Chapter 2 #2
He looks like he’s about to argue, but then the server returns with his coffee and asks if we’re ready to order. I’ve had plenty of time to look over the menu, since Andrew was late, but I assume he’ll need a minute.
I’m relieved when he tells me to go ahead and order, though, and that he’ll figure out something quickly. Because, again, I’m afraid I’ve already rubbed at least one person here the wrong way, and I’m trying to prove that I’ll be an easy guest to take care of.
Once we’re alone again, I look at Andrew and ask him, “Am I high maintenance?”
Laughing, he replies, “You? Never.”
“Okay, good.”
That’s what I thought.
Andrew takes a long sip of his coffee, then says, “But back to the age thing. There’s plenty of women in country music who have still been successful into their forties and fifties. Reba, Martina, Dolly...”
“I know, but they’re legends.”
“And what exactly are you?”
I huff quietly, slinking down a bit in my seat. “I’m the girl who sings about all the guys I’ve dated and how they all broke my heart.”
Oops. That came out sounding more bitter than I intended.
I’m proud of my music and my success with those types of songs. I know my fans can relate to them, and it makes them feel like they can relate to me. But breakup songs aren’t all I write. They’re just the songs that become my biggest hits.
“If I ever manage to settle down and get married,” I muse, “I think that would be the end of people’s interest in me.”
“Okay, well, that’s bleak.” Andrew shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m trying to think of something encouraging to say.”
“Don’t worry about it. Tell me what’s new with you.”
Graciously accepting my desire for a subject change, he starts talking about how exhausted he was by the end of the school year, and how much of a relief it was to make it to summer.
His voice is full of pride when he announces that he’s now finally able to achieve a proper crow pose in yoga.
Which is funny, because I remember his reluctance to try yoga a couple years ago when his friend Toby was begging him to do it.
And he also tells me how he, Toby, and Brenden won at trivia last week and then got so drunk in their celebrating that they had to call Brenden’s boyfriend to come pick them up. I forgot that he’s friends with the owner of the inn.
By the time our breakfasts arrive, Andrew’s in the middle of explaining to me the plot of the newest novel by one of his favorite horror authors, which he knows I’ll never read. If I have time to read, I stick to romance novels.
“All right, I’m running out of updates,” he says as he cuts into his eggs benedict, letting the yolk run out and mix with the hollandaise. “My life is boring compared to yours.”
“That’s okay. I kind of wish my life could be boring,” I admit. I don’t typically complain about my fame, because I realize how ungrateful that would sound, but after everything that’s happened... I don’t know.
Things seemed a lot simpler back when I was a teenager living in this small town, writing songs in my bedroom about the hot senior guy who worked on his family’s farm and probably barely knew who I was.
Then those songs landed me a record deal, and my whole life changed.
“Hey, is Connor Shaw still around?” I ask.
There’s a strange pause before Andrew nods. “Yeah, he basically runs the farm now.”
That’s not surprising. Last I knew, Connor lived with his wife and young son in a house he built on his family’s large property. “Good for him. I can’t really imagine him doing anything else.”
Andrew grunts in response and shoves a bite of food in his mouth.
“It would be cool to see him,” I say, more memories of high school coming back to me. Like how I used to force my brother to hang out on the bleachers with me so I could watch Connor at football practice. “I should go check out the farm store while I’m here.”
“Come on, there’s no way you’re still into him after all these years.”
I wrinkle my brow. “No, of course, I’m not.”
“Then why would you want to go to the farm?” Andrew asks, stabbing his fork into his home fries with an unreadable expression on his face.
“Um, because it would be fun? There’s only so many things for me to do here in town.”
“His mom’s the one who works the store most of the time. You probably won’t even see him.”
“Okay...”
Letting the conversation trail off, I focus on eating my breakfast souffle.
It tastes amazing. It’s light and fluffy, with the perfect amount of spinach and mushrooms. I really don’t want to be on this chef’s bad side.
If I end up needing to eat at Reed’s Diner for every meal, I’ll probably gain twenty pounds this summer.
Which wouldn’t matter so much to me, except that I don’t want to give the public another reason to pick me apart.
After a couple minutes of silence, Andrew looks up from his plate and says, “Connor got divorced.”
