I’m pretty sure I’m nearly there already, despite all my efforts not to be.
I read over my lyrics again and then play the song one more time. Writing my jumbled thoughts into songs has always helped me to clarify them for myself. And if this song is clarifying anything, it’s the fact that I want a lot more from Addison than what she’s offered me so far.
The time I’ve spent with her has been perfect. But if I don’t want it to end, then I need to tell her that, don’t I?
I spend a little more time out on the porch, running scenarios in my head. Trying to figure out a way that I can keep doing music as a career but stay here in Mayweather. At least part time. And I keep wondering if telling Addison how I feel will scare her away, or if she’d be willing to give us a real chance.
Worn out from overthinking, I go inside to take a quick nap on the couch. Freddie jumps up and curls his body against my side. I doze off with my fingers buried in his soft fur, and when I open my eyes, he’s lying right on my chest, staring at me almost threateningly.
“What?” I ask him.
He kneads one claw into my shirt and continues to stare at me.
“Let me guess. You want a snack?”
The way he immediately stands up, trampling on my stomach, and jumps down from the couch suggests he actually understood that word.
I get up and head into the kitchen with the cat trotting along right at my side. I feed him some treats, then take a look in Addison’s fridge to see if there’s anything I can make us for dinner. Maybe it’s presumptuous to assume she’ll want me to stay for dinner, but I think her suggesting I stay here while she’s at work is a pretty good sign that she plans to spend time with me afterward. That she doesn’t mind having me around.
And if I’m going to be here, I want to do something nice for her. Like she’s always doing for me.
I don’t know exactly when she’ll be home, only that it will probably be too early for dinner, so I try to come up with something I can at least get prepped for us so that it’ll be easy and ready to make when we’re hungry. There are a couple chicken breasts in the fridge, her spice cabinet is full, and her pantry is stocked with just about everything. Surely, I can work with this.
I’m not a natural chef like Addison is, but after scrolling for ideas on my phone—and pointedly ignoring the unopened message from my manager—I decide on making a balsamic marinade for the chicken and pairing it with roasted sweet potatoes and green beans. It sounds simple enough that I don’t think I can screw it up.
I mix the ingredients together for the marinade, then pour it into a Ziploc bag with the chicken and leave it in the fridge for the meat to absorb the flavors. Then I trim some fresh green beans and dice a couplesweet potatoes into cubes, seasoning everything. Now when we want to eat, all we have to do is pop a couple pans into the oven.
Feeling satisfied with the prep, I take my guitar back out to the porch, but this time I grudgingly take my phone with me too. Ignoring that message won’t make it go away. And plus, I want to talk to my manager about the new songs I’ve written. I need to figure out how much pushback I’m going to get if I say I want to take my music in a different direction.
I carefully set down my guitar and take a deep breath before opening the text.Call me as soon as possible. Need you to get back to Nashville.
My first thought is that this can’t be right. It feels like I just got here. But then reality kicks in and I realize that, of course, summer is nearly over. The plan was never to stay here forever.
I want more time, though.
If I leave now, I’ll never find out if Addison and I could have something real.
Steeling myself, I make the call. I know I need to, and yet as it starts to ring, I find myself hoping that Davis won’t answer. I’m sure he’s busy with all his other clients. But no such luck—he answers on the third ring.
“Riley! Thank fuck. Why’d it take you forever to get back to me?”
Internally, I scoff, because it’s only been a few hours. But I don’t say anything, and my manager goes right on.
“I have good news. First of all, we’ve been tracking the photo on social media, and the rate of the sharing has finally slowed down. So it looks like laying low was a good plan. Now, Jeanine and I were worried that the gossip might pick right back up again once you came back and started attending events and all that. We thought about making another statement if we have to, something about you having a little too much to drink that night and the kiss not being consensual, but—”
“No,” I say forcefully, interrupting his monologue.
I agreed with the statement my team eventually put out some timeafter I got to Mayweather. It avoided any mention of the current gossip and simply stated that I was visiting family for the summer, taking time to relax and recharge after a few busy years of touring. That was basically the truth, only leaving out what actually prompted this vacation.
But I’m not going to let them lie about that woman. It doesn’t matter that I don’t even know her last name and I’ll never see her again. That’s totally unfair—not to mention, it’s defamation.
“Relax, relax,” Davis says breezily. “I don’t think we’ll need to go that route, because lucky for you, I’m terrific at my job.”
He pauses here like he’s giving me room to agree, but I keep my mouth shut. Heisa great manager. I think my level of fame speaks to that. But right now, he’s kind of pissing me off.
“So,” he continues, “I’ve thought of a way to steer the narrative in our favor. I’ve been putting out some feelers with other managers, and I just had a very successful conversation with Lewis Armando.”
“Should I know who that is?”
