Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
The hotel suite is pure chaos. Beautiful chaos, but chaos nonetheless.
We’re in a Four Seasons suite big enough to hold my entire extended family—aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, the whole nine yards.
Good thing, really, because my “team” is nearly that large. Hair and makeup. Dress consultation. Kendra on three different phones at once: the label, my publicist (apparently, I have one of those now), and someone from Cash’s team.
And I’m just trying not to hyperventilate.
Cash showed up an hour ago, already dressed in his tailored suit, to make sure I wasn’t freaking out.
I’m freaking out.
I think I’m doing a fairly good job of hiding it, though. Inside, a hurricane is barreling through me, but on the outside, I’m sporting a wide smile. I’ve checked in the gold-framed mirror multiple times to make sure it’s still there.
“You ready for this?” Cash asks.
I don’t answer, handing him my phone instead. “Here. Take a picture of me.”
He raises a brow but obliges. I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass that leads to the balcony, striking one of the poses my publicist drilled into me earlier: chin slightly down, shoulder back, hand on hip. The red-carpet pose.
Cash hands my phone back and sinks into a velvet armchair in the corner of the room. I flip the camera and take a selfie. Miles will like this one better.
I shoot off both.
Me:
Do I look red carpet ready?
I can’t believe this is happening
Miss you
“Summer, let’s touch you up,” someone calls, directing me to the chair I spent hours in earlier, getting full glam. What appears to be the contents of an entire Sephora store is spread across the marble table.
Miles’s response is there, waiting, when I open up our text thread.
Miles:
You look incredible
I love you
You’re going to be amazing tonight
I love you.
The pounding in my chest slows.
He loves me.
I love him.
We’re solid. We’re good. So good.
I’ve got this.
“Eyes closed,” the makeup artist instructs. I close them and try to breathe.
We said I love you under the stars. It couldn’t have been any more perfect. We’ve said it a hundred times since, in the last two weeks. Weeks spent making love, growing closer, and supporting each other. We’re a team. A power couple. We’re good together.
Tonight is just one night. He’s playing Round 1, Game 7, and I’m going to the CMAs. One little scheduling conflict. We’re making it work.
But, God, do I wish he were here. Maybe if he were, I could breathe a little easier.
This dress must be a size too small. I tug at the fabric around my waist, and it gives.
So, I do have room, but I still can’t manage a full breath.
I’m not sure I’ve gotten a good gulp of air since I got on the plane to Nashville yesterday.
“You okay?” Cash’s voice cuts through the noise in my head and the room.
I blink. He’s sitting there, one ankle crossed over his knee. The picture of calm.
I nod rapidly.
He focuses on his phone with a shake of his head.
“Eyes closed,” the makeup artist repeats.
“Sorry.” The room goes dark behind my lids again.
I’ll perform. Miles will play. And tomorrow, we’ll be back in Chicago together, and everything will be good.
God, how many times can I say good?
The point is: we’re both going to succeed.
And tomorrow, we’ll celebrate together.
This is what I wanted. What we both wanted.
Our careers don’t have to compete. They can coexist.
We can have both.
Ugh, I’m spiraling.
I’m definitely spiraling.
Who can blame me? This is huge. Walking my first red carpet at the freakin’ CMAs. Singing live on national television. I wonder how many people will be watching…
Doesn’t matter.
I’m going to kill it on stage.
He’s going to win his game tonight—
Wait. Should I not have said that? Is that jinxing it?
Oh crap, I jinxed it.
No. No, I didn’t. It’s not like I said it out loud. It only counts if it’s out loud.
Right?
Heck, I almost forgot.
Me:
I love you
Good luck!!
I haven’t missed one good luck text since we started this, and according to Miles, it’s the key to his wins. He claims their odd losses are flukes. Nothing to do with my lucky texts.
And I don’t want the outcome of the game that determines whether they go to the next round of playoffs on my shoulders.
“Miss Starling,” the artist chides.
I slam my eyes closed and try to take a couple of deep breaths.
Eventually, they move on to my hair, so I’m allowed to look at my phone when it vibrates in my lap again. The preview has me flipping the message open.
Boone Taylor:
Well done.
My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing all day.
People I haven’t talked to in years are sending their congratulations and trying to “catch up.” My mama called with the rest of the family on speaker, everyone talking over each other to tell me how proud they are.
But praise from Boone makes me extra giddy. I might not even be here without him.
For the Record dropped at midnight last night, and the streams are already insane.
Kendra keeps shoving her phone in my face, showing me numbers I can’t even comprehend.
Half a million in the first six hours. A million by this afternoon.
It’s trending on three different platforms, and Cash’s management is calling it “the collaboration of the year.”
I’m still smiling at my screen when Cash stands and leans against the wall in front of me. “What’s Hockey Boy saying now?”
“It’s Boone, and he said, ‘well done.’”
“He texted you?” He scrolls through his own phone, brows furrowed.
“Yep. Did you get one?”
“No.” He shrugs, but his mouth tightens. “Why would I? I mean, it’s not like I was the one who made it what it is or anything.”
He pushes off the wall and paces a few steps, pivots, and does it again, muttering, “If it were up to him, we’d be putting people to sleep, rather than making them turn up their radios.”
I bite back a smile. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous. I just think it’s interesting that he texted you and not me.”
I hum. “Maybe he likes me more.”
He scoffs and says something mockingly that sounds like “ungrateful shit.”
I grin. I’ve spent the better part of the last two weeks mediating their bullshit, and I can’t say we’ve made much progress. Boone still spent the majority of our time scowling at Cash—I’m thankful it’s no longer me, I guess—and Cash challenged every production call he made.
Yet, Cash really seems to want his approval, but I’m noticing that he’s that way with most people. A people pleaser through and through. We have that in common.
The hair stylist steps away, and I almost don’t recognize myself in the mirror.
My makeup is flawless. Hair tied at the nape of my neck in an elegant twist. The fitted, champagne-colored gown has a beaded bodice, the embellishments growing sparser from the waist to the floor.
I picked it out of the options they gave me because it reminded me of stars, but it looks like it came straight off a runway.
So far from anything I can afford, and even if I could, I probably wouldn’t want to spend this much on a dress.
I look like I belong at the CMAs, among all the artists I admire.
Almost five months ago, I was pulling into a Citgo in Betty, my first stop in Chicago. The first on the journey that led me here. And now, I’m about to perform at country music’s most prestigious award show. I feel like I should pinch myself, and maybe also breathe into a paper bag.
“You look beautiful,” Cash says from behind me.
I meet his eyes in the mirror. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“You’re not going to throw up.” He grins.
My phone buzzes.
Miles:
I love you
Go be a star
I stare at the text.
Summer Starling, country music’s next rising star: the introduction Kendra prepared me for earlier. The one they’re going to give right before I give what’s hopefully the performance of my life.
Me.
Summer Starling.
A star.
It still doesn’t quite fit.
But maybe by the end of tonight, it will.
Kendra appears, one phone still pressed to her ear, gesturing wildly. She covers the receiver. “Car’s here in twenty. Are we ready?”
Am I?
I hold my own gaze in the mirror.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”