Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
LOU
T he next two weeks are a blur. Every day, Patty and I work on song after song, and the effort has me hungrier than ever to get in the studio.
“Let’s try ‘love’s first light,’” I say, crossing out his line. “It fits the rhythm better.”
“You’re right,” he says, playing around on the keyboard. “But I don’t like going from a minor chord to a diminished one here. What if we let it resolve naturally instead?”
“That’s too predictable,” I counter, leaning in. “What if we sustain it and bring in a harmony instead?”
He pauses, thinking. “Or we drop it altogether and let the silence speak.”
“Yes!”
I gently push him aside from the keyboard, and he smirks as he takes my guitar in return. His fingers find a melody to fill the space I left open, and I match him instinctively. The music grows between us, effortless and alive.
We switch often, adding to each other’s melodies and riffs, scratching out a word or note and replacing it with another. Co-writing with Patty is so much more satisfying than writing by myself because he challenges me and sharpens me, and at the same time, I knock off some of his rough edges.
He tends to go darker than I do, and I have a habit of staying lighter than I should. You’d think that means we meet in the middle, but that’s not it at all. Instead, we span the entire emotional range, writing songs with the power to drag down your soul and then elevate it in the next breath.
Whenever I’m not performing, rehearsing, or sleeping, we write. Hour after hour, day after day. And with days to spare, we have enough for an album.
I upload the file to a shared folder and look at Patty, my hand trembling. He blinks a few times—a sign of intense nerves in Patrick-ese.
“Are you ready for me to send this? Once the label has it, you’ll be Patrick O’Shannan, co-writer. Are you okay with that?”
He blinks again, then looks at me, a small smile tugging up the side of his face. He lifts his arm, scratches his head, then nods.
“I’m okay with that.”
I place my hand over his, guiding it like a mouse on my trackpad. I hover his finger over the middle of the pad and press down.
“Sent.”
Then I squeal and hug him.
And kiss him.
A lot.
As much as I love every day with Patty, the nights are starting to weigh on me.
I love being on stage. I appreciate the fans and sold-out arenas. But the interviews and after-parties drain the life out of me.
Pat doesn’t say a word when he’s in the green room or dressing room after a show because, as he says, bodyguards are meant to be seen and not heard. And as much as I’d be happy shouting about us to the world, he shuns the spotlight, and I want to respect that.
Meanwhile, the record execs who keep coming to my shows have other plans for me.
Night after night, label bigwigs find me the moment I leave my interviews, and the first thing out of their mouths is always the same:
“So, you and Connor Nash?”
And every time, my answer is the same:
“We’re not dating, but I’m looking forward to playing with him.”
“You don’t have to marry the guy, but dating him would be great for your career.”
I’m so sick of hearing this, I’m about to rip up my contract.
And what’s worse? Patty hears this.
Every night, he stands stationed at the door, arms folded, listening to them put more and more pressure on me.
All I want him to do is stride across the room, kiss me in front of everyone, and tell them, “Sorry, she’s taken.”
But he just stands there.
With that impassive, unreadable expression.
The closer we get to Memphis, the worse it gets.
And now, tonight, two nights before the biggest concert of my career, the pressure is so heavy I feel like it’s squeezing the life out of me.
Tonight’s label rep is a woman only a few years older than me, Greer Hollis.
She’s sleek and stylish, with ash-blonde hair cut into a sharp bob and cat-eye glasses that scream minimalist style, maximum power.
She gives me a moment to say hi to the other people in the room, but I don’t talk to any of them.
My band has formed a strong bond, and while they all talk in a corner with some VIP or another, I don’t do more than wave at them.
I miss my friends.
And I try not to let the exec’s words get under my skin.
“Lucy, can we talk for a minute about Connor Nash?” she says.
I glance around, surprised she’s not even trying to be discreet.
But everyone close enough to pay attention has heard this a dozen times before.
Including Patty.
“What would you like to talk about?” I ask innocently.
She adjusts her cat-eye glasses. “Sweetie, you’re too smart not to understand what’s going on here.”
“Which is …?”
“You need Connor. People liked the mystery of you when you were simply a question mark to them. Then, they liked the idea of you when you were a legacy.
“But now that the novelty of both of these has worn off …” Greer tsks. “Well, you’ve read what the critics are saying. You’ve seen the TikToks.”
My heart gets lodged somewhere in my windpipe.
“I haven’t,” I lie, insecurity bubbling in my throat like heartburn. “What do they say?”
She rubs my forearm, like she’s trying to put balm on a burn, even as she holds me over the fire.
