CHAPTER TWO COEN
CHAPTER TWO
COEN
On the plane ride here, I turn on one of my favorite movies, one that never fails to catch my attention and soothe my head.
Instead of watching, I sit with my forehead against the window and listlessly stare at the dark gray clouds outside.
The trip is three hours. I barely remember it.
I might have fallen asleep, but I can’t remember.
That was when Jamie stepped in and said it’s time for a break.
When I started having gaps in my memory.
The plane hits the runway harder than usual.
I jolt up, grabbing my notebook to keep it from falling.
The woman beside me grabs her coffee, holding it high to keep it from spilling.
Blinking, I shift in my seat and reach for my bag to tuck my earbuds away.
The lights come on, the pilot’s voice splitting through the speakers.
“Goodness, that was a bumpy ride,” the lady says.
I smile, keeping my head down. Sometimes, I get recognized, definitely more often than not now, and I’ve never gotten used to it.
It feels like performing when I’d rather be off the clock.
She starts talking to the man on her other side.
I can’t tell if it’s a friend, or she’s just very chatty.
I pull the phone from my pocket and shoot a text to Jamie.
Made it.
He won’t reply for a bit. He’s in a meeting at the production company, trying to smooth things over.
It wasn’t the idea of multi-billion dollar West Creek Records to send me out to the backwoods of rural Wyoming.
No, it was my million dollar man, Jamie Iron.
He’s been my agent, my best friend, and my compass in navigating the rough waters of stardom for over twenty years now.
He was the one who stepped in when I started crumbling.
Now, he’s in a boardroom like a guard dog, arguing them down on my behalf, just so I can take a few months off.
God, they owe it to me.
I haven’t taken a break in…fifteen years. Not since the first hit blew up across the charts, across radio stations. Not since I got everything I wanted, and it was the worst thing that ever happened to me.
The aisle starts clearing out. Slowly, I grab my stuff, pulling my carry-on from the overhead bin, and head down the walkway into the airport.
Everything feels far away, like I’m in a movie, and this is all sets and extras.
I clear my throat and try to ground myself.
I know Jamie had a rental truck parked for me in the lot outside.
He gave me the keys a few days ago so I can drive to Maxwell Ranch.
I just need a water or something before I go.
I drop my bag on the ground, fumbling for my wallet.
I try to grab it and fail. My hands go still.
Goddamn, I’m in a bad way. I just need some sleep.
Taking hold of the wallet, I pull out a few dollars and insert them into the machine, hitting the code for water. It rattles as the lever rises, then stops.
Okay then.
I wait, but it just keeps whirring and ticking.
Whatever. Gathering up my things, I start walking in the direction of the exit, eyes on the overhead signs.
My boots feel heavy, strange. They usually put me in cowboy boots under my jeans when I’m on stage or at an awards show, but I didn’t grow up wearing those.
I’m back in my familiar footwear from when I was a teenager—plain work boots, cracked leather, dark brown with some decade and a half old mud ground into them.
Stepping outside, I blink in the bright light.
I think I could use a Camel. Jamie doesn’t let me smoke much, even though he does. It’s bad for my voice, he says, but Jamie isn’t here right now. I turn, heading down the sidewalk, and cross the road, digging in my pocket.
A horn rips out, inches from me.
I startle, whirling. A sedan slams on its brakes, and the driver throws his arms out the window, shouting.
Jesus, I just walked into traffic. I lift my hand in apology and sprint to the other side, where the cars are parked.
A shot of adrenaline courses through my veins as I retrieve the key fob from my pocket and click it.
A Dodge truck beeps. Still feeling like a deer in headlights, I cross the lot and climb inside, tossing my bags in the passenger side.
I take a beat, doing all the grounding shit my therapist taught me.
Taking a breath. Counting everything I can feel, hear, touch.
Everything is fine. I’m good. I’m just exhausted after the last tour. Some time in the country, a lot of sleep, and I’ll be ready to hit the ground running. For today, I’ll swing by the gas station and get a coffee and some smokes, let loose a bit, pull myself together.
That thought resets my brain. I pull out of the airport lot, heading out to the lonely state route.
Out here, it’s flat as can be, with white and gray mountains in the far distance.
I grew up in this state. It’s more familiar than my own hand.
