Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
RILEY
Well, here I am.
It felt strange waking up this morning in my hometown but not in the home I grew up in, even though I haven’t woken up in that house for a very long time.
My parents sold it when we moved to Nashville.
Since then, my brother Andrew comes to visit all of us there more often than we come back to Massachusetts to visit him. It’s easier that way.
But now I’ve come here to hide out in Mayweather like some kind of fugitive.
You’d think I really was one for as much as people seem to hate me lately. I’ve always known how fickle the music industry can be. But this is the first time it’s turned on me, and clearly, I’m not handling it well.
While I see what I’m doing as running away, my manager still considers it “laying low.” He says it’s a smart idea to give people some time. That eventually they’ll forget about the Skyler stuff, forget about the lesbian rumors, and move on to someone else’s scandal.
He thinks they’ll forgive me and go right back to loving my music, but I’m not so sure. And even if my fans do forgive and forget... what about me? I don’t know if I can simply forgive and forget the way I’ve been treated.
Maybe we all would’ve moved on more easily if I hadn’t gotten caught drunkenly kissing a random woman in a bar.
I was already on thin ice with the world finding out that my relationship with Skyler had been fake.
But once those photos someone took of me on that stupid night came out, my problems went from people being mad at me for using Skyler for publicity to people accusing me of being a lesbian.
They’re claiming that my songs about my relationships with different men—the songs I built my whole career out of—are all lies.
I’m not sure which is worse in the eyes of my fans—the idea that the songs I write don’t come from my genuine feelings, or simply the idea of me being a lesbian.
Which I’m not.
At least.
I don’t think I am.
No, I know I’m not. I’ve always been attracted to men.
I’ve dated men. Not only PR relationships, but real ones.
I may have let fans believe that certain songs were about one celebrity or another when they were really about someone or something else, but that doesn’t mean I’ve only been pretending to be interested in men for my entire life.
The thing is, though, I can’t stop thinking about kissing that woman.
And not only because it may have ruined my life.
I haven’t made any kind of public statement yet—my manager and publicist are working on what they want to say—but there’s no way of denying to myself that I liked it.
But since that’s the only sexual experience I’ve ever had with a woman, I’m not entirely sure what it means for me.
My brother is gay, and I’ve always been an ally. So the idea that I might be bisexual doesn’t scare me. It’s just confusing. Because I’ve dated plenty of men, and I’ve never been interested in dating a woman before.
I can recognize when a woman is hot, though. So what does that mean?
Groaning, I force myself out of bed and into the bathroom. I need to take a shower and make myself presentable enough to head downstairs to the inn’s dining room, where I’m meeting Andrew for breakfast.
I’ll have plenty of time to contemplate my sexuality while I’m stuck here hiding.
Laying low, I mean.
Andrew’s late, and I should have expected this. He’s not a morning person. He teaches elementary school, so he needs to get up fairly early during the school year, but as soon as summer break hits, he reverts back to his natural tendencies.
I’ve always been an early riser. One of the many ways in which we’re different.
At home in Tennessee, sometimes I’ll find myself waking up before the sunrise.
There’s such a sense of peace in taking a cup of tea and my guitar outside and watching the sky change.
I do some of my best writing at that time.
Andrew, on the other hand, used to do all his studying late at night. He’s a total academic nerd, whereas I used to daydream my way through school, jotting down song lyrics in my notebooks rather than class notes.
Despite how different we are, though, my brother and I are super close. It’s harder now that we spend most of the time in separate states, but growing up, we were inseparable.
And even though my reasons for being in Mayweather suck, I’m really excited to see him. If he ever gets here.
I order a cup of coffee while I wait for him, and I thank the server when she brings it to me.
But she walks away before I realize that I forgot to ask for maple syrup.
So as she turns from taking care of the only other occupied table across the dining room, I stick up my hand as politely as possible to get her attention.
My request might be a bit strange, but that’s how I like my coffee.
With a tiny amount of cream and a little syrup to sweeten it.
I didn’t think it was a big deal until I ask for the syrup and the server looks at me like I have a horn growing out of my head.
Then, of course, she quickly rearranges her face into a well-practiced customer service smile and tells me she’ll be right back with it.