“They feel like you pulled a bait and switch. When you were anonymous, they had all this hope for who you might be—all these expectations. And now? You’re just the daughter of a famous woman. You need to do something interesting, and if that doesn’t involve Connor, you’re going to need another hook. And fast.”
I swallow hard.
Another hook.
And fast.
“I don’t understand,” I admit, proud of myself that my lip isn’t quivering. “I’m doing well. I’ve sold out every show, and I’m only getting more buzz.”
“But that’s from the girlies on the street. The people who make decisions, well, we need more.”
“More?”
“What you’re giving us isn’t cutting it.” She pats my arm. “We need more.”
“What about the album I just sent you guys? Those songs are probably the best I’ve ever written?—”
“They were! They were excellent,” she says. “But they’re so bluesy and rich—we’re not sure they match the sound we want from you. Or your audience’s expectations, frankly.”
“Their expectations?” I ask, as if I’m not already defeated enough. “I have almost ten years worth of songs that are pop, indie, folk, country, outlaw country. Haven’t I shown my audience that they can expect more than one thing from me?”
“That’s what you showed them before . But if you lean into what you are now, you’ll have a better foothold in the industry.”
The effort not to cry, the effort to pretend my eyes aren’t stinging and my head isn’t pounding is overwhelming. I’m already cold enough that I want to shiver, but the added emotion makes it almost uncontrollable. A shudder runs through me.
“So, you guys don’t want them?—”
“For you.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Patty shift. His arms are already folded, but his chest swells as he breathes deeply. Almost like he’s panting.
“What does that mean?” I ask, standing as tall as I can, wishing it would give me the same kind of confidence it always gave me in law school—and then in court.
But right now? I feel like a little girl playing dress-up in her momma’s heels.
“We want them. We love them! We just think they’re a better fit for Connor Nash. And we’ll give you a generous royalty split.”
Her words stop me cold.
“What?”
I say this too loud.
All around the rustic, dusty rose and antique gold green room, people are staring at me.
I force a smile and wave, mentally pleading with them to stop looking, stop listening.
“These songs are mine. Mine and my co-writer’s. I don’t understand.”
Her eyes seem to grow teeth.
“I thought you came from the industry? Do you really not know how this works?” She leans in slightly. “You’re a big star, but Connor is astronomically big. If you write an album and sell it to him, you get paid. If one of our in-house writers—someone technically worth less than you—writes songs the label likes, and you release them? You get paid. No matter how it happens, everything makes you money .”
How can she spin this like I’m the fool for wanting my own songs? “You want to use a songwriter for me? I’m a songwriter.”
She gives me a patronizing smile. “ Of course you are! You and a thousand others. But this way, your next album stays on schedule, and you profit from the songs you already wrote. It’s a win-win.”
I’m such an idiot. Connor doesn’t need to fight for space in the industry. He walks in, and the room reshapes around him. Me? I have to beg just to keep what's mine.
How do I keep convincing myself that I understand this world? That I was prepared for it because of what my parents went through?
I can’t even negotiate to perform my own songs.
But at the same time, I can’t imagine someone else singing them.
Writing with Patty wasn’t some business transaction. It was an act of love, an expression of total trust.
I glance over at him, trying to make it look like I’m just thinking, evaluating her words.
When I take in his face, it’s completely unreadable.
“My songs aren’t for sale,” I say, in as strong a voice as I can.
She scoffs, a sound of pure annoyance.
“Everyone said you were smart. And you’re turning down Connor Nash.”
She laughs and walks away.
And I’m left standing there.
Maybe Greer is right. Maybe I’m just someone people were curious about for a moment—until they realized there was nothing special underneath.
Maybe I’m every bit the naive, starry-eyed imposter she thinks I am.
The second I get on the bus that night, Patty kisses me goodnight. We don’t talk about what Greer said. I don’t know if either of us can. The way he holds me tells me he understands, though. He feels my pain.
And I love him for it.
As soon as I shower, I curl up in my bed, where I cry. I’m filled with a longing, a homesickness beyond anything I’ve ever felt. I want to call my mom, but I know she’s already asleep. And how can I tell her that after my best efforts, I’m still not good enough?
I’ve struggled and sacrificed and committed every spare moment to this dream, and it’s not enough.
Even my own songs are the wrong fit for me.
I can’t wake her up for that.
But I also can’t go on with this loneliness carving a hole in my chest.
Everyone I know is asleep. It’s three in the morning—only musicians and creatives are up …
Creatives.
Creatives with insomnia …
I call Ash and pray she’s not asleep.
