Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LOU
P atty plays for me, at my insistence, and when his tendons must be screaming with exhaustion, he finally stops. The room is still thick with music, the echoes of his fingers on the keys vibrating through me.
I hide my face in my hands. “I can’t believe you have to hear me play night after night. You must be so embarrassed for me.”
He chuckles and shakes out his hands, rolling his wrists like he’s worked them to the bone. “Embarrassed? You’re a great pianist.”
“No. You’re like a modern Mozart, and I’m here plunking out Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star . And not the versions he composed,” I add quickly.
Patty leans back, his light brown eyes warm with amusement. “You make a good point. Anyone who isn’t a Michelin-trained chef should stop cooking altogether.”
I laugh despite myself. “You know what I mean.”
“Of course I do,” he says. “That’s what I’m saying. If you can’t throw a football like Duke Ogden, you shouldn’t even look at the thing. Every other quarterback in the NFL should be ashamed of themselves.”
“The difference is that they’re all at least playing in the same league. You and I are not.”
“So?”
“So, I’m embarrassed!”
“Why?”
“Because my sound guy is a better musician than I am.”
He stills for just a second, something shifting in his expression. “Is that how you think of me? Your sound guy?” he asks, and I’m relieved that he sounds teasing instead of, well, hurt.
“Of course I do,” I say solemnly. “You are now and will only ever be my sound guy. Except for when you’re my bodyguard. Or co-writing songs with me, thank you very much. Now get in your box, please, and stop showing any other facets of your personality.”
Patty nudges me with his elbow, a playfulness in his actions that I haven’t seen from him before. A playfulness I like. A lot.
“I’ll get right on that after I check out your parents’ guitars.”
He gets up from the piano bench, stretching his forearms, and walks along the wall of guitars, his face etched with a naked appreciation I find way too appealing.
I could never be with a guy who doesn’t feel this way about music. Not that I have plans to be with anyone. But if I do ever fall in love, it’ll be with someone who looks at my dad’s guitars with this exact reverence.
In TikTok speech: Find yourself a guy who looks at you the way Patty looks at a 1957 Gibson Les Paul Special.
I raise an eyebrow. “Want to jam?”
“Desperately.”
I take the guitar down and hand it to him, and he drops onto a stool and starts casually picking a song. I recognize the intro to Orange Blossom Special immediately. It’s an old bluegrass song that’s fast, fiery, and fun . Patty’s just messing around, but his fingers move so effortlessly, so instinctually.
Without a conscious thought, I grab a custom five-string fiddle from the case on the wall. The moment my bow touches the string, the song ignites. Patty looks at me with excitement on his face, and I start sawing away, my playing precise but playful.
The song is demanding, but delightful , and I can’t help but laugh when Patty speeds up. “Brat!” I say.
“Keep up,” he challenges.
From the corner of my eye, I see the door open, and in walk my parents. I’m too focused, too caught up in the music to do more than smile at them, and when my dad grabs his Martin D-28 off the wall and starts flat-picking along, Patty grins like a wolf. Next, my mom grabs her Gibson F-5 mandolin, and her fingers dance over the strings in crisp, percussive chops that fill in the rhythm.
And of course, because my dad is my dad, he forces the pace even faster. Patty leans into his guitar to match the driving rhythm, while my mom and I get closer, our hands and fingers flying over our instruments, making the air itself dance around us like sparks from a bonfire. When my dad whoops, Momma and I look over and laugh, and that’s when Patty and I lock eyes.
And suddenly, I feel a connection that defies anything I’ve ever felt before. Without any sort of plan, I know what he’s thinking, where his music is going—just like he knows where mine is.
I rip a fiddle break, high and wild. He answers, adding bluesy bends and fast runs. Each riff is complementary, designed not to challenge but to enhance. And the longer we play, the stronger the connection grows, until I’m having more fun playing than I’ve had in my life.
My entire life.
No performance has ever compared to the exhilaration and unspoken harmony of playing with Patty. My parents, too. The effortless flow and raw joy are like nothing I’ve experienced.
And somehow, I’m certain Patty feels the same way.
When the song reaches the end, we all play our final note and hold it until the exact same moment. And then we all burst out laughing.
“Wow, kid,” my dad says, putting down his guitar to hug me. Mom hugs me next. “You’re better than ever.”
“Thanks, Daddy,” I say. “You, too.”
“And Patrick,” my dad says, holding out his hand for Patty to slap and then bump in that way guys always seem to figure out. “That was some quick picking. I almost couldn’t keep up.”
Patty chuckles, putting his guitar carefully on a stand near his stool. “That’s generous of you. But we both know it’s the other way around. I’ve wanted to play like you since I was twelve.”
My dad looks genuinely touched. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“Y’all, Patty went to NECM. And it shows, don’t it?” I smile and grab a water from the mini fridge. “But it’s fine. I’m not embarrassed to be the second-best musician on my own tour or anything.”
