CHAPTER FOUR COEN
CHAPTER FOUR
COEN
Serena, the bubbly and sharp-tongued little sister, disappears a few seconds after Bill and Sabrina, saying she needs to put her face on—whatever that means. I go out through the back door, stopping to pet the dogs, and return to the guesthouse for a shower.
Last night, I barely got a chance to look around.
The layover and plane ride took a lot out of me.
Today, I pull open the blinds and do a lap around the bedroom, bathroom, living area, and kitchen to get a lay of the land.
It’s simple, which I like. I’ve been put up in a lot of luxury hotels and condos over the last decade or so, and there’s something incredibly disjointing about them after a while.
Here, I feel the ghost of home.
My phone rings. I was expecting Jamie to reach out, but not until tonight. Hoping it’s a good sign, I swipe my screen and put it to my ear.
“Hey, man,” I say. “Everything good?”
“Yeah, just checking on you.”
Jamie has one of those classic country cigarette voices, even worse in the morning. He probably could’ve done his own album if he weren’t so tied up with representing other artists.
“I’m good. This place is nice,” I say, looking through the narrow kitchen window at the barn by the house. “Did you have that meeting with Orsen?”
“I did. He’s not happy, but I got him talked down.”
A wave of guilt moves through my chest.
“I’m sorry, man. I tried to make it.”
He clears his throat. “You made it a long time. You need a break now.”
I try to answer, but it gets caught in my throat. “So when’s my new deadline for the next album?”
“Late November.”
“November? Who is this album for?” I turn in a circle, rubbing the back of my neck. It’s a bad sign for my mental health that I don’t even know what I was working on when Jamie pulled me and sent me out here.
“It’s for Casey Bills. You’ll be fine, and if we need to push, we push.”
“I can’t push too far.”
“I already talked to Jenn, and she understands.”
My stomach tightens. Jenn is the manager for Casey Bills, one of the biggest names in Nashville right now. Now that I’m talking with Jamie, the contract is surfacing in my blurry mind.
“What’s the deadline again?” I ask, even though I know he just told me. I’m too tired to retain anything anymore. Jamie knows.
“It was November, but she’s willing to work with you. It’s not announced to the public yet, so we have flexibility. This is a problem for the fall. I have it handled.”
My shoulders sink in relief. I’ve written under extreme pressure for years. Hell, I’ve written entire albums during layovers in the Dallas airport more than a few times. But right now, I don’t have the stamina. My chest feels like it’s crushed in a giant fist.
“Okay, that’s all good. I can do that.”
“You have your notebook, so you can fuck around with the lyrics while you’re out there, but nothing else.”
“Yeah, yeah. I can do that.”
I stretch my right arm, popping the joints.
Years of writing has worn it down, giving me constant pain in my thumb and elbow.
Now that I’m in Wyoming, I want to stay.
For the first time in ages, my brain kind of wants the rest, say nothing of other things like pretty cowgirls who won’t quit making eyes at me.
No, I’m not ready to hit the road yet.
I clear my throat. “How’s Amy doing?”
“Amy? We’ve been broken up for three months.”
Again, guilt twinges through my chest. I run a hand over my face. It feels like the longer I do this job, the worse my memory gets. Maybe it’s how many people I know, how many I meet, how many names I’m supposed to remember so I don’t come off as a douche.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“It’s all good. I’ve been through a revolving door in my love life, so that’s on me.”
“No, it’s just… I’m….” I falter, and the silence grows heavy.
“You good, man?”
I nod. What I want to tell him is how I can’t seem to wake up.
How my brain is so tired, it feels like stretched, melted tar on the road in the hot sun.
I want to tell him about accidentally walking into traffic yesterday, about giving up the second the water bottle got stuck.
How when I stand in airports now, it feels like the world spins around me, but I’m not part of it anymore.
How I’m losing something. Or maybe I already lost it.
Instead, I clear my throat so my voice doesn’t crack. “I’m all good. I’m actually going out with Bill and his daughters to a diner, so I’m looking forward to that. I should probably go. They might be waiting on me already.”
“That’s great,” he says, almost like he means it. “Do that shit. Get yourself grounded.”
“Yeah, I will. I’m good. You good?”
“Better than good.”
He tells me to take it easy, even though I probably won’t, and I hang up. Then, like I’m in a daze, I go to the bedroom to find my notebook and pen. The floppy cardboard cover is plain brown, nothing on it. Inside, there are no lines, just pale yellow paper. I flip through the empty pages.
