CHAPTER EIGHT COEN #2
I think back to the last time I saw Jamie, the day before getting on the plane.
We met up at our favorite diner in Nashville, had some coffee.
He had his usual, a coffee and a pile of bacon and eggs.
He gets that no matter the time of day. I got my favorite, a cinnamon-sugar donut and a cut of plain black coffee.
There’s something about the bitter with the sweet that’s comforting, reminding me of when we were struggling together, at the beginning.
Jamie looked good, driven, relaxed, but he was concerned for me.
***
“You sure you’re good?”
I glance up. My smartwatch keeps going off, and I keep ignoring it.
I’ve had to keep all my notifications on for email and texts.
We’re fresh off producing one of the biggest albums of the year for an unnamed star who won’t leave me the fuck alone.
Texting me at all hours of the day and night.
Unhappy with everything we sent over, then happy with it, then wanting to pull back and restart at the last minute. It almost sent me into a breakdown.
I’m not sure why I took this client on, since I don’t need the money. But he’s one of the biggest, and I always feel like I’m letting Jamie down if I don’t say yes. He’s worked hard to get us where we are.
“I’m fine,” I say. “We talked about this.”
He leans back in his seat, and his fingertips tap against the side of his coffee. This diner has had the same red and white cups since…I don’t know, probably since Johnny Cash walked these streets. Maybe even before that.
“You’re not, though,” he says.
Something in his tone makes me lift my head. “What?”
He clears his throat. There’s a look people get in their eyes right before an intervention. I’ve had enough friends with substance problems to have sat in on a few. Right now, Jamie is giving me that tight-lipped smile that says I’m so sorry to have to do this, but I have to for your own good.
“I think you should take a break,” he blurts out.
My fork goes still on my plate. I haven’t had a bite of donut yet.
“What?”
He shrugs, lifting a hand. “We’ve been going hard for a decade and a half. You need to take a break.”
I let that sink in, trying not to be offended, though I’m not sure why that’s my natural inclination.
Maybe it’s because I grew up working with my hands, on horseback, starting from age ten.
Working hard isn’t just about the money.
It’s a point of pride, something that meant a lot to my mother, and she instilled it in me too.
“I can’t,” I say.
He leans his elbows on the table, interlacing his fingers. I just don’t like the concerned look in his eyes. “Normally, I would say you’re fine, we can take another contract on and just work slow, but you are really fucking burned out, man.”
“You’re saying this because…of what?”
“Nothing’s interesting to you anymore. You can’t remember stuff. I can hear your words slurring in meetings, like when we were in Miami last week with that record label. They were looking at you sideways.”
“I’m not on anything,” I say, pulling back.
“No, you’re exhausted.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he lifts one hand.
“It’s not new.” His face is so sober. “You’re not happy.”
“I’m not depressed.”
“How do you know?”
I shrug. “Because I don’t feel that way.”
“You feel…nothing.”
I start to nod, and he gives me a look that says I walked right into it. “You feel nothing, man. You need to start feeling something again. You’re running on fumes, and I can tell you’re not sleeping without help. Fuck, I haven’t see you eat much either. That’s what I noticed that scared me.”
I’m quiet.
He’s right. This kind of tired isn’t the same tired I’ve carried for the last five or so years. This exhaustion is deep set in my bones.
I’m so fucking sick of working, but I don’t know how to do anything else.
Outside of my job, I don’t have a life because I didn’t have time to build one.
Every single one of my friends is embedded in the industry.
There’s no way to get away from it. Dinners turn into meetings.
Drinks at the bar always lead to discussing contracts and schedules.
Everyone I’ve dated, which hasn’t been all that many women in a while, knows someone I know through the industry.
All I have outside of that is the memory of the house in Wyoming where I grew up, the ranch next door where I worked before I was tall enough to get up on a horse without a wooden milk crate.
Deep inside, something breaks, like a frozen tree shattering without a sound.
I don’t say a word or let any of it show on my face, but it hurts so damn much.
This moment, sitting in a diner with Jamie, is the moment I hit rock bottom.
It isn’t as spectacular as I anticipated.
It’s just the end of a conversation. It’s the way we avoid each other’s eyes for a bit.
It’s the way we stand on the street corner, and he says he’ll call me a taxi, but tomorrow, we’ll talk more.
It’s how I feel nothing as I drive away.
***
“He’s good,” I hear myself say, lost in my thoughts. “Jamie’s always good.”
There must be something in my voice, because we’re both quiet for a bit.
“I got those guitars in the storage,” says Bill finally.
I clear my throat, unsure how to approach this. “You talk to Jamie at all before I got here?”
He shrugs, swinging his gaze around on me. “Not too much. He said you were feeling pretty burned out and needed a place to land for the summer.”
I nod.
“I kinda thought you might have other issues,” he says.
“What other issues?” I come to a stop at a crossroad, checking the map on the dashboard.
“I don’t get around online the way my daughters do, but I know taking a break means rehab.”
I laugh, not offended. Most certainly, the minute it gets out that I’m taking a break, rumors to that effect will start swirling.
I’m sure one of the gossip rags will dig up a photo of me snapped in a vulnerable moment while I was on my way to get coffee and pretend it’s me having a meltdown in the street instead of just being un-showered and caffeine deprived.
“Nah, don’t do drugs,” I say. “Not my thing. Gets in the way of work, and I got too many contracts to mess around.”
He clears his throat, tapping his foot. “Good. Keep it on the straight and narrow.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me pause before I answer.
I glance sideways, and he’s back to gazing out the window.
Was that a hint of sadness? I wait, wondering if he’ll elaborate.
He stays quiet the rest of the way to the storage unit.
When we park, he’s out of the car and reaching for the cane he brought with him.
I take my time, following him between the metal buildings.
“This one,” he says, pointing at a rolling door labeled thirty-eight. “Code is four, twenty-eight, four.”
Crouching, I tap the code in and roll the door up to reveal a little unit packed almost to the ceiling with paths carved in it. All along the back wall sits at least a half dozen guitar cases.
“Wow,” I say before I can bite it back.