Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
PATTY
T he roar of the crowd is suffocating. My head is spinning. My lungs feel too tight.
I need out .
Before Nash even finishes his introduction, I shove past the curtains in the wings and stalk down the hall. The brick walls and low industrial ceiling press in on me, choking the air from the arena. I clench my hands into fists, my heart slamming into my ribs, wild and desperate. The weight of everything—the past, the present, and whatever comes next—it’s too much.
My hands slam against a push bar, shoving open a door that leads to the loading dock. Cool night air crashes into me like a shock to the system. I grab the metal railing, gripping so tight it feels like I might bend it with sheer force.
I lean against it, forcing myself to breathe. Trying to shut out the pain of seeing Lou with Nash.
It’s fake. It has to be.
And maybe it is. But inevitability presses down, mocking me, whispering that it won’t be fake for long. Nash is a master manipulator. He knows how to draw people in, to make them feel like the sun shines only for them when he’s there. And he can wear anyone down. He always gets what he wants eventually.
Lou’s smarter and stronger than I ever was. I have to believe she won’t fall for his traps.
That doesn’t take the fear away, though.
Footsteps sound from behind me, along with the faint creak of a wheel. I don’t look up. Don’t turn around. But I know who it is before I hear a voice.
“Paddy.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. The name lands somewhere deep in my chest, rumbling with a sympathy I don’t want to hear but desperately need.
“Go back inside, Dad,” I mutter, voice rough. “You too, Sean. Go enjoy the show.”
The familiar creak gets closer until they’re right beside me. I sniff, wipe my wet eyes, and turn around.
“We saw everything,” Sean says. “I’m sorry, Pat. I can’t believe she?—”
“She did it for the label,” I interrupt, unwilling to let him think badly of her, even for a second. “It’s not real. We talked about it. I gave her the go-ahead and everything.”
Dad and Sean both look confused. Even frustrated.
“What? Why?” Sean asks.
“Because the label is pressuring her?—”
“No, why would you do something so stupid?” Dad says, his voice gruff, the cool air swirling around us. Over the railing, the city lights glint off the pavement, and the distant rumble of Nash’s set echoes through the night. The music blasts through Hot Strings Hall like a telltale heart beating beneath the floorboards.
Except this heart is mine .
“Why would you tell her to kiss him? You love her.”
“I know I love her! That’s why I told her to kiss him! Because for once, I had to put someone I love before myself!”
Sean lets out a groan while Dad shakes his head.
“This again?” Sean asks, his eyes incredulous. “Pat, you could have gone back to music. You could have submitted other demos and gotten a record deal if you’d wanted. You chose to stay at the bar for us . You’ve had ten years of choosing everyone but yourself. Give it a rest already. You’re not the same guy you were then.”
Deep in my gut, I know he’s right. I have sacrificed. I’ve traded what I wanted for what mattered every day for years.
“That was different,” I say gruffly. “That was penance. This was something else. My whole life, I’ve looked at two roads—the one that serves me and the one that serves other people—and I’ve chosen them every time. But not anymore,” I add. “I got the money from Nash for that first album. I gave him the flash drive in exchange for money. A lot. He offered a million for it, and I took it.”
“It’s worth a lot more than that,” Sean argues.
"I know." The back of my nose stings. "But it’s enough. Enough to fix what’s broken. To make sure Dad gets better. To make sure the O’Shannan boys don’t have to barely scrape by anymore."
Neither of them looks relieved. Neither of them looks like this was enough. Dad wheels closer and grips my elbow firmly, pulling my attention, holding my gaze until I don’t just look at him—I listen.
“Paddy, why did you do it?” Dad asks softly, pools of emotion in his light brown eyes. “I thought you wanted justice? You deserve to have your name attached to those songs.”
I close my eyes for only a second, going back to that conversation with Nash from only a couple of hours ago.
He tried to lowball me. Half a million for songs he’d built his legacy on.
I reminded him he’d called that first album a gold mine, still paying out after all these years.
When his eye twitched, we both knew I had him.
I didn’t tell him I’d only found the flash drive by accident, or that I didn’t want the spotlight. I just named my price.
A million, wired to my account in minutes in exchange for my secrecy. And just like that, I was done.
Done with him.
Done with the guilt.
Free to move forward.
And that’s what I intend to do.
My eyes flit between Dad and Sean. “Because you guys matter more than a lengthy legal battle.”
