Chapter 2
After a red-eye back to Texas, I breathe out a sigh when we finally veer off the highway down the familiar gravel road. The tension in my shoulders loosens—not all the way, but enough to feel the difference. We pass my aunt and uncle’s house, the same light burning above the kitchen sink, just like always. Other than that their house is dark. Leaning forward, I ask the driver to cut his headlights so they won’t wake up and wonder who’s pulling up in the middle of the night. When we pass the small pond separating our houses, the roof of my secluded cabin comes into view and my body sags in relief.
The moment I step inside, I toe off my shoes, drop my bags onto the kitchen floor, and trudge upstairs to my bedroom. After a quick stop in the bathroom, I drag myself to my California King.
While this might be a weight lifted, I still have no idea what to expect. This is supposed to be a fresh start. A reset. But right now all I feel is lost. For years, my life has been dictated by recording schedules and endless touring, so this blank space of time stretching out in front of me has me feeling unmoored.
Lying on my back, I stare up at the ceiling, overwhelmed and restless with my thoughts spinning, spinning, spinning. You’re falling behind. Everyone’s disappointed in you. You don’t deserve any of this. All you’ll ever be is a drunk fuck-up. That last one sounds an awful lot like the voice of my father.
I jump out of bed and storm downstairs, heading straight to my liquor cabinet. Since I’m not here often, it's pretty bare, but there are a couple of bottles of Jack Daniels. Not even bothering to grab a glass, I pop the cork and head to my front porch, taking a long pull of the dark amber liquid as I throw open the door.
The fresh night air instantly grounds me, and I inhale deeply, sucking in as much as my lungs will hold and blow it out slowly. With the bottle still clutched in my hand, I lower onto my front step, tilting my head up to study the night sky. It’s a clear summer night with no light pollution out here. My eyes adjust and the stars begin flickering to life through the darkness until the whole sky is lit up by them.
“Is there a version of me somewhere out there looking up at these same stars who’s got his shit together?” I say the words aloud, even though there’s no one around to respond. Or maybe because there’s no one around to respond.
After a few more swigs, I set the bottle beside me and close my eyes, attempting to shut off my brain and focus on the sounds around me. An owl hoots in the distance and I hear toads croaking by the pond, but despite the nighttime sounds, it feels like silence.
On the road, there wasn’t a single quiet moment, not even when we slept. We tried to get hotels as often as we could, but most of the time the tour bus was my home away from home. Road noise and the rumble of the engine became the soundtrack of my life.
Finally, my eyelids start to feel heavy. Dragging myself up to stand, I turn to head inside, leaving the open whiskey bottle sitting where I left it. I was able to stop. That’s progress, right? Right before I’m to the door, the shame sets in. Maybe I didn’t down it all in one sitting, but it hasn’t even been four hours since Tyler and I talked and I’m already failing.
In two steps, I’m back glaring down at the bottle sitting there. I snatch it up, hurling it with all I’ve got at the gnarled oak tree by my driveway. It hits the trunk with a crash, liquid and glass going everywhere.
“ FUCK! ” I roar into the night.
After a few deep breaths, I turn and head back to my bedroom, stripping down to my boxer briefs. Finally, I’m so exhausted that my eyes have no choice but to close.
* * *
The sound of my phone ringing jolts me awake and my hand shoots out, fumbling around for it in my bed. Before even glancing at the screen, I know it’ll be Tyler’s name flashing back at me. He hates texting. In fact, he was the last person I knew to even get a smartphone, and he only did because it came free with his phone plan. Half the time when I text him, he immediately calls me. I punch the button to answer and before I’ve even said hello, he dives straight into the details.
“Got you a private flight like last night. It doesn’t leave until four tomorrow afternoon. That way you won’t have to rush in the morning. A car is also lined up. I’ll send you the email from the rental company with all the information you’ll need. Oh, and I’m having all of your mail forwarded to my apartment while you’re gone.”
“Morning to you, too.” My voice is scratchy from sleep.
“Except it’s not morning. You get caught up on your beauty rest?”
I ease the phone from my ear and see it’s half past noon.
“Something like that,” I groan. “Had a hard time getting settled last night. And before you ask, no I didn’t get drunk.” It’s not a lie. I didn’t get drunk.
Rising from my bed, I slip on a pair of sweatpants and head downstairs to fix a cup of coffee.
“Where am I staying?” I ask, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can use both hands to get my coffee ready. There’s a fancy ass espresso maker with dozens of buttons on my countertop, but a simple French press is more my style.
“It’s a tiny town. All they’ve got is a roadside motel. I sent you a link. It’s nothing fancy, but it looks clean.”