“Nice try. You played every instrument on your album,” Patty says.
I toss him a water, then hand one to each of my parents. Patty drains his quickly.
"Is that a triple forte tattoo?" my mom asks Patty, catching a glimpse of the ink with the curved edges. And now I want to kick myself for not having seen it before.
Patty looks at the fff and then slowly lowers his arm, like he’s trying to keep cool. "Uh, yeah." He pauses, and I almost want to prod him so he’ll keep talking, but his eyes flash to mine before returning to my mom’s—like he already knows what I’m thinkin’. "I was in a band in college, and the lead singer and I thought it would be cool to get tattoos that only music nerds like us would get."
My mom laughs. "What did it mean to you?"
"Exactly what you’d expect. I thought I wanted to live as loud as possible. It couldn’t be more different from how I feel now."
"Louder isn’t always better," Momma says.
"What did the other guy get?" Dad asks. "The lead singer of your college band?"
"A fermata."
Dad cocks his head to the side, his fingers sliding up his guitar as he strums. "The symbol? So you got a tattoo about living life to the fullest, and he got one saying that he was, what, taking a break? Pausing longer than usual?"
"Waiting, I guess," Patty says, and the sadness in his voice strikes like dissonance.
The conversation shifts, and my dad keeps strumming, but my mind is caught on Patty’s words. On the way he used to be. On what changed him. And then, because I can’t stop myself, I let my walls slip further, just for a second, and wonder …
What was he like back then? When he wanted to be loud?
Patty starts playing the first notes of another song now, and it takes me a second to recognize it, because of the subtle differences he’s putting into it.
“Are you playing Last Train to Midnight ?” I ask him.
“It’s my new favorite,” he says, giving me a small smile.
My dad switches to the bass, playing a line I never wrote but … honestly, I should have. It’s gorgeous. And then my mom sits at the piano, joining in with a dreamy smile on her face.
I pick up the fiddle and close my eyes, letting the music take me away on the same journey they’re on.
Then I hit a wrong note, and my fingers stiffen. I try to shake it off, but the bow feels heavier in my hands. And when I hit the next note too sharp?—
It’s nothing. Mistakes happen all the time …
To me.
But they’re not making any mistakes. Even riffing, they’re playing better than I am sticking to the lines I wrote. Every note feels like an outgrowth of their talent, every harmony clicks.
How are they all so good? So effortlessly, breathtakingly good?
Every person playing an instrument in this room is better than I am. My mom is a better singer—heck, Patty might be, too. My dad and Patty are so much better on guitar than I’ll ever be, and on the piano, Patty’s the best I’ve ever seen.
And then there’s me.
What do I have? Mystery? A name I can’t live up to? A shadow I can’t get out of?
My mom looks like she’s in heaven as her fingers glide effortlessly over the keys. This is what she was born to do. And seeing her so happy, seeing Patty and my dad playing like this song is the only thing that matters, makes the blood start pulsing too loud in my head.
Memories hit me—being on stage with my mom, seeing her grin bigger than she ever did anywhere else. I can still feel the stage lights blinding me, hear the fans cheering as we start singing a duet. I can still sense her joy of being on stage.
She’s so much better than I am, and the happiness on her face is proof of how much she misses it—yet her career is gone. I’ve known from an early age that there are no guarantees in this industry. In any industry.
But I have my rules for a reason.
If I can’t be as good as Winona, I can at least be smarter than her.
"You can have it all, but not all at once," is a lie.
I haven’t let Patty in. Not really. But even the idea that he might get close—might matter—makes my stomach churn. Because if he messes up, it’s not just the show at stake. It’s everything I’ve worked for. Everything I am.
How could I be so reckless?
"You should sing," Momma says, but I shake my head, because if I open my mouth, they’ll hear the sobs I refuse to let out, the fear I’m holding back.
Patty and my dad are fully jamming out now, but my mom sees something on my face and leaves the piano to come over and lean her shoulder against mine. My breath catches in my throat.
"You okay, sweet girl?"
"Fine," I say, watching Patty with a pang.
She misinterprets my gaze, though.
"I like him, Lou Lou," she says.
My heartbeat gets louder, drowning out the sound in my left ear as a headache I barely noticed clamps down on my skull like a cap, surrounding every point on my head. "What do you mean?" I ask. "There’s nothing going on with him."
"I didn’t say there was." Her careful tone makes irritation flicker in my chest. "I’m just glad you have someone on tour that you can trust."
"I don’t trust him any more than anyone else on tour," I say, but it must not have been quiet enough, because Patty’s eyes shoot to mine—and then harden.
His jaw tenses. His mouth flattens. The unguarded look on his face vanishes, replaced by stone.