Dad chuckles, patting my arm. “Son, those two roads you mentioned—have you considered that they don’t actually diverge, at least not for long? You’re not looking far enough down the path. Making us happy, making your girl happy—those are the things you want. They’re the things that make you happy.”
Dad pats my arm, smiling. “Time to forgive yourself, dummy. The two roads connect.”
His words strike something in me like a chord, growing louder as it spreads, until my nerves are humming with perfect clarity.
I look at Dad with wide eyes. “You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” Dad says. “Now the question is, what are you gonna do about Lou?”
“You can’t go down without a fight,” Sean says. “I don’t care if it’s fake or not. If he gets to kiss her in front of the cameras, you’d better make sure he knows you’re the one kissing her when they’re off.”
I frown, my brow creasing heavily.
I hadn’t considered fighting for her, making sure she knows I’m not going anywhere unless she sends me away.
He has no power over me anymore.
Lou, on the other hand? She has all the power she wants.
Another set of footsteps echoes down the hall connected to the loading dock. They’re fast, determined.
My mind is spinning when Lou bursts onto the dock, breathless and wild-eyed.
The second she sees me, she doesn’t hesitate.
She grabs my hand, fingers lacing through mine like she’s anchoring me to the earth.
“Patty!” she pants, eyes blazing.
“Lou! We need to talk.” She tries to interrupt, but I hold a hand up, needing to get this out. “I’m not going down without a fight. I love you. I want to be with you.”
Should she be grinning that reckless, elated grin?
“Awesome. Let’s table that. You need to come back inside now .”
“Selling him my songs is one thing, hearing him play is another,” I admit, frowning. “I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Then let me make it easier for you,” she says.
She drops my hand, grabs the side of my face, and her lips crash into mine—soft yet hungry.
So hungry.
I put my hand on the small of her back, pressing her close and kissing her. Until I hear an "a-hem” from my dad.
We break apart, and Lou is smirking as she wipes lipstick from my face.
“I love you. Does that make it easier?” she asks.
“Much,” I say.
“Good. Because you have to come with me back to the stage,” she says. She looks at Sean and my dad. “All of you.”
I have so much more I want to say, but her touch is firm and insistent, and her eyes are full of something I don’t understand yet—something fierce and unwavering.
She tugs me forward, and I go willingly.
I follow Lou back through the hallway and up to the stage, where Nash is playing one of his biggest hits.
One that I wrote.
Rick gives me a nod like he’s glad to see me. Another sound tech gives me a smile, and a couple of guys on the crew wave.
They’re greeting me like I just got back from war. Like I’ve been gone too long.
And when they see Lou and me holding hands, our sides pressed together, they smile. They share glances. Some of them even walk by and give me a high-five.
“Uh …” I say in Lou’s ear. “Want to fill me in?”
A sense of anticipation builds, tension buzzing in the air. She smiles at the crew, a satisfied look in her eyes. "You’ll see."
Nash finishes one song—he’s almost to the end of his set, in fact—when he starts playing the first few notes of another song, one that feels ripped straight from my soul.
I groan. “Does it have to be Panic? ”
She squeezes my arm, but her eyes are looking around, falling on Manny and then Rick, who gives her a nod.
And suddenly, Nash’s vocals are replaced by …
Mine.
I look at Lou in shock and take a few steps closer to the edge of the stage, angling enough to see the huge screens behind Nash.
A grainy recording plays over the speakers—it’s me—Duncan—all those years ago, singing the same song in a tiny hotel room.
The footage fills the screens.
I don’t move. I don’t dare breathe.
The crowd stirs as confused murmurs spread through Hot Strings Hall like an off-key chord rippling through the arena.
On-screen, there’s a knock on a door, and then Nash walks into the hotel room.
And on stage, Nash freezes.
There I am—me, Patty O’Shannan—talking about going solo.
There Nash is, telling me the songs are too rough—a song that sounds almost identical to the one he just started playing.
A song that sounds so much better with me singing.
Nash’s face twists in panic. His hands are shaking as he turns left and right, searching for an escape that isn’t there. For help that isn’t coming. For a way to stop his legacy from burning to ash. And his voice keeps rising higher and higher. “Cut the feed.” He whips toward the sound crew. "Cut the feed!"
But the truth is blaring across the speakers, flashing across screens too large to ignore.