While the grounds steep, I move to my island, lowering onto the closest stool. I put my phone on speaker and scroll to my email to check the links Ty has sent. It looks like everything’s in order.
“Yeah, that’ll do.” Honestly, I couldn’t care less where I stay on this trip. “What's my story? What’s Kate come up with?” Those are just a few of the hundred questions nagging at me. Since I slept in, I’m completely clueless on what people are saying about the show last night.
“Kate’s preparing to release a statement this evening. She wants to keep it simple and stick as close to the truth as possible. If you’re on board, she’ll say you have vocal distress and it’s affecting your mental health. You felt it was in everyone's best interest to postpone the last two concerts until a later date. She’ll call you in a bit to discuss your socials.”
“All right, yeah. Sounds good. Tell Kate I sign off on that, or I can tell her when she calls.” We sit in a loaded silence, the weight of so many unspoken thoughts hanging between us.
“I assume you talked to Aunt Ashley and Uncle Brad since they’ve been quiet today. I’m sure they know I’m here.” My uncle is a quiet man, but not my aunt. She’s not a busybody or anything like that, but it’s like she has a sixth sense for when I’m in town. She always shows up trying to feed me.
“Yeah. Everyone’s letting you decide when you’re ready to talk.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” I sit chewing over my next words. “Hey, Ty? Remember how it used to be?”
“What exactly are you referring to?” he asks.
“When I first started out the venues were small. None of that pyrotechnic bullshit. None of that confetti they love to drop from the ceilings nowadays. It was just me and my guitar sitting on a stool singing some songs I’d written.”
“Yeah, I remember.” He pauses, chuckling. “Life was damn sure easier back then, wasn’t it?"
“Sure was, man…” My words trail off to silence, and I hear my aunt's chickens squawking near the main house. “I wouldn’t mind going back to that,” I finally admit.
The line goes silent, and I glance at my phone to make sure he’s still there. After a beat, he speaks again. “Take some time to think about that. While you’re in Alabama, think about whether that’s truly what you want. If you still feel this way at the end of August, we can bring it up at the meeting with Doug and the team at the label.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoff. “You know what they’ll say. But yeah, I’ll think on it.”
I’m fully aware what an ungrateful prick I sound like. Who wouldn’t want my life, right? If you’d told fourteen-year-old me, singing on that stage in my tiny high school auditorium, that this would become the bane of my existence rather than the love of my life, I’d have said you were out of your goddamn mind.
“Listen, I’m gonna get off here. You’ll keep me posted on any details I need, right?”
“Right. You saw my emails. I’ll let you know if something changes. Talk soon.”
As soon as the call ends, my phone lights up again. In typical Kate Green fashion, she gets straight to the point: I’m not allowed to post anything on social media. My fans are like amateur detectives, looking for any hints about my whereabouts, often creating entire scenarios based on something they’ve misconstrued in my caption. She doesn’t want me dropping any accidental breadcrumbs about where I am—and that’s fine by me. Social media is nothing but a racket that I’d rather not deal with, anyway.
Now that that’s over I head outside to clean up the mess I made last night. My aunt and uncle’s dog, Gracie, tends to run over here sometimes, and I don’t want her cutting her paws up due to my stupidity. After gathering as much of the glass I can find, I toss it in the trash and head inside to shower. I don’t bother shaving, but I do stand under the hot stream for so long my skin turns red.
Once I’ve dried off I throw on a clean t-shirt and athletic shorts and start checking off my mental to-do list, one by one. Since I’m back home and not on day one million of the tour, I don’t have an assistant to pick up my laundry, which means I have a suitcase full. I’d normally dread washing all these clothes myself but today the simple act of washing and drying is therapeutic. Almost like a respite from the life I’ve been living on the road. I pop in my ear buds and hit play on my classic country playlist, singing along with Marty Robbins and Johnny Cash while I fold shirts and match socks.
My freezer is mostly empty other than a few frozen pizzas, so I heat one up and spend the rest of the evening googling everything I can about the town and studio I’ll be spending a month in. My jaw is on the floor, and I’m not sure how I haven’t heard of this place before. The town might have a population of less than five thousand people, but Tyler wasn’t kidding when he said great things have come out of this one. I can’t even fathom what it’ll feel like to stand where Bob Dylan stood. Hell, even Chris Stapleton recorded there. How the hell has this place slipped past me?
I scroll to the "About The Studio" tab and see that a man named Charlie Miller owns and runs it, but when I Google him, an obituary from a few years ago pops up. Hmm…that’s unsettling. I guess I’ll have to trust that Ty confirmed this is still a legit, working studio. Because this time tomorrow, I’ll be in Singing River, ready for whatever happens next.