Chapter 40
FORTY
I blink against the too-bright stage lights, still not used to them.
“Let’s take it from the bridge again,” the musical director calls from the floor.
I nod, adjusting the mic stand.
The band counts off. Guitar. Bass. Drums. Keyboard. More professional and polished than anything I’ve ever performed with. Heck, until now, it’s been mostly me and my guitar. Maybe the bar’s house band, if I was lucky.
I come in on cue, hitting the note clean.
But the director stops us halfway through. “Good, but I need more emotion. You’re telling a story here. Make us believe it.”
I try again.
And again.
By the fourth run-through, my throat is getting scratchy. Forget emotion, I’m not sure I even know what the song’s about anymore.
Paula wasn’t kidding about the schedule being grueling. Most days, I go home with the satisfying kind of exhaustion, the kind that comes with a sense of accomplishment. Today’s not one of those days.
“Better,” the director says. “Let’s take lunch.”
I step off the stage, grabbing my water bottle from the equipment table.
Three weeks in LA.
Three weeks of ten-hour rehearsal days. Vocal coaches and choreography, because, apparently, even standing mostly still needs practice. Wardrobe fittings. Photo shoots. One dinner out with Cash, which Spencer was right about—the paparazzi ate it right up.
Three weeks since I last saw Miles.
We’ve spent most of that time playing phone tag. When I call, he’s on the ice. When he’s free, I’m in rehearsal. We’ve actually caught each other maybe four times in total. Seeing his face has only happened in quick flashes over FaceTime, but I’ll take whatever I can get.
We text, but even those have become sparse. Though I’ve kept up with all my good luck wishes.
It’s not the same. I shouldn’t have expected it to be. I didn’t really, but what do they say about hope springing eternal?
Miles and I will make it through this. I know we will. I only hope all the work I’m putting in and time away will pay off.
“Summer!” Cash’s voice carries from the wings.
I head toward him, weaving through cases and crew members.
He’s leaning against a speaker nearly as tall as him, looking annoyingly put-together for someone who’s been rehearsing for as long as I have.
“What’s up?”
“Interview.” He runs a hand through his hair. “My trailer. Nothing major—just a quick promo spot for the tour.”
We walk in silence, cutting through the backstage maze.
The arena is massive. In just a week, I’ll be on a stage like this one in front of thousands of people. The thought should thrill me, and it does. But it also makes me miss Miles more. Like the CMAs, I keep wishing he were here.
Cash’s trailer is nicer than mine, but at least I have my own. I half-expected them to push the “happy couple” angle and stick us together, so I was relieved when they didn’t.
The interviewer is already set up with a camera guy. She stands when we enter, all bright smile and professional excitement.
“Cash! Summer! Thanks so much for making time.” She shakes our hands. “Miranda Wright.”
“Of course.” Cash settles onto the couch, gesturing for me to sit beside him.
I do, making sure to leave the appropriate amount of space between us. Not too close. Not too far. The dance we’ve perfected over the past three weeks.
“This’ll be quick,” Miranda promises, adjusting her mic. “Just a few questions about the tour, the single, the whole collaboration. Sound good?”
“Sounds great.” Cash beams.
The camera guy gives a countdown.
Miranda’s smile brightens even more. “I’m here with Cash Walker and Summer Starling, and let me just say—For the Record is everywhere right now. How does it feel to have a number one hit?” She directs the question at me.
“Incredible,” I answer, and it is. It’s also exhausting and lonely, but I don’t say that.
“Summer, you’ve had quite the year,” Miranda continues. “From reality TV to opening for one of country music’s biggest stars. What’s that been like?”
Of course, it’s the reality TV show they care about, not the years I spent grinding to get here. I should be used to it by now. At least she’s asking about my career and not my “relationship” with Cash. Most reporters skip over my music, like my love life deserves more attention than my talent.
“It’s been a dream come true. I’m so grateful for the opportunity.” I smile extra wide, all teeth. “My friends back in Nashville know it’s been a long time coming.”