For some reason, I don’t really feel like I’m here right now—maybe because I’ve thought about it for so long that now, it seems like a dream.
I anticipated it would have a deeper impact.
Instead, like it felt in the airport, it’s like I’m on a movie set.
I keep driving, foot on the pedal and hands on the wheel, looking like I’m in a video game.
After about thirty minutes, a gas station appears on the horizon.
I pull off and get out, crossing the empty gravel lot and step inside.
A bell rings. A gray tabby cat curled on the register meows and stretches, jumping down. I kneel, letting it sniff me.
“She doesn’t get many strangers.”
I glance up at the grizzled elderly man coming from the back room. It’s clear right away that he doesn’t recognize me. My tense shoulders sink. I’m safe.
“She’s nice,” I say, scratching under her chin and rising. “Can I get a pack of Camels? And a lighter.”
“Sure thing.”
He gathers them up. I go to the freezer and stare into it for a while, then grab the same cheap brand of water I always do. The cat bumps up against my leg and follows me back to the register. The man gathers up my things, running them under the scanner.
“So what brings you out this far?” he asks.
“Me?”
He frowns and looks around. “It’s just you and me here, son.”
“Sorry, long day. I, uh, I’m working at one of the local ranches. Summer job,” I lie.
If I can, I make something up. It’s easier than explaining the truth. He jerks his head, tossing everything in a bag and passing it over. “Well, good luck with that. Gonna be a hot summer this year.”
The concept of being in one place for a whole season is strange.
I’ve been touring for so long, as lead guitarist, as a producer, and finally, most recently, as frontman after I released my self-titled album two years ago.
Usually, when I arrive in a town, I don’t know where I am until I have a minute to get out my phone and check.
Everything blends together after a while.
“You have a good one,” I say.
He jerks his head. I leave, standing by the truck while I dig a smoke out of the bag. The first inhale of sweet summer fields takes me right back, more than the distant mountains do, to sitting on my mom’s porch, guitar behind me, scribbling songs down on old school notebooks.
I thought I knew what I wanted. Then, I got it good and hard.
Now, I’m crumbling.
I stand there and smoke, head empty. Then, a car pulls up.
I don’t want to run the risk of a conversation, so I grind out the cigarette and get back in the car.
It’s getting late anyway, and I told the ranch manager I’d be getting in around eight tonight.
I’ve got about two hours, and if I don’t stop to smoke or get snacks again, I’ll make great time.
My heart slows as I drive. It’s so damn quiet out here. I’ve craved this stillness for so long, never thinking I’d feel it again.
The sun is setting, a brilliant smear of orange across the sky.
I squint up at it, feeling the urge to get my notebook out once I get settled.
But I don’t have to right now, not if I don’t want to.
Jamie pulled strings behind the scenes to make sure I didn’t have any songwriting set up for the next four months.
For the first time in so long, I don’t have a hundred things to do.
It’s a confusing, anxiety-inducing feeling.
He didn’t even let me take my guitar, which is pure torture. He doesn’t trust me not to work.
He’s right.
By the time I pull up the gravel drive, it’s dark.
The house is an enormous ranch build with a wraparound porch surrounded by some of the most breathtaking scenery I’ve witnessed.
Grabbing my bags, I step out and listen.
Cattle low. A nightbird cries and chatters.
It’s so achingly familiar, yet it feels like a foreign land.
Shoving my smokes in my back pocket, I move up the steps.
There’s evidence of dogs, toys and a few beds, but no barking.
I knock quietly on the door.
Silence. Then, footsteps.
The door creaks open, an oval face surrounded by reddish-brown hair appearing. A young woman in her mid-twenties. She blinks up at me, a little shy.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” I say. “Sorry, is the ranch manager here?”
The door swings open all the way.
“I’m the ranch manager,” she says.
That takes me aback. She’s quite small, almost birdlike, in her build.
Her hair is wispy and a little jaggedly cut at the ends.
I can’t tell if that’s on purpose or not.
Her eyes are perfectly round, framed in black lashes, and her face is an oval with a pointed chin.
One of her front teeth slightly overlaps the other.
She has a few freckles on one side of her face, but not really on the other.
Despite being thin, she has nice curves, and her jean shorts and white blouse look good on her figure.
Not that I should be looking.
She’s like a breath of fresh air.