I haven’t written anything yet.
I was kind of hoping I could write my own shit in here.
Shoving it in my back pocket with my only ballpoint pen, I leave the gatehouse. The first thing I see as I round the house for the front driveway is Sabrina. I stumble slightly, halting.
I’ve never been a player, but I fell into my fair share of one night stands over the last decade.
Nothing I’m ashamed of—I always left them happy—but I agreed with Jamie when he said don’t try dating anyone while on a break.
My last relationship, a significant one, left me reeling and a little numb when it ended.
The last thing I need while I’m in this state is that feeling all over again.
The problem is…she’s beautiful.
My type, from her head to her feet. Last night, I saw it, but today, it really sinks in.
She’s in jean shorts that show a shadow of her lightly rounded ass, her lean thighs, her calves that run to her brown leather cowboy boots.
Her shirt is a little bit big. I noticed she likes baggy shirts, but it drapes over her breasts in a way that highlights them.
Her hair is pulled up on her head, wispy bangs and bits falling over her neck.
My eyes linger on her lopsided freckles.
I wonder how much younger she is. Maybe ten years?
That’s not that many.
Am I a stereotype? I hope not. She’s the first younger woman I’ve been interested in.
“Are you coming?”
I jump out of my skin. A few yards away is Serena, hand on her hip, popping her gum. She’s brash, more Jamie’s type than mine. Not that I’m looking at anyone but Sabrina right now.
“Yeah, let’s go,” I say, following her to the driveway.
Bill comes out, and I stand back to watch as he tries to get up in the truck.
It’s pretty tall, and it takes a couple tries, but he makes it into the passenger side.
Sabrina hovers hard around his elbow. It’s clear she’s worried about him, and I wonder if they had a scare like a fall or something recently.
I head to the back, but Bill leans across.
“You want to drive?” he calls.
I pause, looking at Sabrina, who nods. “You can if you like. I can give you directions.”
Both sisters get in the back, and the doors slam, so I have no other choice but to slide into the driver’s seat.
Bill hits the button, and the engine starts.
Fast Car starts playing, and I freeze, unable to breathe for a second.
Without meaning to, I’m back in my studio in Nashville, my first guitar in hand, picking through this song.
It was my go-to for years whenever anyone asked me to play something.
My mom used to play it on the porch when I was little, and I could sing it in my sleep.
“You good?”
Sabrina leans in. I nod, reaching for my seatbelt.
“Yeah, sorry. Just haven’t been in a truck for a while.” I cringe, knowing I drove a truck here, but nobody contradicts me. Carefully, I guide the truck out to the end of the drive.
“Alright, where are we headed?” I ask.
“Go left,” Serena says.
“Right is faster,” Bill interjects.
Sabrina shifts between the seats, leaning over the console and punching an address into the large screen on the dash. Her arm brushes mine, warm skin on skin.
My scalp prickles.
Uh-oh. I’m going to do something I regret again.
“Thanks,” I say.
She pats my arm once and then sinks into the back row. For the next few miles, while Bill and Serena chat, Sabrina adding a few words here and there, I think about nothing but the way my skin glows where she touched it.
I shake my head once.
I’ve been here for one night, and I’m already fucking up.
The last thing I need is Jamie calling me with his disappointed voice.
Lost in thought, I stay quiet until we pull into city parking by a coffee shop.
Nelsonville, WY is a much bigger town than I anticipated.
It reminds me a little bit of a tiny Nashville, with its bright, thriving downtown.
The ground is paved in clean red stone, there are a fair number of tourist shops, a few grocers, restaurants, and, to my surprise, a music store.
My eyes linger on the Gibson in the window.
Damn nice guitar.
Sabrina is out before I can cut the engine, hovering over Bill as he ambles down.
He’s a lot more agile than she gives him credit for.
I climb out, locking the truck with the key fob in my pocket.
Other than my mom, who passed when I was nineteen, the year I met Jamie, I never had a family.
I mean, of course there’s Jamie, who’s like my brother.
But I never had…this. It’s odd, like looking at something I’ve only heard about through a microscope.
It’s like being at the zoo and thinking…
huh, how interesting, without actually feeling anything.
Maybe that’s just the exhaustion.
“You feeling alright, son?” Bill asks, hand clapping on my shoulder.
“Yeah, I could use some breakfast.”
“The Bear Café has a western omelet that’ll knock your socks off.”