“And Cash, what made you want to work with Summer?”
Cash leans forward slightly. “Her voice. When I heard her demo, I knew we had to work together.”
“There’s definitely chemistry,” Miranda says with a knowing smile. “On stage and off?”
Here we go.
“She’s incredibly talented, and I’m lucky to have her join me on tour,” Cash says smoothly.
“There’s lots of speculation about whether the song was written about your relationship…” Miranda trails off and waits.
No matter how many times they ask about the lyrics and how they relate to us, I refuse to answer. Cash’s management may have gotten me to agree not to mention Miles, but I’m not giving away the only piece of the song that’s still mine. Ours.
Usually, a wide smile and a “That’s close to my heart. I’d like to keep it to myself,” does the trick, but I say firmly, “We won’t be discussing that today.”
Cash chuckles. “You heard the lady.”
Miranda admits defeat and moves on to asking the usual: tour dates, whether we’ll work together again, and a few silly get-to-know-you questions.
I answer on autopilot, hitting all the talking points Kendra has drilled into me. Smile. Be grateful. Don’t say anything that could be misconstrued.
Don’t mention Miles.
I think I stayed on script, but I’m so checked out today that I can’t be sure.
“Well, I think we’ve got everything we need.” Miranda gathers her notes, and the camera guy packs up.
Cash walks them out. The door clicks shut, and he leans against it, exhaling hard. “I hate those.”
“You’re so good at them.” I sink deeper into the couch.
“They’ve programmed me well.” He moves like a robot, stiff and mechanical.
He grabs two water bottles from the mini fridge and tosses me one, then drops onto the opposite end of the couch. “You were a little off.”
I glare at him, and he raises his hands. “Okay, okay. How’re you holding up?” he tries again.
I crack open the water. “I’m tired.”
“You look it.”
“Oh, well, thanks.” I take a long drink.
“You talk to Hockey Boy today?”
My heart performs that now familiar flip. “Not really. Mostly texts.”
“Must be hard, both of you having such crazy schedules?”
“It’s…” I pause, because I don’t know what to say. That I’m scared we’re drifting apart. That I don’t know how to close the gap when we’re barely able to talk. That I miss him so much it physically hurts.
But this is just temporary. If they win the Cup, Miles will have time off. Things will get easier.
“It’s hard to find time that works for both of us,” I settle on.
“For what it’s worth,” Cash starts, picking at the label on his water bottle, “I’m sorry. I know the rumors aren’t making things easier for you.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Cash has been my only sounding board since I got here, the only one who seems to care that I’m here at all, outside of the press.
Paula convinced Kendra she’d look after me, so aside from our emails, I don’t even have her.
In her last one, Kendra said she’s trying to find a way to get me out of the contract, so that’s something.
“Isn’t it?” He huffs, his head falling against the back of the couch.
I cross my arms, then uncross them. “No. I made the choice to do this. I knew what I was signing up for.”
Silence grows, and when I look over at Cash, he’s staring into space. “Can’t be easy for you either,” I hedge.
His head flops toward me. “I’m used to it.”
“Pretending to date someone?” I let out a sound that’s half laugh, half scoff.
His gaze goes unfocused again before he mutters, “Hiding.”
Just as quickly, he blinks, and his happy mask slips back into place. “Anyway. Tell me more about this competition for some kind of cup.”
I get the sense he doesn’t want to say more, so I don’t push. Instead, I grin. “The Stanley Cup.”
“Yeah. That.”
“They’re killing it. They won Round 2 in five games.”
“That’s good, right?” He crushes the water bottle and tosses it at the trash can. He misses.
“Yeah. Really good.”
“When’s the next one?”
“Tonight. First one of the Western Conference Finals.” I check the time on my phone, hoping I’ll make it back to my hotel before it starts. “I wish I could be there for it.”
For Miles.
Cash watches me for a beat, then his eyes sharpen. “I have an idea.”
“Oh, God. I’m scared to ask.”
“No, it’s good.” He grins, too wide. “You’re gonna love it. Promise.”