’t know, I just thought . . .” I couldn’t articulate what was in my brain. I was too caught off guard.

  “I graduated a year early from high school and started college when I was seventeen. I finished my bachelor’s in three and a half years, then went to med school.”

  “Seriously?” I looked at him with an uncertain expression, still wondering if he was just messing with me. I’d guessed he was a couple of years older than me, and apparently that was right, but I never would’ve guessed he was a doctor.

  “Well, ‘doctor’ is the fancy answer. The whole truth is that I’m still in my residency, so I’m not exactly done yet. I want to specialize in pediatrics. I still have a ways to go.”

  “Oh, good, just a pediatric doctor. That takes the pressure off,” I replied, waving my hands around in the air in a dramatic fashion.

  “What about you, what’s your story? What do you do in Nashville?”

  “I’m not following up the ‘I’m a doctor’ conversation with my employment history. That’s not fair,” I teased. “I’m still working on mine.”

  “So am I, so what’s the difference? We’re both still works in progress. There’s nothing shameful about that.”

  “Except that your story ends with saving children, and I’m a songwriter who will be lucky to save my crappy studio apartment,” I blurted out. I couldn’t believe it had come out that way. I would’ve wanted him to hear the fancy version first, the way my mom told it.

  “You’re in the music industry? That’s amazing,” he replied genuinely. “Wait, you . . .” He looked at me with accusatory eyes, as if he was about to say something bad. “I knew I recognized you.”

  I laughed. “Trust me, you don’t recognize me. I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “No, a couple Sundays ago in the paper. There was a picture. That new country guy—what’s his name, Ken? Kurt?”

  “Kip?” I said dryly.

  “Yeah, there was a picture at some awards thing. You were in that picture with him.”

  Well, this was awkward.

  “Wait, you’re dating Kip Bentley?”

  “Do you want the fancy answer, or . . .” My voice trailed off, and I could already feel the embarrassment on my cheeks.

  “Whoa, I did not see this coming.” He smirked. “No wonder you’re so feis
ty. You’re a celebrity.”

  “I am far from a celebrity,” I interjected quickly, shooting that idea down. “It was one picture. Who even reads the paper anymore? Anyway, he’s the star. I’m nobody.”

  “You’re a musician!” he said excitedly. “That’s something.”

  “I’m not even that.” I sighed. “I’m just a writer. I don’t sing, nor do I want any part of all that. I just write. I hear music in my head, and I write the words. I’m a nerd with a hundred scribbled notebooks. That’s it.”

  “So you write his music? I actually kind of like his sound.”

  “I didn’t write anything on his EP, and he’s actually a dick.” I shrugged. Apparently we were getting into this. I took another slug of my liquid past.

  “Yeah, I mean, I don’t actually like his music,” Sawyer added, trying to recover from his comment.

  “No, it’s fine. He’s talented, I know that. We’ve been writing together for a bit, working on a new album for him, and we kind of started something.” I hesitated. “But then a couple days before I got the call about my dad’s health, I walked in on him and his PR manager. They weren’t maintaining a professional relationship; I can tell you that much. I can’t believe I’m telling you all this.”

  “I can’t believe I’m drinking Boone’s Farm with a celebrity,” Sawyer teased.

  “I was just dumped by a celebrity. There’s a difference,” I clarified. “So I’m back to a life of nonexistence.”

  “But most importantly, you guys are broken up, right?” He smiled.

  “Let’s just say if I was a jerk to you for spilling coffee in my lap, the words I had for him were a little more harsh,” I explained. “Technically I don’t think I said, ‘It’s over,’ or anything that specific, but the expletives would indicate, to me at least, that we’re broken up. And the expensive speaker I threw at him was probably also pretty indicative of my feelings toward him.”