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That part was a piece of cake. What twisted my insides was Harriet’s refusal to tell me how my wife was doing. Not a scrap of information. I respected her loyalty to Talia. Harriet and I were friends before everything fell apart. Before I could drop to my knees and beg her, she went into labor, leaving little time for small talk. I drove her to the local hospital and waited outside her room until her partner arrived. It was the closest I’d been to Iris Meadows and Talia in months.
Seeing Harriet pregnant reminded me of everything Talia and I could’ve had.
I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of her at the hospital, but no luck, and then I was hauled back onto the private jet to resume the tour.
Howard raps his knuckles on the table. “I want you to tell me you’ve written ten to fourteen album-worthy songs. Vanessa promised me you’d have it ready by fall.”
Vanessa didn’t promise him shit. She’s my agent and the only person I trust in this business, and when the mess happened with the copyright lawsuit, I asked her to see if it broke a contractual clause, allowing me to break my contract before its term. It didn’t. Hence why I’m still here.
“It’s not even August, Howie. You’ll get your songs.”
He rolls his eyes, momentarily satisfied until I drop a bombshell on his lap.
“Listen, I need to talk to you about some time off when the tour—”
“Time off?” He stares at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. “Why would you need time off?”
I don’t know, Howard, to recuperate, catch up on sleep, and stop myself from spiraling into a pit of despair. I’d be tempted to pay a visit to Iris Meadows if I didn’t think it would end terribly.
My marriage to Talia isn’t common knowledge. Before the red carpets and TV interviews, I was a small-town country singer performing at the local distillery. Talia attended one public appearance with me, and then I never asked her again, not after the headlines and gossip columns that followed. There’s been some speculation about where my wife disappeared to, but I never rise to the bait when asked.
I blink slowly at Howard. “There’s nothing scheduled in the calendar for after the tour.”
“Yet. There’s nothing scheduled yet.”
It takes everything in me to keep my cool. “I think I’ve earned a little vacation time. I haven’t had a single day to myself since this all started.”
He frowns at me. “What about when you flew to Nashville?”
“The work-related trip where I was in the city for less than ten hours?”
“I hate to break it to you, kid, but celebrities of your status don’t get time off. It’s what you signed up for.”
I deadpan.
He sighs. “How long are we talking?”
“Two weeks.”
His eyes bug out of his head. “Fourteen days?”
“Think of it as time away to recharge and to get my creative juices flowing. You want your songs? I need somewhere quiet to write them.”
“Jesus, okay. Let me see what I can do, but if there’s any chance we can make it one—”
“Two weeks.” I don’t budge.
Before he can give me a definitive answer, more of the crew climb onto the bus, shouting and banging. A sound technician passes beers around in celebration of another successful concert. I refuse.
It’s not that I’m usually the center of the party, but these aren’t my people, and as easy as it is for me to slip into conversation with strangers, crack a joke, or fool around, here I prefer to fade into the background.
I laugh or smile when required, listen to their stories, but the longer I sit here, the deeper my wounds grow. My chest aches thinking about green hills rolling into a burned-orange sunset and the charred-oaky aromas of old whiskey barrels. Of rushing water and days lazing in the sun. Most of the tenderness comes from the memories of auburn hair sprawled on my pillow and cold feet pressing into my spine because she didn’t want to wear socks.
I rest my head against the window and float away with the daydream. The ruckus becomes background noise, and everything around me slows.
Someone says my name, but it’s blurry. Like I’m underwater.
Another person taps me on my arm.