I squeeze my eyes shut and massage my jaw so hard, it hurts. A restless thrum echoes in my ear like a moth trapped in glass, and the pain sharpens with every beat. "I think I have a migraine coming on. I’m gonna take some medicine and see if I can sleep it off."
I look at Patty, but he’s already looking away, hunched over the guitar, playing a meticulous solo that would leave me in awe of his talent if I weren’t so frustrated by it.
By him.
By me.
Momma gets my medication for me and insists on walking me up to my childhood room and tucking me in. She cracks my window, letting in a bit of fresh, cold air just how I like it. We both know if I throw up, the smell will make me feel even worse.
And maybe it’s because the pain has dulled my inhibitions, but the question I’ve always wanted to ask her springs to my lips.
"How could you leave it all when it makes you so happy?"
Momma shrugs, smiling and smoothing my hair. "Music still makes me happy. But I had something that made me happier."
"Dad should never have?—"
"Don’t. Don’t blame him for my choices."
"You didn’t have a choice! It was him or music."
Momma shakes her head. "I know it looks that way, but that was never the issue. It was me or a lifetime of being on tour."
"You didn’t have to tour every year. You could have taken longer breaks, could have had fewer stops. You could have flown?—"
"It was a different time, and there were different expectations, and it was no life for a family."
"So it’s not just Dad who ended your career. It’s having a family. Good to know," I say, my voice sharp, my throat aching. I sound so bitter. So hurt. Because I am .
But Momma just keeps running her hands through my hair. My eyes are heavy from the pain, but also from her soothing touch.
"I’m sorry it was hard for you.” Her voice is tender. “I wish I’d known how to balance it all better. Being a mom means taking the weight of everyone else’s emotions into consideration, and maybe I should have done a better job with yours."
I turn my face into the pillow, my voice barely above a whisper. "If you had to do it over again, would you still have left?"
Momma’s hand stops in my hair for just a second before she resumes, her touch steady but slower now, like she’s thinking too hard about something she doesn’t want to say.
"Yes."
She sounds so sure, but then why did her hand stop?
"You wouldn’t have changed a thing?"
"There’s no right answer to that question, Lou Lou."
"Yes, there is." My throat tightens. "You just don’t want to say it."
I barely catch her sigh over the pounding in my skull. "I would have done a lot of things differently. But here is where I want to be."
Here. With us. With Dad. Without music.
I stare up at the ceiling, my chest aching. "But you were so happy tonight."
Her fingers trace slow patterns along my forehead. "I never stopped loving music. I just stopped loving what came with it."
I swallow, the words sticking in my throat like thorns. "Because of Dad."
She hesitates, just long enough to make my pulse pick up. Then, softly, "Because of everything."
I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything. The exhaustion, the pressure, the expectations I’m already familiar with. The addiction. The way the industry eats people alive.
And my brain throbs with pain as I realize one more thing:
"Everything" includes me.
"You didn’t have to leave," I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds.
She exhales, and this time, it’s heavier. "Sweet girl, I know you see it as leaving. But do you know what it’s like to be stretched so thin, you feel like you’re failing everyone at once? To be onstage singing to tens of thousands of people while knowing your baby is home, learning to walk without you? To finally get back to her and realize she’s different now—bigger, brighter, full of new words and new thoughts that she learned without you?"
"But you started taking us with you! We were doing all of that on the bus!"
Her voice catches—just a little—and that does something to me. I look at her, but she’s staring at the window now, at the sliver that’s open to the world outside.
"I was exhausted, Lou. I was so tired of feeling like no matter what I did, I was making the wrong choice. If I stayed home, I was letting my team down—the band, the fans. If I left, I was letting you down. Your sisters. And your daddy…" She trails off, shaking her head.
I wait for her to finish, but she doesn’t.
Instead, she pulls her eyes from the window and looks back at me. "At some point, I had to consider what I wanted. Because I couldn’t go on like that. Staying in that life was costing me more than I was willing to give."
My lungs squeeze so tight, it’s hard to breathe.
She brushes my hair from my face, her touch as soothing as it was when I was little. "I know you think I lost something when I walked away."
I do. I think it every time I see that look on her face—the look she had tonight, when she was playing piano like she was finding herself on it.
"But all I see is what I gained.” She smiles, but there’s something unreadable in it. Something that makes a tear leak from my eye and into my hair. “I’m sorry my choice hurt you, but it was the best one I could make at the time, and I can’t apologize for it."
I don’t know what she means. I don’t know if I want to.
I close my eyes, hoping sleep will come before my thoughts drown me.
Her voice is barely a whisper when she speaks again.
"I hope you never have to learn the way I did."
But I don’t know if she’s talking about music. Or Dad. Or the feeling of choosing, every single day, between the things you love and the things you love more—and knowing no matter what, every choice has a price.
And thinking back on tonight, on playing with Dad and Momma—with Patty—makes me sick.
Because I already know what that price is.
And I’m not sure I’m ready to pay it.