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Once we hit the lobby ofTGMS, we’re met by a harried assistant whose name tag readsJACKIE P.She escorts us up an elevator and down three bustling hallways before knocking on a dressing room door that has my name scrawled across the plaque. The door swings open and my jacket is removed by one set of friendly hands while I’m pressed into a chair in front of a mirror by another set. The chatter is lively and kind, and within short order, my skin glows, my hair shines, and my eyes stand out. I’m passed a smart pair of black trousers in my size along with a sleeveless white chiffon blouse and red pumps. I dress and everyone gushes. Well, except Trina, who looks up over her phone and nods approvingly. Honestly, I prefer it to the gushing.
I’m told I’m to go on in fifteen minutes; then everyone leaves. I settle on the small formal couch and pick up my guitar, idly tuning it and warming up my vocals for no reason other than plain old nerves. It’s been years since I went in front of a camera, and I’m a lot older now. Wiser. Bruised and shaped by the world. For a hot second, I wonder if any of my students will see me on the show today. The thought sobers me in a good way. Directs me. Solidifies my purpose.
I’m here to play music and I’m here to use the attention to help others who can’t help themselves.
Amy Anderson is tiny in real life. Petite to the extreme, she maybe meets the tip of my nose, and that’s in sky-high heels.But her stature doesn’t make her any less intimidating, and in the moments before she reaches out to shake my hand and tell me what a fan she is, I about piss my new black boss-bitch pants. She hasn’t lost her drawl in all her years on television, and I have to assume it’s on purpose. Her blond hair sits right above her shoulders and gives off the perfectly mussed vibe. My slippery straight blue-black locks could never. We settle across from each other in stylish sofa chairs and a props person makes sure to let me know my guitar is waiting for me, just as I left it, on a small stage over my shoulder.
Amy makes small talk while people fuss with our hair and buttons and the way our clothes lie after mic’ing us. Her smile is genuine, and while she doesn’t gush, she does tell me she has a niece in Texas who attended a school that unfortunately had a shooting. Thankfully, her niece was at a doctor’s appointment that day, but the niece did lose a friend and the trauma was so awful that many families had to relocate and the school was bulldozed to the ground. Amy Anderson couldn’t give two shits about the Second Amendment, but, she tells me, she sure likes that song I wrote last year about Cameron and Shelby Riggs.
The interview goes off, as they say, without a hitch.
Amy artfully leads me through a discussion of my career, surprising me with “embarrassing” early childhood footage of a county fair where I belted out Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine” and some cringey photos of teen me in my cheerleader uniform singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at a high school talent show. When she gets to the story about “Ohio,” she doesn’t even play the footage, claiming, “Everyone’s already seen it.”
“What’s more important is what happened afterwards. What can you tell us about the days that followed? You were engaged, if I recall? To fellow musician Drake Colter?”
Without dwelling too long on the details, I explain how Drake broke off our engagement unexpectedly, followed by the disintegration of my band, my record contract, and my career.
“So there you were, left without a friend in the world.”
I smile, thinking of Huck. “Well, not totally. But it was definitely time for me to reprioritize and start at square one. So I moved to Michigan, where I found myself back in the classroom.”
“And where you met your close friend Shelby Springfield, now Shelby Riggs.”
I nod, warming up to the subject. “Yup. I had a first-row seat to watching her and Cameron fall head over butt for each other.”
Amy laughs and segues into “What They Have,” the song I wrote for my friends.
“Here you are singing it at their wedding a few months ago.”
“I was so nervous,” I admit, glimpsing the footage on the large screen over my shoulder. “I practiced it a hundred times with my producer Craig, convinced I’d mess it up.”
“And by Craig, you mean Craig Boseman, right? Rumor around Nashville is that you are longtime friends with the up-and-coming indie record producer.”
“I’ve known Craig since back when I was touring with Drake Colter. He played bass for Drake.”
“Craig’s recently come into the spotlight after releasing a viral video singing ‘Jonesin’,’ causing some to speculate that maybehewrote it all along. Can you confirm that?”
I press my lips together, hesitating. “I can only confirm that the mystery bridge—that’s my favorite part.”
“Interesting.” Amy’s eyes glitter. “What about the rumors that the song is about you?”
I feel my face flush despite the cool stage, and I’m kicking myself for not presuming Craig and/or “Jonesin’” might come up.
“I can’t say for sure. I’ve never straight-up asked! You’ll have to get Craig on here and drill him about it.”
Amy chuckles like I’ve just said the most hilarious thing and swiftly moves on to what I’m doing now. I tell her about my upcoming albumAvalanche,produced by Craig and Arlo, and we chat about the duet debuting at number one on theBillboardTop 100. I easily settle into raving about Jefferson Coolidge and what a dream it has been to work together.
At which Amy breaks character and actually does gush. I don’t blame her. I’ve been teasing Shelby about her Jefferson Coolidge crush for years. He has that effect on women of all ages. The man sings like Elvis, and I can’t wait for the world to fall even more in love with this new and improved version of him.
“Well, I don’t want to spend all our time with you talking. I hear you brought your guitar and are prepared to sing something for us. Is this another brand-new hit we’re about to hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. This is just a taste off my new albumAvalanche.”
We go to commercial and I transition to the small stage to sing in front of the small live studio audience.
“This is about a man,” I say with a wink, “but at the end of the day, it ain’t about Drake Colter.”
I strum the opening chords and sing for everything I’m worth.