She answers on the second ring.
“LUCY JANEY JANE! My friend! How did you hear?”
Confusion makes me clear my throat.
“Hear what?”
“I’M ENGAGED! Rusty asked me a few hours ago, and I knew you were on stage, so I’ve been dying to tell you but didn’t want to interfere with anything, and I’ve been debating waiting until Memphis to tell you, but I suck at secrets and I’M ENGAGED! Can you believe it?!”
Why does this make me cry?
Why do tears spill out of my eyes?
Why does my throat throb with pain hearing the happiest possible news?
“Oh my gosh, Ash!” I croak. “That’s great! I’m so happy for you!”
But Ash’s gushing stops.
“Lou? What’s going on?”
“Nothing!” I lie in my brightest voice. “My throat’s just raw from the concert and interviews. Tell me everything!”
“Are you sure? I wish I could see you right now. You have a poker voice.”
“I’m sure,” I insist, willing my throat to obey. “Now tell me exactly what happened! How did he propose?”
Ash launches into the story of how three of the old men in town—the Chicks—crashed their date on the riverwalk in Sugar Maple. She tells me how their boat capsized, how Rusty jumped into the water to save their lives, and soon, my laughter mingles with my tears, until I’m feeling every emotion at once.
After nearly an hour of talking, of hearing my best friend sound so happy, she sighs.
“Thanks for taking the time to call,” she says. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” I say.
“Oh,” she says before I can say goodnight. “I forgot to ask—how’s Patty feeling about his dad’s surgery next week?”
Her words hit like a slap.
“Uh, he’s not talking much about it.”
“That sounds like Patty,” Ash says. “I can’t believe how intense it’s gonna be. A week in the hospital, all those weeks after needing around-the-clock care. Poor Danny. I hope it relieves the pain.”
My tears resume, and this time, I don’t hide my emotion. “I hope so, too. Has—have you heard how much it’s going to cost them?”
“Rusty wasn’t sure, but insurance isn’t covering it. So I’m guessing it’ll be a lot. Hundreds of thousands of dollars, and that’s before all the PT. If Sean can get drafted, his contract will be more than enough to cover it?—”
“Or if Patty can make something happen on tour,” I mutter.
“Uh, yeah, I guess? Are you guys working on something?”
“We’ve been co-writing music,” I say, closing my eyes, feeling like I’m about to be sick. “Maybe we can do something with it.”
“That would be amazing. I hope it works out.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say, more tears rolling down my cheeks. “See you soon, Ash.”
When the call finally ends, I’m too sick with emotion to sleep.
Is that a thing?
Because it feels like it.
I leave my suite and head out to the kitchenette to make myself some tea …where I see Patty, doing the same.
I rush into his arms.
“Ash is engaged.”
He pulls me close. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, understanding perfectly. “I’m sorry you couldn’t be there with Ash.”
“And your dad’s surgery is next week , and you didn’t tell me,” I say.
His hands tighten, even as his breathing grows more shallow. Then he sighs, his chest deflating, taking me with it. “I need to be honest with you about something.”
He pulls me over to the couch and sets me on his lap, where I hug him loosely around the neck, searching his face.
“When I first came on tour with you, I knew my dad needed surgery. It was already scheduled. My plan was to quit the tour after Memphis?—”
“Patty!”
“I know. But that changed fast. I never told you because I … I started falling for you. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave you in a lurch, but if I told you?—”
“I’d have insisted that you take the break and help your dad recuperate,” I say, resignation settling over me like a blanket. “Which I am. I insist. You can’t be on tour when he needs you.”
He pulls his hand away from my waist and rubs his face.
“There’s more.”
I pull his hand down, forcing him to look at me.
“We don’t have the money.”
“I know. I’ll pay for it.”
“Not a chance. Danny O’Shannan would rather refuse the surgery and live in pain than let you pay for him. He’d rather sell the bar. He’s the best dad in the world, but he’s not above his own kind of pride.”
“Then I’ll give you the money, and you can pay for it.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t take your money.”
“Consider it an advance. When we release those songs?—”
“We’re not releasing those songs,” he says gently. “I heard the record exec talking. She doesn’t want them for you. She wants them for …” He clears his throat.
“I said no!” I rush to reassure him. “Those songs are… precious to me. Sacred. I won’t sell them to him.”
Patty looks like his heart is breaking right in front of me, like he’s being torn in two. Painfully.
He groans. “You have to understand, Lou: my whole life, I’ve made the most selfish choice possible. Two roads diverged, and I took the one that benefited me. But it’s all tangled up now. I don’t know which path is selfish and which isn’t anymore. I don’t want to hurt you. But we need money.”
