Chapter Ten
· Brooks ·
Jamie, who had been running my PR for a decade, was having the time of her life thanks to my engagement. She lived for this shit. And since she was familiar with Adriana from when we toured together, she showed up in the Bravetown offices and turned a conference room into her own personal war room.
Pro that she was, she’d even consulted with Mason on the legal proceedings of Skye’s case, to make sure timings and messages lined up on all fronts.
When we left that conference room, my shoulders felt lighter for the first time in weeks. Like I could straighten my spine again. Addie, however, bit her lip and played with her ring.
“I’m going to ask you what’s wrong, and you’re not going to say nothing.
” I held the staff exit open for her. The saloon was a short walk away, just long enough to breathe air, fuel up on some sunlight, and talk through the mastermind plan Jamie had presented us with.
Short enough for me to be back in the suite by the time Skye finished up her classes.
“Okay, fine.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s a lot. The engagement shoot, the events, that live stream…And I got in a fight with my mom this morning. She’s so concerned, and she doesn’t even know about all the publicity stuff yet.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
She stopped me with a raised hand. “I’m not having second thoughts. I don’t want to talk about the fight. Can you just tell me something?”
“Anything.”
“I get that you want to be in Skye’s life, be her father, so I’ll play this charade with you however long you need me to. But why not joint custody? Wouldn’t that be easier for everyone?”
“After Candace, Skye’s mom, died, the Greens were grieving too, and I get that.
But Skye was struggling so much with adjusting to life without her mother.
Losing a parent is hard for any kid, but autistic children have a harder time coping with any change.
And you should have heard some of the shit coming out of these people’s mouths.
They didn’t want her. They said she was going to need too much attention for them to handle.
They’d even picked out some fucked-up boarding school that was a glamorized mental hospital.
” The memory alone sent hot rage pumping through my bloodstream.
“I wasn’t going to let them ship off my daughter. ”
“That’s fucked up.” Addie’s fingertips pried at my knuckles, and I only realized then that I’d been balling my fists hard enough to leave deep crescent grooves in my palm.
“They’ve come a long way. I’ll give them that,” I said and watched her unfurl my fingers and draw soothing circles over the red marks.
The heat in my veins simmered down almost immediately at her touch.
“Skye goes to visit them every now and again. But now they’ve decided that she’s actually ‘low maintenance’ enough that they want to raise her?
After being ready to institutionalize a nine-year-old grieving girl?
What about the next time she goes through a rough patch?
I can’t lose her to them just because I’m not a cookie-cutter parent. ”
“We’ve got this. They won’t take Skye.” She nodded and squared her shoulders, but her cheeks still lacked some color. “My mom’s not going to make things easy for you though.”
“Yeah, historically, I’m not good at winning over parents. For some reason, whisking their daughters off on my tour bus filled with sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll just doesn’t sit right with them.”
She giggled and the ease of it was the best sound I could imagine. “I’m sorry? I didn’t see you with a single groupie. You only ever had a few glasses of bourbon, never enough to get drunk. And you have like three tracks, in your entire career, that are a little more soft rock than country pop.”
“Sweet Addie, I wasn’t talking about me. Obviously it was Ed, the driver, who brought all the sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll to the bus. Horrible influence on everyone who came near him.”
This time, I got a full laugh, and I wanted to record it and play it on loop. “Oh yes, how could I forget Ed, the sixtysomething-year-old rock ’n’ roll sex god.” She turned in the staff door to the saloon, shouldering her bag higher. “My shift ends at eleven.”
“I know. I’ll be here.”
And I was. Ten minutes to eleven, I sat down at her bar and she wordlessly served me a smile and a bourbon. None of the last few people in the staff section even glanced our way.
Back at the hotel, Skye was asleep, but I’d told her where I’d be and that I wouldn’t be long.
She had my number, knew how to dial the front desk and 911.
This small town was already rubbing off on me, because I had struggled to leave her alone even just to run some quick errands back in Nashville.
Here? It became clearer every day how autonomous my little girl was becoming.
