My show in Augusta isn’t until the day after tomorrow, so normally, I’d be able to take a break from overnight travel and sleep in a hotel, but I want to wake up in my childhood home.
The rest of the band and crew will stay in the hotel here tonight and travel straight to Augusta tomorrow for their day off.
I almost feel bad dragging Patty with me, but it’s not like either of us are big on bonding with the crew.
I get the sense Patty won’t ever make that mistake again, and I won’t make it the first time.
Rafael pops outside, checking for threats, before he opens the door and waves us through.
Once we’re on the bus, he pats the door twice, signaling to Jimmy that we’re good to go, while he stays back to travel with the rest of the security team.
I fall onto the couch and kick my boots off.
“How’s your dad?” I ask.
Patty must be as tired as I am—it’s not like he’s been lounging all day—but he doesn’t sit on the couch. He stands a few feet over in the kitchenette, leaning against the counter as he rolls out his shoulders.
“Oh, Danny’s always good. He wouldn’t tell me if he weren’t. When I talked to him after his accident, he kept going on abouthow he was lucky to be alive and how he met the nicest nurses. I wish I’d had half that attitude.”
“Cut yourself some slack.”
“I’ve done that plenty in my life, Queenie.”
“The self-loathing is gettin’ old.”
He exhales a small, loud puff of air and taps his fingers on the counter. “Your friends are right—you need outlets that aren’t me. You’re gettin’ too sassy for your skirt.”
I laugh. “That’s not the saying.”
“It should be.”
“It’s a great line for a song,” I say, yawning.
I close my eyes and rub them, sleep descending quickly now that I’m relaxed, now that I don’t have to be on for anyone.
It’s a funny thing, balancing that love for performing with the need to recharge. I’m an ambivert—half extrovert, half introvert—and after the interviews and that conversation with the record exec, the introvert part is taking over.
“You sounded good tonight,” Patty says. “Your playing was crisp, and your voice?—”
He stops, and that makes my eyes fly open.
“Yes?”
The kitchenette light is the only one we turned on, and it backlights Patty, so I can’t see his face.
With his arms folded and his ever-disheveled presence, he looks like the brooding hero of a gothic romance… without all the problematic bits.
At least, I don’t think he’s secretly a red flag.
Is he?
“You sounded good,” he repeats.
“You said that.” A yawn ruins my attempt at a smirk.
He drops his head and ruffles his hair, and for a second, I have déjà vu. It’s so familiar, that move. But it’s like I’m trying to grasp a memory out of smoke. Where have I seen that before?
“Get some sleep, Lou. One thing every musician agrees on—you can never get enough sleep.”
