I get it now. I see it.
His smile when he plays is stunning. Happiness almost shines off him. But whenever he starts grinning, he drops his head—like he’s trying to shake his hair in front of his face, except it’s not long enough.
It reminds me of all the times I did that while performing songs to upload to socials, back when no one ever saw my face.
I wonder if he even knows he does it.
I wonder if I’ll ever be able to convince him to stop. Stop hiding. Stop keeping people from seeing that he was made for this.
We perform three songs—including the two Patty wanted, because they’re two of Momma’s best—before the emcee boots us offstage to allow other patrons to perform.
We join the crowd for a few more acts, and while I dance, my boots pounding on the wood floor, Patty stands behind me—arms folded, watching me with a stern face but indulgent eyes.
When a slow song hits, I lean back, and Patty drapes his arms around me, kissing my cheek.
I sigh contentedly. Blissfully.
For most of my life, I’ve heard the message: “You can have it all, but not all at once.”
I’ve taken that as a cautionary tale. A warning.
But right here, right now, it feels less like an eternal truth and more like a lie my mom has told herself.
Shedidhave it all.
She had music. And love. And a family.
And she gave part of it away.
Does that mean I have to?
The emcee announces the next artist, a Shania impersonator, and the woman calls out a welcome to the crowd.
Behind me, Patty stills.
“Hello, Branson! I’ve played in a lot of places over the years, but it never quite feels like home anymore," she says into the mic in a gorgeous, gravelly voice. Patty’s arms tense around me at the same time he takes a sharp breath. "This next one’s an old favorite—Home Ain’t Where His Heart Is (Anymore).”
Patty goes so rigid, I turn to him, suddenly alarmed.
“You okay?” I ask as the woman starts playing.
Patty shakes his head, like it’s nothing. “It’s gettin’ late. You have interviews in Springfield tomorrow. We should head back.”
“Okay,” I say, pausing.
Is this the whole story?
Did he really just tense up because of … the time?
He slides his hand down my arm, then takes my hand, but I don’t go with him immediately.
When he gives me a tug, I tug back.
“What aren’t you telling me? You reacted to someone.”
He looks over my head, and in his eyes is an expression I’ve never seen before.
Hurt.
