Nashville - Boxed Set Series - Part One, Two, Three and Four (A New Adult Contemporary Romance)

by Inglath Cooper

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  PART THREE - WHAT WE FEEL

  26

  CeCe

  19 months later

  The Blue Bird is packed for the early show. Thomas and I are third to perform tonight. The fifteen-year-old girl currently on stage will be a tough act to follow. She sings like nobody’s business. I have to wonder how it’s possible for someone that age to have so much stage presence. The song isn’t memorable, but her delivery is.

  “Think she was singin’ when she came out of her mama’s womb?” Thomas asks me now.

  I shake my head and smile a little. “Maybe. Is it me, or do the newbies get younger every day?”

  We’re both standing at the back of the room, me with my guitar, Thomas chewing gum like it’s the fuel for every note he plans to reach when it’s our turn to go on stage.

  “They get younger every day,” Thomas says.

  The girl’s guitar goes suddenly quiet, and she smacks out a beat below the strings, urging the crowd to follow along. They do while she does a stretch of a cappella that reveals even more fully the sweet tone of her voice.

  Thomas starts to clap. “Kinda grows on you, doesn’t she?”

  “She’s got what it takes to get her there.”

  “Yup.”

  If we’ve learned anything at all in the past year and a half of navigating Nashville’s music industry waters, it is that talent is only a piece of it. Talent steps off the bus in this town every single day, and, with equal frequency, talent leaves. Making it here is about way more than just mere ability. “Think she’ll see it through?” I ask.

  “Depends on how many dents she gets in that guitar of hers and how quickly they come, I guess. Although I’d say it’s gonna take some hefty whacks to derail that little girl’s mojo.”

  I can’t disagree with him. I’ve met some incredible singers in the past year and a half who seemed like they could take the knocks, most having arrived in Nashville full of the confidence built by small-town accolades and family praise. But most people have a vulnerability of some kind, and the music business has a way of unearthing it, even when it’s hidden way down deep.

  The girl ends the song, and the crowd responds with enthusiastic applause. She all but glows with it, and I wonder if my time here has already rubbed some of that shine from my enthusiasm.

  She introduces Thomas and me then, my stomach plummeting as it always does right before we perform.

  “If you’ve been in Nashville any time at all,” she says, “you’ve probably already heard about these two. Good heavens, can they sing! Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Barefoot Outlook!”

  “Let’s do this thing,” Thomas says, dropping his gum in a trash can and waving me ahead of him with a gentlemanly bow.

  On stage, Thomas does the introductions, his Georgia drawl full tilt. “Hey everybody, I’m Thomas Franklin. This is CeCe MacKenzie. We’re Barefoot Outlook, and we’re pleased as pickle juice to be here with y’all tonight!”

  If the girl before us has stage presence, Thomas is the polished version of it. Since we first started performing together, I’ve been in awe of the way he wins the interest and attention of the crowd in front of us before he ever sings a note.

  “If y’all came to Nashville to hear some country music,” he says, “then hold on, ‘cause here we go.”

  Anyone who’s never seen Thomas perform with Holden wouldn’t realize that he’s different when they’re onstage together. But I do. The two of them had this rapport that translated into something I don’t think Thomas and I will ever have. Maybe it comes from having been best friends for so long and knowing pretty much all there is to know about a person. Like two people who’ve been married for decades and can guess what the other will order in a restaurant before they even open the menu. And like two people who fell in love and got married when they were really young, Thomas and Holden will always be each other’s first for writing music and performing. I have never been under any illusion that I am a replacement for Holden.

  Holden. A year and a half since he’s been gone, and he still skitters through my thoughts at random points throughout every single day. He writes songs and sends them to Thomas on a regular basis, but he hasn’t returned to Nashville even once since the night he left to go back to Atlanta, back to Sarah.