When everyone had cleared out of the saloon, Addie fought the register, punching the screen with furrowed brows and cursing under her breath. I knew better than to interrupt, so I leaned over the counter and grabbed a napkin and a pen.
The ink bled through the thin paper, but I got two readable lines out by the time Adriana let out a sigh of relief and turned her back on the machine. I slid the napkin across the counter to her.
Her throat bobbed at the sight.
“No.”
“Come on, humor me. For old times’ sake.”
“I’m tired.”
“We’ve played this at shitty rest stop diners at three a.m. You weren’t too tired then.”
“Yeah, well, I clearly had more energy when I was younger.”
I gave her a pointed stare, but she shook her head and slipped past me to the back room. Not giving up that easily, I pocketed the napkin and followed her.
“Maybe I’ve just outgrown the game,” she said as she grabbed her bag from her locker.
“Or maybe you know that I’d win.”
“You can’t goad me.”
The Napkin Game had started as a silly way to pass the time on the tour bus.
Traveling on tour was a strange liminal experience, caught between the adrenaline of shows, the utter exhaustion gnawing at your insides, and the buzz of creativity when so many amazing artists came together in a small space.
We’d started passing song lyrics back and forth.
They ranged from silly roadside observations (“guitar goat man”) to the kind of thoughts you didn’t put anywhere except on a shitty diner napkin at three a.m. (“better without me”).
In the end, whoever came up with the stronger lyric for any given song got the rights to record it.
It didn’t matter that neither of us ever did record those songs.
We always agreed on who won. The other guys on the bus didn’t get it.
They thought each of us would argue that we were the better songwriter, but it was never about being better, it was about the simple act of creation. Together.
“I work the lunch shift tomorrow and I’m off on Sunday.” Addie unfurled her braid as we crossed the parking lot, freeing the curtain of thick curls.
“I know. You sent me the shift plan, remember?”
“Yeah, I know I did. I didn’t think you’d memorize it.”
“Of course I did.”
“People usually don’t really care about me like that.” She grimaced as soon as the last word left her lips and wrapped her arms around herself, holding together the walls that she’d just offered me a glimpse behind.
“Sounds like they’re missing out.” I leaned past her to pull the driver’s door open for her.
While she was avoiding looking at me by staring at her feet, I kissed the top of her head again.
Because she deserved someone who paid attention to her.
Someone who cared enough to stick around even if she didn’t let her guard down. “Good night, Addie baby.”
Within a week of that night, I was forming my own routines in Bravetown.
While Skye built hers around the park, mine were forming around Addie’s schedule.
And just like any schedule before, this one helped me breathe easier, helped me think a little clearer.
I was still staring at Adriana a little too long, thinking about her hands on me a little too much, and getting distracted by every whiff of vanilla—but my mind was less violin solo and more orchestra.
I could be aware of every freckle on her nose, berate myself for that, prep for a meeting with my lawyer, help Skye with her English homework, listen to Jamie’s updates on which media outlet was bidding on the engagement interview, and start looking into property—all in one day.
The fact that this life-changing schedule hinged on another person probably wasn’t great, but my coping skills only went so far.
I showed up at the saloon as soon as Addie clocked in. She was usually there thirty minutes before the place opened and I helped her restock napkin holders and condiment packets while catching her up on the last three years with Skye.
For her lunch break, I brought my guitar, and we sat in the back stairwell.
She shared the snack she brought from home, and I played her old-school country songs and made her guess the title.
That woman knew every single Dolly Parton song—and not a single Tim McGraw title unless it featured Taylor Swift.
And every night I showed up ten minutes before her shift ended, and I wrote two lines of song on a napkin while she cursed out the shitty Wi-Fi on the cash register. Every night, she rolled her eyes at my napkin, and I’d pocket it before walking her to her car.
“Esra’s pretty easygoing. Just be yourself. It’ll be good practice for the interrogation my mother will put you through.”
“What interrogation?” Skye piped up from the back of the car. “Did my dad do something?”
Addie winced, shrank into the passenger seat, and mouthed “sorry” in my direction.