“They’re not good enough, Pat,” Past Nash is saying on screen. “But I promise, if you ever write something good enough, I’ll make sure the world hears it.”
He stumbles back to the mic, voice frantic. "Kill the sound! Now!"
But they don’t.
They won’t.
I glance at Manny, who stands firm, arms crossed, making sure every second plays, even as Greer is screaming, shrieking, gesturing wildly to Lou, to Nash, to anyone and everyone.
And on stage, Nash is cracking.
His polished, media-trained composure crashes to the earth, his face a shade too pale.
Lou turns to me, her eyes fixed, her grin fierce and proud, and she starts clapping. My dad and brother join in immediately. Her family. Our friends.
Then, one by one, the entire crew stops what they’re doing. The only sound on the stage is Lou and our loved ones clapping for me.
But then Manny joins in. And Lou’s band. Rick and the sound techs.
Until suddenly, the stage explodes—cheers, whoops, shouts of my name. They’re all looking at me. Smiling at me. Applauding.
For me.
I laugh, but I can’t breathe.
I cry, but I can’t move.
I can’t do anything—absolutely anything—but stand there and marvel. The truth that was buried for years is finally uncovered, finally out there.
To Lou.
To the fans.
To the press and the label.
To the world.
Nash built his empire on my stolen dreams, and it’s all crumbling down around him. He runs from the stage and screams at Greer, who’s only screaming back.
And then—his frantic eyes turn on Lou.
“YOU!” he yells. Practically cries as he runs to her, looking like he’s about to attack.
“You did this! You lying b?—”
Suddenly, Nash trips, slamming face-first into a stage monitor.
The video finishes playing, and a stunned hush falls over the hall.
And then, Winona Williams says, “Bless your heart.” She crouches down to grab Nash’s face, blood pooling between his fingers. "Did you trip?”
"It wasn’t me," Dad says, slapping his legs. “But I wish it had been.”
"I think it was one of the cords," one of the techs says, and I laugh when I realize it’s Jay, the guy who made a rude comment about Lou on my first day, all those months ago.
He slicks his long hair back. "You gotta pay attention to those cords backstage, man. They’ll get you every time."
Manny comes over with a couple of EMTs, who put a wailing Nash onto the stretcher.
"You can’t do thith—thith," he repeats, his eyes getting wider.
Then he opens his bloody mouth, and I see his tongue jut through a hole where his front tooth used to be.
Lou snorts into me, shaking with laughter against my side.
"We had a deal!" Nash screams at me.
"Yeah, but we didn’t, sucker!" Lou yells. "Also, you kiss like a dead fish!"
And the entire backstage erupts into laughter.
The label exec glares at Lou, but she doesn’t say anything.
She can’t.
It’s game over.
And Lou won.
We won.
The audience is screaming, booing, yelling obscenities about Nash.
And then they turn their fury on Lou.
"You gotta do something," I say.
She gets onto her tiptoes and kisses me softly. "Okay. But I need you to be ready."
I look at her warily. She doesn’t want me on stage, does she? “Lou?—"
“Do your job, Sugar.”
She grabs her in-ear monitors from my booth and fits them snugly before slipping on her wireless headset mic. Then she blows me a kiss and runs back out to the stage.
When the crowd sees her, the booing slows, but it doesn’t stop.
She raises her hands, commanding their attention. "Well, Memphis? Can you see now why I’ve been saying Nash and I just won’t work?"
I don’t know how the A/V guys pull it off so fast, but within seconds, footage from only forty minutes ago fills the giant screens—a close-up of Lou slipping the flash drive from Nash’s pocket.
For a second, there’s nothing but stunned silence. Then, the audience erupts. Their cheers are so loud it feels like the roof might shake loose.
I watch as Lou turns to glance at the screens behind her, her posture relaxed but ready.
Then she cocks an eyebrow, and her crew—always ahead of the game—zooms in on her expression, magnifying her quiet triumph for the entire arena to see.
Her band rushes onto the stage, techs scrambling to plug in instruments as fast as humanly possible.
Lou turns her head slightly, looking toward me from the stage’s edge. Her teeth press into her bottom lip, just for a second.
"Y’all know I was raised in this industry, even if I tried to hide from it for a while. But as I’ve grown, I’ve realized people hide from this industry for a lot of different reasons."