“Oh my god, really?”
“You don’t need to sound so excited about it if you’re not interested in him.”
“I swear, I’m not,” I assure my brother, who’s being annoying for some reason. “And that wasn’t excitement, it was just surprise.”
All I get in response is another grunt.
It’s been so long since Andrew and I talked about Connor that I forgot how weird he used to get when I’d bring Connor up.
In school, we used to tell each other everything about our unattainable crushes.
Andrew’s crushes were unattainable because the guys were straight.
My crushes were unattainable to me because I was shy and quiet and tended to fall for guys who were the opposite of that.
And with Connor, there was also the troubling factor of me being a freshman while he was a senior.
Then he started dating Emma, who seemed perfect for him.
Maybe the age difference was why Andrew never really wanted to entertain my crush on Connor.
I’m sure he was concerned with the idea of a senior taking advantage of his little sister.
Or maybe he was only trying to discourage me from getting my heart broken, because there was no way Connor was ever going to look at me twice.
I always knew I had no chance with him, but that didn’t stop me from fantasizing back then.
Now that I’m hearing Connor’s divorced, though, and now that I’m older and more confident—and famous—I can’t help but wonder if there could actually be a possibility.
But I let the thought slip away as quickly as it comes.
It might be fun to imagine what would happen if we met again, but I wasn’t lying when I told Andrew I wasn’t interested. I’ve got enough in my life to figure out right now without adding a romance into the mix.
My first full day at the inn passes fairly quickly, since Andrew stayed after breakfast and hung out with me until the evening. Now that he’s gone back to his place, though, I’m at a loss for what to do. So I’m sitting by myself on the inn’s front porch, because it’s way too early to go to bed.
As I sway back and forth on the wooden swing, I fight the urge to look online. I know I’m supposed to be here ignoring what the media is saying about me, but I’m afraid the not knowing is even worse than knowing. Or maybe not.
At least the view out here is nice. The front path is lined with sunflowers, and the grounds out back are gorgeous too. But the view can only do so much to distract me from the way my fingers are itching to curl around my phone.
Right as I’m about to give in, the inn’s front doors open and the woman from yesterday and this morning walks out of them.
The head chef. The one who apparently hates me already for reasons I can’t figure out.
I’m surprised she’s just leaving now. She must have been here working through breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“Wow, you’ve been here all day?” I call out. Although I don’t know what possesses me to do it. I could have simply let her pass by me without drawing attention to myself.
She stops halfway down the porch steps and spins back around. Her eyebrows go up, and I almost expect her to turn again and continue on her way. But then she nods and says, “So have you.”
“Well, yeah,” I say with an awkward laugh. “I kind of don’t have anywhere else to go.”
That’s not entirely true. I could always make Andrew pick me up and take me somewhere.
Or use the inn’s shuttle service to get over to Main Street.
But I’m still a little tired from my flight yesterday.
And from the last few months of my life.
Maybe the last few years of it, if I’m really being honest.
The woman climbs back up the steps and comes to stand in front of me, leaning against the porch railing with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s dressed informally for being at work. Jean shorts and a T-shirt with a logo I don’t recognize but am guessing is for a band.
I realize I don’t even know her name.
“I heard you’re here indefinitely,” she says. “Can’t imagine someone choosing Mayweather for a long vacation. I know tourists come for the festivals and whatever, but there isn’t much else to keep you entertained.”
“Believe me, I grew up here, so I know how it is,” I tell her.
“After all the years I’ve spent in Nashville and touring, though, I think the quiet might be good for me.
And...” I hesitate, fussing with the hem of my dress and wondering why I’m about to share anything personal with a stranger.
“I wouldn’t really call this a vacation. ”
She frowns. “No? What would you call it?”
An exile.
When I don’t answer out loud, she shakes her head and pushes off from the railing. “Never mind. None of my business.”
For some reason I can’t explain, I want to stop her from leaving. But I don’t. I watch her walk away, my eyes drawn to the large black and gray tattoo I can’t quite make out on the back of her calf. I think it’s a knife with flowers.
At the bottom of the steps, she turns back to me again. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here,” I tell her, a hint of a smile inching up on my face.