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She smiles at Bryce. “Uncle Clay is funny, isn’t he?”
“Yep.” He grins at me in that innocent way kids can because they don’t feel the pressures of adulthood, or well, life.
She’s not wrong. My notifications were so bad I’ve had to put my phone in sleep mode at night. I don’t know why I never considered the possibility, but along with the announcement of Ash and Avery’s wedding, several people recorded me singing “Sunday Afternoon” and then posted it. Their videos and my song went viral, and suddenly I’m being harassed from all angles by the fans, the industry, my agent, you name it, and it’s uncomfortable. Was I recognized before, sometimes, but definitely not in the way Ash is recognized. It’s like overnight that has changed, and whereas I didn’t mind it so much before, now it’s just become a nuisance.
“Uncle Clay, did you like my Halloween costume?” Bryce wiggles back and forth in his seat.
“I did. I’ve always dreamed of being a p-pirate. Sailing on a big ship, finding hidden treasures, eating lots of fish—sounds like a dream come true.”
“Fish are gross.” He wrinkles his nose at me.
“But what about candy? Did you get a lot?”
Across the table, Juliet picks up her coffee and takes a sip.
“Sooo much candy, but Mama would only let me eat a few pieces at a time.” He frowns at her, and I chuckle. Oh how the tables have turned.
“That’s because she wanted it to last so you could enjoy it for a long time.”
When Juliet and I were kids, we learned real quick to leave a shoebox outside, and we used to hide half of our candy. Our mother was crazy with only letting us eat a few pieces too, so we outsmarted her.
“Can I play on your phone?” he asks.
“Sure, buddy.” I pull it from my back pocket and hand it over while glancing around the small coffee shop. No one seems to be looking at us, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t been. I now understand why Ash hates it so much, and I haven’t even gone into the city. Then again, maybe it’s because these people know I live here, so spotting me is different than it would be if I were walking down the street in Nashville.
Juliet reaches for Bryce’s hands to wipe them off. “Well, I think it’s great the world is finally getting to hear what I’ve been hearing my whole life. Clay, you are so talented—you should be sharing that with the world.”
This is not the first time she has said this, and I would be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel good, because it does. Everyone wants to be recognized for things they work hard at or are passionate about. Now, the noise is finally directed my way, and I find it to be more alarming than satisfying.
“I am. I’ve been writing a lot. I’ve written most of the music for our next album.”
“Yes, but I’m talking about your voice and your talent on the guitar. I’ve always thought you should be seen more. You know that.”
I pick up my coffee and take another sip while she does the same.
We stare at each other.
I’ve never minded my place in our band. It’s where I felt most comfortable, but there’s also a tiny part of me that’s always wondered what if. What if I made more of a name for myself? What if I sang lead? What if I wasn’t viewed as just the main backup guy to Ash? Now I’ve found myself in a position where I can do this, only I’m wondering if I can. Thinking and actually doing are two very different things.
“T-Trey from the label called. They want me to p-perform ‘Sunday Afternoon’ at the CMT Music Awards in April.”
Just saying the words out loud has my stomach tightening with nerves, and Juliet gasps.
“Clay,” she says, just barely above a whisper, and then she reaches over and places her hand on my arm. “That’s incredible.”
“Just me, acoustic. Like the wedding.” I can barely get the words out. Anxiety is a crippling thing, and the thought of all those people staring at me and me alone—it’s too much. Also, the thing about this particular awards show is it’s focused on country music videos and television performances, neither of which this song is. Trey counterargued that it was a video, just a YouTube video, and in their minds it still counts.
“And the problem is?” she asks.
“I don’t know if I can do it. It makes no sense why they want it. The song has no backup accompaniment, and it isn’t even recorded. I only wrote it for them.”
The front door of the cafe continues to open and close, the bell ringing each time. Cool air drifts in and out, and the smell of coffee and baked goods hangs heavy. People are chatting and laughing, and I pray no one can hear our conversation. I can’t even imagine if someone recorded us and released it on social media.
And now I’m getting paranoid.
Her hand squeezes my arm. “Of course you can. You were born for this. You’ve been singing on a stage for so long, and this will be like all the other times. One stage, an audience of people, and a song you love—a song that apparently everyone loves because it’s that good. I see it now: this song will be played at weddings all over the world.” She lifts her hand and reaches out like she’s stretching it across the sky and gazing lovingly into nothing.
I groan. “It’s not that simple.” I run my hand over my hair and then my face. She knows better than anyone how I feel about having this stutter.
