Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“The tour hasn’t been selling like we expected.” Corey drummed his meaty fingers against the table, eyes not lifting from his laptop.
Even though he’d been our representative from the label for a couple of months now—from the moment I’d stepped off of Tough Love and into the limelight—I still hadn’t gotten used to his insensitive way of speaking. He was always short, curt, and didn’t beat around the bush.
“I thought we were at seventy-five percent sold,” my mom said.
Corey lifted a graying eyebrow, briefly meeting her stare. “Exactly. We should have sold out by now. The tour kicks off next month.”
Dread pooled in my chest, a feeling I’d grown accustomed to lately. It happened every time I met with someone from my label. It was like I was preparing myself for disappointment every time.
“I mean, it’s still my first album. Aren’t the venues a little big?” I offered the same concern I’d brought up numerous times.
In response, both Corey and my mother turned to me, as if surprised I’d chosen to speak.
“You had a lot of buzz coming off the show, honey.” My mother had the uncanny ability to make the common term of endearment sound like a threat.
“Buzz that has since died down,” Corey muttered.
I noticed the tightness in my mother’s smile as she said, “It’ll start up again.”
Corey shifted in his seat. I couldn’t stop staring at the unidentifiable stain above the pocket on the left side of his shirt.
He leaned forward and folded his hands. “Look, we typically see a spike with an album, which is why we started selling tickets for the tour right before the release. Your debut did well, but with tour numbers like these?” He paused to frown.
“The reality is, we have no reason to think the sophomore album will do as well.”
Heat and ice somehow pricked my skin simultaneously. I felt powerless. They continued to talk as if I wasn’t even in the room, so I zoned out, staring at the posters on the walls of the office.
Going on tour should be a dream. I used to love performing live, but this label made it so transactional it sucked the joy right out of everything. And by booking me in these venues I was in no position to fill, it was like they were setting me up to fail.
My phone buzzed on the table. When I peered over to read the message notification, my heart stopped dead in my chest.
Unknown: Hi, Trace? It’s Danny. I got your number from…
The rest was cut off. My spine tingled. Was it warm in here? I suddenly felt like I hadn’t eaten in days.
Danny had texted me. Gotten my number from someone and texted me. Like it was a completely casual thing to do.
When he’d dumped me on the show a few months back, I’d thought for sure I’d never hear from him again. Although, embarrassingly, I’d had fantasies about him reaching out, telling me it was a mistake. That he couldn’t stop thinking about me and he wanted to try after all.
Delusional, I know.
But before I could steady my shaky hand to pick up my phone. My mom kneed me under the table, a sure sign that I should have been paying attention and answering a question from Corey, but I hadn’t been listening.
“S-sorry,” I managed to get out. “What was that?”
My mom shot Corey an apologetic look. “He said while we’re in negotiations, maybe you could meet with some of their writers. You know. Get a feel for what your next album could sound like. It might spark some interest.”
He nodded. “We’re thinking even more pop than country. Upbeat. Synthy.”
“Synthy,” I repeated.
“Right. I know you like the more folky stuff, but it’s hard to break through right now. It’s simultaneously niche and saturated.”
My cheeks burned. What I really wanted to say was that this label could shove it. They didn’t believe in me. They’d used me.
When they signed me, I’d been na?ve, newly semi-famous, and excited about a record deal.
Even though I’d written some of the songs on my first album, they’d produced them in such a way that made my music nearly unrecognizable.
And now that I couldn’t be the cash cow they wanted, they were going to send me out to pasture—unless I wanted to try and mold myself further to whatever they wanted.
“I don’t know,” I started to say, but my mother squeezed my thigh—hard.
“Let’s set something up.” She had that fake polite voice on, the same one others might use for customer service.
Corey did some scrolling on his laptop. “Can you fly to Denver? We’ve got a satellite office there that our newest writer works out of.”
“She’ll be there.”
They continued to talk about logistics, but between the way this terrible meeting was going and the text from Danny currently sitting unread on my phone, I was crawling out of my own skin. I needed to get out of there, away from my mother, so I could read and overanalyze this message in peace.
Unfortunately, I didn’t get the chance.
Back in the car, driving home, my mother continued to talk my ear off.
“You need to be more receptive in those meetings. They could drop you, Tracy. This is your dream, not mine. I’ve practically dedicated my life to you—first the pageants, now the singing. And you just sit there, ungrateful.”
“I am grateful,” I said, not pointing out that the pageants had always been her dream. I’d begged time and time again not to be forced to do them.
“It doesn’t seem that way,” she said.
The entire time she berated me, my phone and the unread message burned a hole in my pocket. It was honestly a welcome distraction.
What could he have said? I was probably building it up to be more than it was.
What if it was something unbearably mundane, like he just wanted a restaurant recommendation in Nashville, or something?
Or worse—what if it wasn’t even him? What if it was some other Danny I’d forgotten about, or someone from the label I didn’t know.
My foot tapped relentlessly against the floor. I wouldn’t be able to sit still until I read it.
But I didn’t get a moment alone for hours. My mother insisted on running an errand—to the store for a handbag she’d been meaning to pick up—and dragging me to dinner before taking us home. A townhome I’d purchased only last month, but where she had somehow already commandeered the guest bedroom.
“It’s just easier,” she’d said.
But right now, she was downstairs, nursing a glass of wine, as I raced into my bedroom, closed the door, and locked it.
Finally, finally alone.
I paced my imitation-wood floors as I pulled up the message, staring at the text preview again.
“Just do it,” I whispered to myself.
I exhaled and clicked on the alert.
Unknown: Hi, Trace. It’s Danny. I got your number from Eli and Calla.
My brow furrowed. That was it. Nothing else. Seriously? No explanation, not even a question. No Hey how are you? Sorry I dumped you on national TV, by the way.
What the heck?
Before I could think, I fired off a response, my irritation over the build-up and the let-down driving my thumbs as I typed.
Trace: Can I help you with something?
I threw my phone onto my bed. After all these months of no contact, that was the best he could come up with? I shouldn’t have answered. I should have played it cool. Let him sweat and—
My phone buzzed and I leaped onto my bed to grab it.
Danny: Sorry for reaching out like this out of nowhere.
Danny: I know it might be fucked up to say, but I can’t stop thinking about you.
Was I lucid? Was this actually happening? The number of times I’d pictured him sending these exact words could fill an encyclopedia. My fingers moved furiously.
Trace: Yes, it is messed up. Thank you for admitting it.
Danny: Is it also fucked up to say I regret it?
My breath caught in my throat.
I should have known it was a mistake. It didn’t matter. I was hung up on the guy. And what girl could resist it when a guy they couldn’t stop thinking about, admitted they missed them?
Just like that, with so few words, I was being drawn right back in.