  Our first song tonight is “Country Boys Don’t Wear Thongs.” Holden sent it to Thomas a couple of weeks ago. It’s upbeat, twangy, and funny and immediately sets the mood for our performance. Thomas sells it like bottled water in the Sahara Desert. By the end of the last chorus, the crowd is fully hooked. It’s what we wait for when we’re onstage, and it’s like searching for the right key and knowing the sound when the lock clicks into place.

  When Thomas and I first started playing together after Holden left Nashville, we were like two people on a blind date, unsure of what to say, both letting the other go first, the result being that a couple of our shows were pretty much a muddled mess.

  The next is Holden’s as well, a duet called “Our Back Fence.” The third is “What You Took From Me,” the song Holden wrote about a man who lost his wife to a drunk driving accident. And the last song we perform is one I wrote called “Don’tcha Do That.” It brings the crowd back up, and at the end, Thomas thanks everyone for being here and lets them know we’ll be playing tomorrow night at the Rowdy Howdy.

  Just before we leave the stage, he throws out, “Y’all come on down and let us show you a good time!”

  The clapping follows us to the back of the room where Thomas gets my guitar case and hands it to me. We chat while I put my guitar away and discuss a couple of moments during the first song we think we could have handled better.

  “Hey, there’s someone out here who wants to talk to you two.”

  I look up to see the fifteen-year-old who performed before us smiling at me with the kind of smile that makes it clear life has not yet dealt her a single hard blow.

  “Who is it?” Thomas asks.

  She shrugs. “Some guy in a suit. Want me to tell him to come on back?”

  “Sure,” Thomas says. “That’s fine.”

  She turns to go and then swings around. “Hey, by the way, y’all were awesome up there. You write your own stuff?”

  “CeCe wrote a couple of the songs. The rest were written by a friend of ours.”

  “Wow, they’re really good,” she says. “I hope I can write like that some day.”

  “Just keep at it,” Thomas says.

  “I will. See y’all soon.” She waves once and is gone.

  My phone vibrates. I glance at the text. It’s Beck, letting me know he’s running a little late to pick me up.

  I text back. “NP. See you in a few.”

  “K” is his reply.

  “Beck?” Thomas asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where y’all headed tonight?”

  “His dad’s having a thing,” I say.

  “A thing at Case Phillips’s house is a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I guess I’m tired.”

  “Of Beck?”

  I look up quickly. “No. Why?”

  “Just seems like you haven’t been seeing him as much as you were.”

  “We’ve both been busy,” I hedge.

  “Okay.”

  “We have!” I insist.

  “Okay,” Thomas says with a smile. “Me thinks she doth protest too much.”

  “Stop,” I say. “And anyway, you’re the one who needs to get your love life out of drought status.”

  “Ouch! Low blow.”

  “You opened that can of worms.”

  A knock sounds against the frame of the doorway. A man in a dark suit steps in and says, “I was told I could find you two back here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Thomas says. “What can we do for you?”

  “I’m Andrew Seeger.” He walks forward and sticks his hand out to me. We shake, and he pumps Thomas’s hand as well. “I’m hoping I can do somethin
g for you.”

  During our first months in town, this would have perked our ears up considerably. Fancy guy, fancy suit, do something for us. It’s certainly not the first time we’ve heard it. To date, not much of it has panned out.

  “Yeah?” Thomas says. “What’s that?”

  Andrew doesn’t appear put off by Thomas’s shortness. “The song you did tonight. “What You Took From Me.” Did one of you write it, or both of you?

  Thomas shakes his head. “A buddy of ours wrote it.”

  “Oh.” Andrew appears slightly disappointed. “Is he around?”

  “Actually, no,” Thomas says. “He lives in Atlanta now.”

  Andrew looks more disappointed.

  “What exactly is this about?” Thomas asks.

  “I’m Hart Holcomb’s manager.”

  At the name, my eyes go wide, and I feel Thomas’s surprise as well.

  “A friend told us about the song,” he says, his voice soft. “Hart snuck into a club downtown where you two were playing and listened for himself. Hart’s wife was killed in a drunk driving accident five years ago. The message is one he feels a need to put out there, and well, he loved it. He wants to record it.”