She takes a deep breath, blinking, but she doesn’t square her shoulders, because she’s not putting on armor.
She’s already taken it off.
"My momma always told me you can have it all, but not all at once. For the longest time, I thought that meant you can’t actually have it all, so choose wisely. And I thought my choice—the music industry—was the only one that could make me happy. Keep me safe."
A small smile tugs at her lips.
"Now, I finally know better. She strums her guitar, and my breath catches at the first few notes of Last Train to Midnight .
My favorite song of hers. The song that took root in my soul the first time I heard it.
The audience roars their approval.
“You see, ‘having it all’ is a little like writing music. A song doesn’t come to you all at once, and you sure don’t have to have it figured out right away," Lou continues, adding another chord, then another, layering the sound.
Delilah joins in with a steady drumbeat, and the others jump in, not quite playing the song but not quite riffing, either—building anticipation.
"First, you get a lyric or a melody, something that sticks with you, something that won’t leave you alone. Then come the chords and harmonies, the rhythm and beats."
She pauses, letting the music swell behind her.
"You add them piece by piece—erasing some parts, rewriting others, tossing some completely. And you keep going until you take all of those separate lines, put them together, and have a song. A beautiful, complete, unforgettable song."
Now, all five women—Lou and her band—are fully locked into the song, the intro longer than usual, a dramatic buildup.
My ears strain for the piano part, but it’s missing.
She turns toward the audience again, voice steady but full of emotion.
“Too often, we women put pressure on ourselves, feeling like we have to be everything and do everything all at once. I know, because I’ve done it, too. We feel like we have to hold every note, play every instrument, and carry the harmony and melody at the same time. And heaven forbid we make a mistake. Hit a bad note. Get behind a measure. We don’t notice when someone else misses a chord, but we beat ourselves up when we do, comparing our worst instrument to everyone else’s best. We act like we have to be able to play the entire song at once, forgetting that no song—no life —is built that way. It’s built piece by piece, moment by moment; a lifetime of layering instruments, of playing verses and choruses that sometimes feel too repetitive and sometimes sound messy, but that are also beautiful.
“But the song doesn’t have to be played all at once. It can’t be. The song is the sum of a lifetime of efforts.
“The song is the legacy.”
She pauses, looking down.
“I don’t know about you, but it’s time I write my own legacy.”
The crowd loses it.
Screams and cheers echo through the venue, so loud I swear I can hear sobs even through my own in-ears.
Lou radiates goodness and happiness. She looks the most natural I’ve seen her yet. “Now, if y’all will allow it, I’d like to play a song that means a lot to me. It’s not an anthem, but it’s a little like a prayer. Only, I seem to be one man down."
She turns her face side-stage, her eyes searching as she gestures toward the piano.
"And I know exactly where to find him."
The band continues playing, the music building like a slow tide, pushing the energy of the crowd to the edge of a precipice, where they’re going to fall or fly.
“Years ago, this guy was in the music industry. A true prodigy. He had music singing in his blood. But it didn’t work out.” She glances at me, eyes shining. “I know for a fact he misses it. But you know what? I think the music world misses him even more.”
My stomach tightens.
"Lou,” I say urgently. “It’s too much too fast. I’m not ready."
She turns that knowing smile on me, warmth rolling off her in waves.
I know , her smile tells me. Take all the time you need.
Then she takes a deep breath and exhales like she’s breathing through a straw.
"Daddy?” Her voice cracks, barely a whisper into the mic. A sob escapes her throat, and she smiles, steadying herself on the microphone stand. “Would you join me on stage?"
I let out a laugh, the kind that comes from deep in the chest, the kind I haven’t let myself feel in a long, long time.
A tear slips down my cheek when I see Wade—standing next to his famous wife—looking absolutely gobsmacked.
"Go!" Winona says, laughing and slapping his butt. "Get out there, baby!"
Wade chuckles, shaking his head as tears spill down his face.
And just like that, he moves toward the stage, toward his daughter, stepping into a moment he never thought he’d have again.
A moment that will be remembered forever.
The rest of the Williams girls lean against each other, all crying as Wade and Lou embrace.
I can see Lou shaking with emotion, even as her dad does the same.
And the reception in Hot Strings Hall when Wade takes Lou’s guitar and she goes to sit at the piano is like the closing of one chapter and the start of another.
A moment heavy with history. Healing.
A moment that sounds like coming home.