Chapter 2
LAUREL
The first time a doctor told me I might never sing again, Grant punched a wall in the Vanderbilt parking garage hard enough to fracture two knuckles.
I’m halfway home from another follow-up when Dr. Mehta calls.
Minutes later, I’m parked in the first lot I could turn into, the air-conditioning blasting against my face and her words still coming through the speakers, although I stopped hearing whole sentences somewhere around the scar tissue has softened considerably.
There are medical terms after that. Something about a newer procedure they’ve been using in Boston, a specialist Dr. Mehta trained with, imaging that looks better than it did eighteen months ago.
No promises—doctors tend not to hand those out—but there is a possibility now that wasn’t there before.
A real one. Not maybe someday medicine will catch up, not perhaps you could tolerate a few songs with enough therapy, not another sympathetic smile followed by a pamphlet about accepting permanent vocal damage.
She means I might actually be able to sing again.
Tour, perhaps. Record. Stand beneath lights without spending the next forty-eight hours terrified I’ve damaged what little voice I have left.
My hand has gone numb around the steering wheel.
“Laurel?” Dr. Mehta says.
“I’m here.” My voice sounds the way it always does now—lower than it used to be, a faint roughness through the middle that strangers sometimes call sexy because they have the luxury of not knowing what it cost. “Sorry. I’m just…
” I look through the windshield at the brick building across from me.
A woman comes down the steps as a car crawls past mine in search of a space.
I laugh once, but it comes out a little too close to a sob. “You’re telling me I could sing again.”
“I’m telling you there’s a real chance you could. I just want to run a few more tests before I say for sure.”
It’s such a doctor answer that I laugh for real this time. “Y’all must take a class in ruining moments.”
“Second year of medical school.”
“Right after anatomy?”
“Just before crushing optimism.”
I close my eyes, laughing even as tears stream down my face.
Grant should be here. My husband is the first person I want to tell, ahead of Mama, my manager, and the handful of producers and writers who still send songs my way every few months despite knowing I haven’t stepped inside a recording booth in four years.
It has always been Grant. He was there for the worst day of my life, his hand wrapped around mine, and I’ve always believed he’d be there for the best one too.
I call him again after I hang up. It rings and rings.
No answer. I stare at his name until the screen goes black in my palm.
Four calls now, which is three more than I’d normally make and four more than Mama would consider dignified.
She believes a woman should never go chasing anybody who already knows where to find her, a philosophy she has applied to men, employment, and one estranged sister in Mississippi with equal commitment.
Usually, I agree. Grant has spent fourteen years knowing exactly where to find me, eleven of them with a ring on his finger. Today, though, I want my husband. Pride can go fuck itself. Of all the afternoons for Grant Mercer to ignore his phone, he picks this one.
I type another message instead, reread it, hate how needy please answer me looks, and send it anyway. A horn chirps from the other end of the lot in tandem with the slam of a car door.
The slam takes me straight back to Vanderbilt four years ago.
I remember Grant storming around that parking garage, blood running over his knuckles, too furious to sit still with nobody else to blame.
The surgeon had done nothing except tell us the truth.
Grant crouched in front of me afterward, his knuckles already swelling, tears pooling in his eyes, and said, Then I’ll sing yours too.
Until you can do it yourself, I’ll sing enough for both of us.
I still think it was one of the most romantic things my husband has ever said to me. I just know now that until can stretch a hell of a lot longer than you ever expect.
I sink lower in my seat. When did getting hold of my husband become this difficult? On our anniversary, of all days. I quit expecting much from anniversaries years ago, but picking up his damn phone feels like a pretty low bar.
My phone vibrates. Relief knocks the breath out of me before I even look at the screen.
Grant.
Except it isn’t.
Celia Hargrove.
I debate letting it ring just for the satisfaction of making my mother-in-law wait for something, but knowing Celia, she’ll only call back with more determination.
“Hi, Celia.”
“You sound strange.”
Naturally, she skips the hello. Grant’s mother has regarded greetings as wasted calories for as long as I’ve known her.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
I swipe the tears from my cheeks, my excitement ebbing. “I’ve spent the last ten minutes laughing and crying at the same time. I’m sure that’s done wonders for my voice.”
A faint rustle comes through the line, followed by what I assume is the knock of hangers against a rail. “Why have you been crying?”
That damn near gives me whiplash. Celia asking a personal question without immediately following it with advice or criticism? I check the caller ID again.
“Long story.”
“Hm.” With her, that could mean I heard you, we’ll discuss it later, or this conversation has officially exceeded its allotted time. I still haven’t figured out which one.
“I moved the dinner reservation to eight,” she informs me. “You’re still coming, right? It is your anniversary, after all.”
Of course. Silly me for thinking we might spend another thirty seconds discussing my emotional breakdown.
I glance at the time. Four thirty-five. Sloane’s showcase intro is at six, and according to the schedule someone from publicity sent me at eleven last night—with six exclamation points and the phrase women supporting women moment—I’m expected onstage at five-twenty to introduce her.
Between that and dinner with Grant’s Mom, I need to get my husband alone and tell him the future we stopped allowing ourselves to hope for might not be gone after all.
“Yes, Celia. I’ll be there.”
“At eight, Laurel. Not eight-fifteen with an apology attached.”
“Your son is usually the one who needs that speech.”
“Grant is never late when it matters.”
I stare at the dashboard. Twelve thousand answers come to mind, and eleven thousand nine hundred ninety-nine of them would make Thanksgiving unbearable.
“I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
“You do that.” A faint rustle comes through the line again. “And wear one of the Herrera dresses I gave you for your birthday tonight. The silk one with the fitted waist and full skirt.”
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
“The navy one, Laurel. It takes a good two inches off your waist. Cream has never been kind to your complexion.”
Does murdering your overbearing mother-in-law qualify as self-care? I sure as hell need to know.
“Noted.”
“You looked beautiful in the navy at Caroline Whitaker’s benefit.”
Well, hell. A compliment. Celia must be ill.
“Thank you.”
“The neckline could’ve been an inch higher, but otherwise it suited you.”
There she is.
I roll my eyes. “I’ll see you at eight, Celia.”
“Eight sharp.”
The call ends before I can tell her exactly what seven sharp can do with itself.
Grant once told me his mother was proof God occasionally creates a woman and forgets to install a filter.
He said it on our eighth date after Celia asked if my hips were naturally that wide or if the dress was doing me no favors.
I laughed so hard sweet tea came out of my nose, and Grant looked at me across the restaurant like he’d just discovered his favorite thing in the world.
I can’t remember the last time he looked at me like that.