  I glance at Thomas, see the look of stunned surprise on his face, and realize mine probably mirrors it exactly.

  “Did you say Hart Holcomb?” Thomas asks.

  “Yeah,” Andrew says with a half-smile. “Hart had just finished up his new record when somebody told him about it. He’s bumping another song to include this. I gotta tell you, if there’s any such thing as a lucky break for a songwriter, this is it. Think you can get your friend down here, like ASAP?”

  Under most circumstances, the answer would be an immediate yes, but Thomas had yet to talk Holden into coming back even once. After his last trip to Atlanta to see Holden, Thomas returned with the admission that maybe it was time he accepted that Holden was through. “He said he’d write songs for me as long as I want him to,” he’d admitted, more down than I’d ever heard him, “but anything else, he’s moved on.”

  “I’m not really sure,” Thomas says now, and I flash a quick look at him.

  Andrew hands Thomas a card. “My number is on there. Ask him to give me a call and let me know when we can meet with Hart.”

  “Will do,” Thomas says.

  “All right, then.” Andrew drops us a nod and walks out.

  Thomas and I look at each other but wait a full sixty seconds before saying a word.

  “Did he just say Hart Holcomb wants to record Holden’s song?” Thomas is smiling.

  “Yeah, he did.”

  “Good friggin’ day! That’s like somebody dropping in to say you won the lottery when you didn’t even buy a ticket.”

  “It’s a great song,” I say, deliberately keeping my voice smooth.

  “It is.”

  “Do you think he’ll come?”

  Thomas’s smile fades instantly. “He has to come. If I have to drive down there and drag his butt here myself, he’s coming.”

  I don’t doubt Thomas means it, but I also know that Holden has chosen another life and made it clear that this one is behind him. Something flutters low inside me at the thought of seeing him again. It shouldn’t, but it does.

  “In fact, I’m calling him right now.” Thomas pulls his phone from his shirt pocket, swipes the screen and then taps his number.

  My heart kicks into overdrive now. Which is ridiculous considering I’m not the one calling, and Holden won’t even know I’m in the room. My palms instantly start to sweat. I pick up my guitar and mouth to Thomas, “I’m leaving. Beck is…”

  “Hold on a minute,” Thomas says. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Holden answers because Thomas says, “Hey, what are you doing?” A pause and, “You’re still at work? I thought the corporate world went home at five.” Another pause. “Are you sitting down? Well you should. We just finished up a set at the Blue Bird.”

  I notice he doesn’t say my name.

  “And you’re not gonna believe what’s happened. Hart Holcomb wants to record “What You Took From Me.” Silence and then, “Ah, hold on, maybe you didn’t understand what I said. Hart Holcomb wants to record your song. This is pretty much a once in a lifetime opportunity. Can you come down tomorrow, man?”

  A pause before, “Seriously! Two years ago, you would have sold your eyeteeth for a chance like this. . .Yeah, I know things are different now, but do you have to stop living. . .Well, not the life you planned to live.”

  Another stretch of awkward silence. Thomas says, “You know what, I’m going to pretend for now that somebody hit you over the head with a two-by-four, and you’re not yourself. I’ll call back in the morning and hope the Holden I used to know will answer the telephone.” And with that he clicks off.

  It’s a rare thing to see Thomas angry. I’ve seen him mildly aggravated a couple of times, but this is far beyond that.

  “Aliens have taken over his body,” he says, looking at me and shaking his head.

  “He made a choice, Thomas.”

  “But he said she’s doing well. It’s like he thinks if he resumes his life, she’ll get sick again.”

  “Maybe that’s how he’s made peace with it,” I say, even though something at the core of me aches with a deep dull throb. I had made my own peace with it eventually; not right away, because it simply hurt too much. Watching Holden go and not come back was the first time in my life I fully understood the meaning of wanting something heart and soul and not being able to have it. Before that, if I had been asked, I would have said I knew what that felt like. There had been things in my life that I didn’t get, that I yearned for at the time. I didn’t get the puppy I wanted for Christmas when I was seven. I didn’t make the cheerleading squad in tenth grade. And after standing in line for almost two days to audition for American Idol, I came down with the stomach flu and had to leave.

