Chapter 3
Present
The bus ramblesalong the interstate as we head out from our third show of the tour. Tonight, it was Albany, New York and tomorrow night we’ll be in Hartford Connecticut, making our way down the eastern seaboard toward Florida and then eventually Texas.
My band and I just recorded a new album and this 15-city tour is just a warm-up until the album releases, as we test the waters in front of an audience. Performing in front of an audience is the only time I really lose myself and put my past behind me. I put everything else out of my mind, leaving those emotions to slowly unravel across the stage like a giant ball of string as I work through the set song by song.
Plucking at some fruit and cheese that’s been left out on a tray by our chef – no more Cheetos and pizza for us – I eat a handful of grapes. London took care of that when she appealed to the band manager, Aimee, requesting healthier food options for me while on tour. I swallow down the fruit and take a swig of my beer.
It’s been a long night, and my body is exhausted as I toe-off my cowboy boots, swinging my legs up on the bench and close my eyes for a brief second. I’m so tired.
Someone plunks down at my feet and I lift a drowsy eyelid. It’s Aimee, with what looks like a shit-ton of paperwork she needs me to review. So much for getting some rest tonight.
“Go away, Aim. I’m tired and need a quick nap and then some peace and quiet to work on a few songs.”
She drops the folder on her lap and swats at the bottom of my feet with an evil twinkle in her eye. Aimee’s been the band’s manager from the beginning, originally meeting me first after I finished a three-song set at the Blue Bird Café. She walked up to me, all female confidence and sway, handed me her card, winked and said,
“I don’t want anything from you except your talent. And maybe your soul.”
That was five years ago, and she hasn’t stopped since. She helped me find a recording studio and my Crenshaw bandmates that I have today. She’s the brains, beauty, and brawn of our operation.
Aimee opens the folder and thumbs through a few sheets of paper before landing on what she’s looking for.
“No rest for the wicked,” she snorts, sticking out her tongue at me. “You’ve got to look over these contracts and the licensing agreements for Stuart.”
Stuart’s my agent and has done an amazing job getting my unrecorded songs out in the hands of the bigger stars like Chris Stapleton and Eric Church. I’ve always maintained that I’m a singer-songwriter first and foremost, and the lead singer of Crenshaw second. While I love the audience energy and high I get when I’m on stage, I’d much rather be behind the scenes writing hits for other singers.
I guess old habits die hard. It was what I’d become accustomed to while in the slammer day after day for three years. The words and music pouring out of me, even without the instruments needed to perfect a song. It was the only bit of happiness I’d had since before prom night; when I could write down my feelings and experiences on paper.
“Fine, let me see them,” I grumble, bending at the waist to grab the pile from her. Aimee generally doesn’t ride with us on tour and certainly doesn’t stay on the bus with the boys, but she’d mentioned going as far as our New York gig for a meeting she had lined up with a new producer.
“Is Emily meeting you in New York when we get there?”
At the mention of her girlfriend’s name, Aimee’s face lights up and she blushes, smiling sweetly. The smile only those in love can understand. It’s the same smile I wore a week ago surrounded by London and Cam.
I sign them wistfully and return the document to her awaiting hand.
“Yeah, we’re celebrating our one-year anniversary this weekend. Can you believe it? So much has happened in the last few years.”
“You can say that again.” I lean back against the couch cushion just about to close my eyes again for some rest when my phone vibrates on the table.
“Will you grab that for me?”
Aimee leans across the table and checks the caller-ID before handing me the phone.
“It’s London.”
Aimee obviously knows all about London and understands the heartbreak I’ve been through with her over the years. Aimee and I spent many nights talking through our situations, commiserating with our own similar experiences.
Before she met Emily, Aimee was married to an NBA basketball player who broke her heart with his cheating. But after the divorce finalized, she met Em and it changed the course of her life forever.
I nearly skyrocket off the couch, ripping the phone out of Aimee’s hand, her mouth left agape in surprise, as I rush back to the one bedroom on the bus. I close the door behind me and exhale a whoosh of air that I’ve been holding in for days.
When I left three days ago, I messaged London and hadn’t heard a thing back yet except a few brief texts. As a public social worker, she keeps herself very busy with more case files than she can handle. But that’s because she gives her heart and soul to those kids she works with, trying to get them out of abusive situations and into foster care. Her level of empathy for those in foster homes is unparalleled. The depths of her unconditional love vast and unending.
My voice sounds winded as I answer. “Hey, darlin’. I’ve missed you.”
There’s a pause on the line so big and vast that I can feel it swallowing me whole.