“Then let me pay! I’ll buy the rights to the songs outright from you for a huge amount. I’m rich, Pat. I can do this easily.”
“I can’t let you buy songs you can’t use.”
“I can’t let someone else sing them.”
“We can write more music together,” he says.
“Sure, but can we recapture the magic of First Light ? You think there’s another song that encapsulates the feeling of new love like that? If there is, I’ve never heard it. I’ve never felt a song strike me so deeply—pull from me the newness and fear and raw excitement the way that song does.”
“Not even in Nash’s first album?” he says, almost bitter.
“Not even in that.”
I put my hands on either side of his face, the rumbling of the bus a quiet hum scoring our conversation.
“Let me pay you. Let me buy the songs for a generous amount, and if we ever get to use them, I’ll still give you royalties. Please.”
He lets out a pained grunt, closing his eyes and bumping his head into my shoulder. “No. I can’t let you pay me for the songs. But I will consider letting you loan me money in exchange for future services.”
I waggle my eyebrows at him. “Future services? I didn’t realize you were charging by the makeout now, but I accept the terms.”
He chuckles and pinches my side, making me flinch. Then he leans in, resting his face in the curve of my neck.
“I’ll be your monitor engineer for every tour from here on out.”
“As long as you take a break to help your dad recuperate,” I say.
“I don’t want to leave you,” he murmurs into my ear.
I run my fingers through his thick hair. “I don’t want that, either, but we’re strong enough to weather the storm. I don’t need anyone but you. Even if the label says otherwise.”
“What do you mean? I missed that part.”
I shake my head, exhaustion pulling at me like an anchor.
“The label said I’m not good enough. I’m not interesting enough. They want me to date Connor, even if it’s fake.” My tears had stopped, but one leaks out now. “I won’t do it.”
“They’re lying.”
“They’re not! I’ve seen the reviews from critics and the fan comments.”
“You’re only reading the bad ones. There are a hundred times more that are good—glowing. Lou, you’re an international phenomenon. Your tour sold out in less than half an hour.”
“I know, but that was when I was still a mystery. Now, I’m just a disappointment. She said that tonight.”
“Lou, be rational.”
“Telling an emotional girl that she’s crazy isn’t the way to her heart.”
He scoffs. “I’m not saying you’re crazy, I’m saying you’re stressed—and it’s four in the morning. This pressure is manufactured. The label is doing this because they want to sell more records. For both of you. You’ve already gone double platinum. What, do you need diamond status before you’ll believe how great you are?”
I want to believe him so badly, it hurts.
My neck and back are so stiff from standing straight all night, every night, for weeks.
Three months in.
Three months left, on the other side of Parker’s wedding.
Danny’s surgery.
And then…
“You know, while I’m gone,” he says, his voice hesitant, halting, “I’d understand if you and … if you and Connor?—”
I recoil.
I literally push back in shock.
“What—are you—are you telling me to date him? Are you breaking up with me?”
“NO!” He rakes a hand through his hair. “But I’m trying to stop focusing on what I want!” He exhales sharply. “Like you said, it’s fake. If you need to be seen with him a few times, if you need to—to kiss him,” he says, his voice catching like it’s choking him, “I can tolerate it. If you feel like you need to fake date him, be seen with him for your career, I can handle it.”
A sob shakes my chest, but there are no tears.
It’s all exhaustion and emotion.
“Do you think I need to?”
“NO! Not even a little, but…” He lets out a rough breath. “I gotta be honest, I’m trying hard not to be so selfish, trying to put you first, and I think I’m doing a trash job.”
I laugh, breathless and stunned.
“You are,” I say. “Telling me it’s okay if I fake date a guy who wants to use me for PR is a trash job. It’s okay to be a little selfish.”
He sighs, his breath stirring the tiny hairs on my neck.
“Good,” he says with an exhale. “Because making you happy is the most selfish thing I’ve ever done.”
He kisses my neck, and I whisper, “Dang. That’s a good line.”
He snorts before kissing me again.
“Just promise me one thing, Queenie.”
“Mmm?”
“Open up to your band while I’m gone. Or Alicia. Someone. You’re too warm to go cold while I’m back home.”
My eyes refuse to open, but I nod, because even as tired as I am, I know he’s right.
“Okay.”
And when he picks me up and carries me into my room, the last thing I remember is his lips pressing to my temple and his whisper:
“I love you.”
And because I’m too tired to process or filter or second guess a single word, I mumble, “I love you, too.”