  By world standards, those are ridiculously minuscule things, but in nineteen years of life, those events were my measuring stick for disappointment. Maybe it’s their flimsiness that made wanting Holden and not being able to have him all the more excruciating.

  On the morning he left, I lay in bed listening to the sounds of his going. The shower starting up in his room. The zip of his luggage. The snap of his guitar case. The squeak of the bedroom door. His footsteps in the hallway. The gush of water from the kitchen faucet. Muffled words between him and Thomas, their tones low and somber. Then the opening of the door and the clicking sound of it closing behind him. I had been holding the tears inside. With that final sound of his leaving, they had gushed up and out of me with the force of a geyser. It was as if my holding them in had only increased the pressure beneath, and I could not stop myself from sobbing. I buried my face in my pillow, but Thomas heard me and came into the room.

  Sitting down on the side of the bed, he pulled me up against him. He folded his arms around me like a big, broad band of comfort, and he let me cry. I cried until there wasn’t a single tear left in me. I lay limp and empty against his wide strong chest. He rubbed the back of my hair with one hand and said, “Damn, it sucks.”

  “I’m not just crying for me,” I’d said. “I’m crying for all of it. How could someone so young, how could she-”

  “I don’t know,” Thomas said, shaking his head. “It’s a wretched fuck of a disease.”

  I bit my lower lip and refused to let another dry sob slip past my throat. “Will she be okay?” I asked, like a small child looking to a parent for reassurance of things simply too big to process.

  He continued rubbing my hair. “I pray like hell she will.”

  “I didn’t mean to fall in love with him,” I said in little more than a whisper.

  Thomas said nothing for a bit, and I wondered if he hadn’t heard me. But then he said, “I don’t think he meant to fall in love with you either.”

  And that, just that, broke the dam again. Thomas had held me and let me cry. At some point, he slipped us
both under the covers, and he stayed there with me until sleep stole my tears and gave me relief. An unbreakable bond was forged between the two of us that night. Our loss was mutual. It would be a while before either of us knew the extent of it, knew that Holden wasn’t coming back for good. Once that became clear, something in Thomas dimmed a little. Holden had not only been like a brother to him, but was probably the only other person in the world who understood what music meant to him and felt the same way about it. They had been on a journey together for a long time, and when Holden’s path had veered off in another direction, Thomas was just kind of lost. Everything he thought he’d wanted to do in this town was now up for question.

  He’d been in the living room one night when I got home from working in the restaurant. He was sitting on the couch with Hank Junior nestled up under the crook of his arm, his head on Thomas’s lap. I know my Hank, and I could tell by the look on his face that he was worried about Thomas.

  “Everything okay?” I asked, dropping my purse on the coffee table. Hank thumped his tail, looked up, and licked Thomas’s cheek.

  “I swear your dog has telepathy,” Thomas said.

  I walked over and rubbed Hank’s head. “So what’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been thinking. Maybe I ought to hang up this gig too.”

  I felt my eyes go wide, my lips part in surprise. “You mean quit music? Leave Nashville?”

  “Well, it’s kinda not making much sense now. Without Holden, I’m not sure it will ever work for me.”

  I sat down on the sofa next to him. “I know you miss him,” I said.

  “I think maybe I never realized quite how much of the driving force he was behind the two of us. Heck, CeCe, I just like to sing. I’m not any good at writing or scheduling gigs. That was Holden’s thing. And it all…well, it feels flat without him.”

  I wanted to disagree, but I couldn’t. It was like going on vacation to a place normally completely sunny, only to have your seven days there filled with clouds and rain. Somehow, it wasn’t the same. “Would he want you to leave, to give all this up?”