Thirty-Eight
THIRTY-EIGHT
COINCIDENTAL CATASTROPHE
“Follow us,” Emily commands.
I can’t look at Kick as we trail after her. Cheddar brings up the rear like he’s making sure one of us doesn’t escape. Tonight’s venue has a huge production office right across from the backstage entrance and Emily barges through the door. Nic’s sitting on a long, brown leather couch with two men I haven’t seen before.
“May we have the room?” Emily says. She’s sweetened her tone, but there’s still an edge to her voice.
Nic studies her for a moment before saying, “Is there a problem?”
“No problem. We just need to go over some things with Kick and Mari.”
“And you can’t find someplace else to do it?”
They stare at each other, neither one willing to back down. Their stand-off goes on longer than the rest of us are comfortable with until Cheddar finally says, “We can find another spot.”
I follow him back through the door and Emily stomps out after us as we head to Kick’s dressing room. It’s a locker room lined with wooden benches and Emily sighs heavily before perching on the edge of the bench closest to the door .
“Sit,” she says.
Kick and I sit across from her, enough space between us to fit three other people.
“What is going on with you two?” Cheddar says.
“Tonight’s set was off,” Emily huffs, “way off.”
“Numbers are down,” Cheddar says, as if his social numbers are the one and only reason for us to exist.
I have no idea how to respond. I don’t want Emily and Cheddar to know I overheard their little plan to make Kick a superstar while I fade into expendable oblivion. Somehow admitting I know would make things even more embarrassing for me.
I glance over to Kick. He’s watching me, waiting, hoping I’ll say something to knock a hole in the wall I’ve erected between us. But I can’t. I won’t.
Emily’s eyes narrow in on me. “I’m sure you don’t want to blow this opportunity.”
A laugh bubbles up my throat and I swallow it down. Of course I don’t want to blow this opportunity. I’m not the one who is blowing this opportunity. The opportunity is being pried out of my too-tight grasp.
“Is there something y’all need to share with the team?” Cheddar asks Kick. “Because whatever interpersonal drama you have going on, you can’t bring it to the stage.”
“We’re fine,” Kick says unconvincingly.
I know I should say something, should fight for my space, should convince everyone that despite the rigged contest I deserve to be here. But my voice won’t work. My mouth won’t move.
“Mari? Do you have anything you’d like to say?” Emily asks.
I look down at my feet and shake my head.
“This is unbelievable,” she says to Cheddar. “They’re ruining everything. She’s ruining everything.”
“Is this about your sister?” Cheddar says.
My head snaps up in shock .
“What sister?” Emily asks and wow, I’m surprised he hasn’t told her yet.
“That has nothing to do with this,” Kick says.
“What sister?” Emily insists.
Cheddar stares me down. “Do you want to tell her or should I?”
“Go ahead,” I say, “it’s obvious you’re dying to share.”
Cheddar straightens up, a gotcha smile on his face.
“Her name isn’t Mari Gold. It’s Penny Lovejoy. She’s LOVEJOY’s sister.”
Emily screeches a word somewhere between what and huh . “How did I not know this?” She points at Cheddar. “How did you know this and not tell me? How is this happening right now?”
“Why does it matter?” Kick asks.
“You don’t think that I, the tour publicist, should know that the artist I’m killing myself to promote is the sister of one of the biggest pop stars in the world? I cannot believe this. Who else knows? We need to put out a statement. We need to?—”
“I don’t want anyone to know,” I say.
Emily laughs like a villain who’s just been told they’re not allowed to throw a puppy down a well. “That’s not your decision to make.”
“It’s my life,” I say.
“And right now, your life belongs to me.”
She’s about to say more when Cheddar holds his hand up to silence her. He looks at us, at me, before he says, “We’re going home tonight. We have four days off from the tour. I suggest you use that time to get your shit together.” His eyes burn into mine with a warning. “Both of you.”
“I won’t perform as Penny Lovejoy.”
“Then you’ll be off the tour,” Emily says.
I let out a sarcastic laugh. “So you’ll be getting what you wanted. Great plan. ”
Emily asks what I mean by that but I’m already off the bench and out the door, her screeching voice chasing after me.
I practically run into the arena. The only safe space on this tour right now is the sound booth, watching Sparrow’s set, where no one can talk to me about why I’m not being the good little artist they want me to be.
When I get back to the booth the sound tech waves and motions to some chairs set up behind him. I flop into one right as Sparrow starts a new song. I hunch over, elbows on my knees, my head in my hands. I’m not going to make it to the Nashville show. This break will be my break-up, with the tour, with Kick, with all of Nashville. I’m as good as done.
When I look up at the band, the spotlight is on Don as he plays a guitar solo. A close-up of him flashes on the LED screen and I stand up so fast I knock my chair backwards. My vision goes wavy for a second as I stare at the screen. I close my eyes as tight as I can and lean against the soundboard. When I open them, the same impossible image is on the screen. The cameras pull wide and what I see shreds my already damaged heart into a thousand pieces. Because unbelievably, undeniably, Don Sparrow is wearing a cowboy shirt.
A cowboy shirt with orange flowers.
Marigolds.
And he’s playing a mint green Les Paul.
It can’t possibly be the same cowboy shirt with marigolds and mint green Les Paul from the photo of my father but also, it has to be the same cowboy shirt with marigolds and mint green Les Paul.
I grip my arm and cover my new tattoo. The tattoo I got in memory of my father. Because that shirt is supposed to be his.
It doesn’t make sense, how Don could be wearing that same shirt, playing that same guitar, my father’s shirt and my father’s guitar.
I run out of the sound booth and down the aisle, flashing my All Access pass at security before I slip side stage. I pull my acoustic from the guitar rack to look at the photo of my father taped to the back. I hold it up to the lights and there’s no mistaking the shirt, the guitar. They’re the same.