Only she doesn’t come back with it. Another woman, older than the server, comes out instead. She gives me a sharply assessing look as she silently sets the glass bottle down on the table.
“Oh, hi,” I say, recognizing her from when I checked in yesterday. “You helped me with my bags yesterday, didn’t you?”
“Yup.”
“Well, um, thank you. I thought you were a concierge. I didn’t realize you were a server.”
Her brown eyes—that weren’t exactly friendly to begin with—darken. “I’m the head chef.”
“Oh! Sorry!” I cringe internally, hoping I haven’t insulted her. “I’ve heard the food is delicious. I’ll probably be eating most of my meals here, so that’s good to know.”
This time she gives me a wry smile, which I guess is better than the glare. “Don’t worry. I’ll try to keep everything up to your five-star standards.”
“Uh... I didn’t...”
I’m at a loss for how to respond, taken aback by the obvious sarcasm. I’m used to people wanting to please me because of my fame, but I don’t normally ask for any special treatment unless it’s for security purposes.
It feels like this woman is being rude to me for no reason, and I’m surprised she’s not worried about me complaining to the owner. Not that I would.
I really appreciate him accommodating me on such short notice and assuring me I’ll be fine to stay in the suite as long as I’d like. And I already have more than enough bad press as it is. The last thing I need is for word to get out that I’m snobby and demanding to people in hospitality.
The woman taps the top of the syrup bottle with one short but perfectly manicured bare fingernail. “You know, we always bring out syrup when a guest orders something that might need it. But you haven’t ordered your food yet.”
“No, I know. I’m waiting for someone. I actually use the syrup in my coffee,” I explain. Then I let out a nervous giggle that I wish I could take back.
Her face now clearly says, What the fuck.
“I didn’t mean to cause any issues,” I add, fiddling with the strap of my dress as if it’s fallen out of place when it hasn’t. “And the server’s been great!”
I don’t understand how I’ve seemed to get on this woman’s bad side after only being here less than twenty-four hours. But I also don’t want her to take her wrath out on the innocent server.
“All right, then,” she says after a couple beats of uncomfortable silence. “I just wanted to come out and make sure you were being taken care of properly. I’ll inform the servers to bring the syrup with your coffee from now on.”
I open my mouth to protest that it’s not necessary, but she’s already striding back to the kitchen. So I’m left to fix my coffee and try to puzzle out that strange interaction while I continue waiting for Andrew.
He finally shows up—fifteen minutes late—and greets me enthusiastically, throwing his arms around me before I can even fully stand up. We hug for longer than necessary, but we haven’t seen each other in a long time, and with how shitty things have been for me lately, it kind of feels necessary.
When he finally pulls back, I take a moment to look at him properly.
His dark hair is styled shorter on the sides and a bit longer and messier on top, and he’s still wearing the same pair of thick, black-framed glasses that he’s had for years.
He’s equal parts nerd and alternative. When we were kids, none of our elementary school teachers had gauges in their ears and sleeves of tattoos, and I know his students think he’s the coolest.
I think so too.
The server is hovering at the edge of the dining room, most likely waiting for us to sit back down before she comes over. So I motion for Andrew to take a seat, not wanting to do anything else to make the staff annoyed with me.
“It’s so good to see you,” he says, adjusting his glasses that got knocked askew during the hug. “I’m sorry about the circumstances.”
“It’s good to see you too,” I tell him. But I pause the conversation as the server comes over to get Andrew’s drink order. After she leaves, I add, “No matter the circumstances. I’m happy we’ll get to have quality sibling time this summer.”
“Are you staying for the whole summer?”
I shrug. “I have no idea. My manager expects all the bullshit to blow over eventually. But I’m gonna try like hell to not even worry about that while I’m here.”
He tilts his face down and gives me a disbelieving look over the top of his glasses.
“I said I’m going to try,” I reiterate. “I probably won’t succeed, but honestly, I think taking a break from working will be good for me. Even before this stuff happened, I was stressing over how to stay relevant as I get older.”
“Because you’re ancient, obviously,” he says with a laugh.
“For a woman in country music, I am.”