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Apart from Travis’s absence and Paisley’s presence, it was like the last six years hadn’t even happened. Like my whole life in Nashville didn’t exist. It was us, like it always was, crowded around their massive pine table that seated twelve (because we did this so often they’d made room for all of us).
“So, Laney, are you excited about the tour?” Jackson asked as he passed me Georgia’s famous corn bread.
“I am,” I replied. “It should be great.”
“It’ll be better than great. This girl is gonna kill it,” Paisley said proudly, always the manager in addition to the friend.
“Let us know if any of you want to come to the Nashville show. We’ll get you backstage passes, right, Pais?” I asked, bumping her with my elbow.
“Absolutely,” she replied.
Daddy looked over at my momma with a shrug. “It’s been a month of Sundays since we’ve seen her show. You wanna go?”
My heart squeezed. I’d love to have them there, but when Daddy sent me off to Nashville with his old Gibson, I’d been playing a much different sound than the one I was now. Back then, they’d show up at my gigs whenever possible, but lately, with all of the added lights and dancers and the big band, they seemed a tiny bit less eager to come out. I tried not to let it bother me, but pop-country had never been their thing, and I knew it.
“That sounds wonderful. We could make it a family affair if you girls can link up your schedules,” Momma said to Dakota and Aubree.
My sisters agreed excitedly, and it wasn’t long before the Wilsons were talking about tagging along. I watched in wonder for a few minutes while they made plans to make a weekend trip out of it, grinning when Paisley immediately launched into planning mode and told them I’d be more than happy to rent a house for them to stay in.
She knew me well enough to know I’d foot the bill for my people and didn’t even have to check with me first. They’d put up a minor fight at first, but she’d convinced them in the end, and then the plans were made.
Everett, however, hadn’t said a word throughout the entire conversation. I doubted anyone else noticed, but I definitely had.
“Your tour sure is flashy, though, Lane,” Jackson said, shaking his head a little. “Nothin’ like the sets you used to do when you played around town.”
A rain cloud slid over my head at his words, the truth of them washed over me like the sky opening up and dousing the fun from the conversation. I hung my head and poked at my food. “I know.”
“Hey, now,” Everett said, speaking up for the first time all night, “she’s doin’ great. She’s makin’ music just like she always wanted. It ain’t our place to comment on her new style if it makes her happy.”
You could have heard a pin drop, it got so quiet at the table. Then my daddy—always my hero—let out a brisk laugh. “Amen, son. I never liked all that pop stuff they’ve added to our classic country music, but with Laney’s lyrics and voice of an angel, well, sign me up for the front row.”
“Oh, you don’t want the front row,” Paisley said quickly. “That’s the rowdy section. You’ll be much more comfortable backstage.”
Daddy pulled a face like he was offended, his eyes sparkling. “Hey, I’m rowdy. I can get down with them kids.”
“Yeah, old man, I can just see you throwin’ elbows,” Adam joked.
“It’s not a mosh pit, guys,” I said with a laugh. “It’s a bunch of young girls singin’ along. Paisley’s right, you’d be happier in the wings.”
“Hang on, now, how young we talkin’ here?” Daddy asked playfully, pointing his fork at me.
“Ew,” almost everyone said in unison, and Dakota threw a piece of broccoli at him with a cackle.
“Teenagers, Daddy,” I said, shaking my head.
“Oh, yeah. Ew.” He shuddered and we all laughed, then laughed harder when Momma swatted him lightly upside the head.
“Is that your typical fan base, dear?” Georgia asked, taking a sip of her sweet tea. “I listen to your music because it’s you, and I love you, but I can tell it’s a younger sound.”
“Yes,” Paisley answered for me. “Demographically speaking, about eighty percent of Laney’s audience is between the ages of fourteen and twenty-four.”
“Twenty-four ain’t no teenager,” Daddy muttered under his breath, earning him a thrown elbow from my mother as we all chuckled again. “I’m kiddin’, I’m kiddin’. Stop beatin’ on me, woman.”
“Hush, I’ll beat you all I want,” she shot back, leaning over and kissing him tenderly on the cheek.
This elicited a round of gagging noises from us kids, but my eyes shot to Everett’s, the sweetness of my parents’ love—despite their insensitive joking about domestic violence—had me searching for him without even meaning to.
When I found him staring back at me with an expression that could only be described as deep yearning, every cell in my body lit up like a Christmas tree. But then he cleared his throat and looked away, joining in on whatever his brothers had started talking about when I’d been too distracted by my own longing to make out the words.
