When I exitedNashville International Airport, my brother Ozzie was leaning on his spotless truck waiting. A smile pulled at his lips when he caught sight of me. “Hey Cloud Catcher,” he yelled with a wave. Cloud Catcher was one of my many childhood nicknames until Fancy stuck. Oz called me this because I’d always been tall for my age. Like noticeably taller than all the other kids in my fourth-grade class. It wasn’t until around junior year when most of the boys surpassed me in height and a few of the girls caught up.
“Oz.” I ran to my big brother, hurling myself into his arms, leaving my luggage unattended to roll away into oncoming traffic.
“If shit ever turns sour, you can always come home again,” were the last words my mother whispered in my ear before Darla and I headed toward TSA security check. That was close to ten years ago. We were being flown out by a big-time record label. The goal was to sign a contract and start recording our songs. In actuality the process wasn’t as easy as all that, but eventually we signed on the dotted line.
After finding my boyfriend fucking another bitch, I hightailed it back to Los Angeles, packed up a few things, because I was also shacking up with the two-timing loser and booked the first flight home. I needed time to think, and I wouldn’t be able to do that with Dylan’s baby blues pleading for forgiveness. It was safe to say when it came to Dylan, I was sprung and a little bit enamored. His stepmother was Billie Preston, the first African American artist to make a lasting stamp in the world of country music. Billie was the reason I picked up a guitar.
Oz pushed me off him. “Stop with all that mushy stuff. Let me get a look at you.” He circled around me like I was a used car he was considering buying. “Well, you’re no worse for wear. When Momma said you were coming home unexpected, I thought I might have to make a trip of my own and fuck up the man that hurt you. But I don’t see any bruises, so I’m assuming whatever is going on is about your heart and not someone going upside your head.”
I swallowed down a dry patch in my throat. If Oz possessed x-ray vision, he would see my heart was torn in two. Maybe I was dumb, or Chap was just a really good liar because I never suspected a thing. I assumed there would be signs of discord in our relationship. Sure we disagreed, but he was always so attentive. Right before I got on stage, he kissed me and told me to knock ‘em dead.
How do you go from that to fucking a random woman in the span of two hours? During the flight I’d spent my time recounting all the possible fissures in our whirlwind romance. Fans considered us relationship goals. Chap was a handsome charmer who was the life of the party. I was the beautiful songstress with amazing hair and enviable style. Shallow, yes, but Hollywood wasn’t the real world.
Hollywood was about social currency, and together Chap and I were this aspirational power couple. Was he the love of my life? Probably not, but he made me happy. We were happy. At least I was. I plastered on a brave face. “Why can’t I just come visit my family because I missed them?”
“You ain’t missed us in years. Too busy rubbing elbows and God knows what else with your rich music friends.”
I shrugged off his words. “Thanks for making the drive to pick me up.”
“You can thank Momma.” He hoisted my luggage into the bed of his truck. Oz was massive and towered over me. Food and beer were his pastimes, and the pooch of his belly showed it. He came off gruff, but he was a big teddy bear who loved cuddles and country music. Opening my door, he stepped aside so I could climb into the cab. He jumped into the driver’s seat, and we were off.
The drive from Nashville to the small town of Hume was several hours. There was a part of me excited to come home. Since signing our record deal, Whiskey Wild had been booked and busy. But even with a big label backing us, we still needed to put in the work. That meant singing at the mall to disinterested shoppers and continuing to work the state fair and farmers’ market circuit to build word of mouth.
By the time our first single “Good Time Girls” dropped, there was momentum behind us and things took off fast. Sometimes I felt like it was too fast because we didn’t have a second to catch our breath. We were on the road as an opening act and making the rounds at radio stations for interviews. Each radio interview was always the same with the DJ announcing their shock we were Black women and not sun tanned, blonde-haired, country gals. A break would do me good.
As he drove, Oz prattled on about the happenings in Hume. Who was shagging who. Who’d gotten divorced. Who was ontheir fourth baby. I grew up in a small town and even when you tried to be discreet, secrets never remained hidden for long. That’s what I hated most about this town. Everyone was in your business before you even had a chance to figure out what all that business entailed.
When he got tired of talking, he turned on the radio and a Whiskey Wild song was playing. Oz flashed me an eye, shaking his head.
“Shut up, Oz,” I said.
“I tell you what, that shit never gets old. Hearing my baby sister on the radio.”
“They have to fill the airwaves with something.”
“No need to be modest. You did your big one with Whiskey Wild.”
I wasn’t being modest. It just felt silly bragging about shit that was mostly about luck. Darla and I weren’t the most talented singing duo to come to Nashville. Our success was based on a series of fortunate events. Like dominos all lined up to perfectly fall into place. Playing at the Gatlin State Fair and piquing the interest of a record label executive who signed us to a deal and then put us in artist development purgatory for months. My job as a hostess in LA at a swanky restaurant and Aurora, the spoiled rich daddy’s girl who took a shine to me.
I was her plus one at some of the most exclusive parties in Hollywood. That’s where I met Chap. At the time I was unaware of his country connection. We were just two people living in the moment and trying to make ends meet. Later I discovered Chap’s form of struggle came with a trust fund. One day he heard me singing in the shower and you could practically see the dollar signs etched in his eyes.
Like I said … luck.
“You and Darla are real hometown heroes. No one makes it out of Hume.”
That wasn’t true; plenty of people made it out. Maybe their songs weren’t on the radio, but they were off somewhere thriving. At least that’s what I liked to believe. For me it was never about making it out of Hume, it was about pursuing my dreams. Ones that couldn’t be fully realized in Hume, Tennessee.
“Speaking of Darla, where is she? You two are usually joined at the hip.”
“Uhm … we’ve been on the road hitting it pretty hard. I just needed to press the reset button and take a breath.” If I told him I didn’t know where Darla was right now that would raise red flags. I was a bad friend for leaving her to cuss Chap out alone, but I needed to be anywhere but there. And when I exited the bus, my next immediate thought was getting the hell out of the desert. I bumped into Moniece, and she just took over. Hiring her was the best decision I’d ever made. She called a car, booked a flight to LA, helped me pack my things between tears and saw me off at LAX.Note to self, give that woman a raise.
“So how long are you in town for?”
“I don’t know. Long enough to enjoy Momma’s home cooking and ride Cotton Candy.”
Oz sputtered in laughter. “Cotton Candy. Daddy should not have allowed a twelve-year-old girl to name no damn horse. You got me on the farm yelling, “Hey Cotton Candy come here girl.”
“I named her that because her mane refused to stay tamed. It was all fluffy and soft just like cotton candy.”
