Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Coy
I sling the trash into the container and slam the lid shut.
My thumb swipes over my phone screen as I read the latest headlines.
Heartbroken Willa Welch Gets Tea in Hollywood
Willa and Coy—The Real Truth He Doesn’t Want You to Know
Insider Claims Willa Welch ‘Didn’t See BreakUp Coming’
The more I read, the more I want to scream. It’s all a bunch of horseshit. How anyone believes this crap is beyond me. But people do, and here I sit, unable to defend myself.
I’m about to click on a sports update to try to save my sanity when my text alert pings.
Meadow: Contract update. Call me when you can.
I groan into the early evening air. My irritation level is so high that I consider not calling her. But I know my curiosity about the contract will keep me up all night, so I break down and find her name.
“That was fast,” she says after the first ring.
“You said to call when I can. It’s not like I have a lot going on these days.”
“Touché. How are things in Georgia?”
I glance at the trash can. “They’re great. What’s up?”
“We ran into a bit of a snag today with the contract negotiations with your label.”
What?
“Define snag, Meadow,” I say. “We’ve gone over this, and you know the main thing I won't budge on is to have more leeway to create the kind of music I want and not just their definition of country.”
Frustrated, I rattle off a few more things we agreed to—like two more albums for a two-year term, their option to renew—but the longer I regurgitate what Meadow already knows, the angrier I get.
Why isn’t this moving forward?
Meadow sighs. “We agreed to all of that—in theory. Nothing was ever signed. We were supposed to do that next week, as you know, but—”
“Meadow, what the hell is going on?”
I switch the phone between my hands.
“The label wants assurances that you’ll be less of a liability and more cooperative going forward,” she says in her matter-of-fact tone.
I blink twice. “What the fuck? I have been cooperative. Less of a liability? What the—”
“It’s mostly a public relations issue, Coy. They want you to be the face of their new music division. The handsome boy from Georgia who delivers a punch of soul and sweetness.”
“And I have.” I blow out a hurried breath. “Half of my two albums for them include songs I don’t even like. Songs that aren’t me. Songs that they chose to make them fucking money.”
“It made you money, too.”
I close my eyes and try to stay composed.
“I told you and them when we signed that I didn’t want to be straight country.
But here we are. I’m total country. I’m cooperating.
I’m toeing the line, Meadow. And then you come at me with this?
The woman who—let’s talk about this for a second,” I say, seeing red, “is letting Willa paint me as an asshole in the press while I sit here and stay quiet? Please, tell me you see the hypocrisy in this.”
My whole body shakes with suppressed anger. My mind races with a million different options.
I didn’t break the fucking arrangement with Willa. Yet now my contract is being affected. This is totally wrong.
“This is a fluid situation and business,” she says. “You know this. While I concur that Willa is getting a little out of hand—”
“A little? Really?”
She sighs. “I have a call with her tomorrow. Okay? And I do appreciate your willingness to do what I ask. But the label is seeing this right now as a nightmare for them. Your reputation isn’t great.
How do they pit you as the guy who every girl wants to date when you’re out breaking hearts in the middle of the street? ”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. That shit with Willa—you fabricated that. I didn’t break her heart.”
“But that’s what they see.”
“Because you made that happen. Not me.” I tug at my hair as I try to be professional. “Look, I just want to go back to my life, okay? I want this nightmare to be over—the one you got me in. So, get me out. Just … please, fix it.”
Her no-nonsense attitude barrels through the line. “I’m working on it. While we’re on here, they’re not interested in the staff writing deal for Hollis Hudson. I pressed it, but they flat-out denied him.”
“Of course, they did.”
“Coy …” Her cool demeanor cracks as she fights to stay collected with me. “I know you’re frustrated. I am too. I’ll talk to Willa again tomorrow and get her to get on board.”
“If she doesn’t, I’m speaking out. I’m not letting her just use me as some token in her bid to … do whatever she’s trying to do. I’m going to stand up for myself if no one else will.”
“I’ll talk to her,” she reiterates to appease me.
“I’m talking to the label again tomorrow as well, and I’d like to be able to tell them that you’re on board with their vision.
That you understand the acceptance and delivery term and that you understand that they have no obligation to release music that deviates from your contract. ”
I don’t answer her.
We both know I have to agree to this. I don’t have a choice if I want to sign with the label again. And I do. It gives me access to bigger shows, bigger venues, more publicity. They know I know that, so they have the reins.
But I have the reins with Meadow, and I’m starting to wonder if she’s the best person to negotiate on my behalf. She’s the first agent I ever had—and the best by all accounts—but this incident is making me wonder if that’s true.
Meadow changes tactics.
“Have you been writing?” she asks. “Feeling inspired.”
“Wrote a song tonight about taking out the trash.”
“I hope you’re being facetious.”
I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me.
“You have star power, Coy. You have the talent and energy this label wants. They’re willing to make a big investment in you. We just have to sell you.”
“If that doesn’t make you feel like a prostitute, nothing will.”
She groans. “You’re impossible.”
I pace a little circle next to the trash can and contemplate my choices. I really don’t have any. I have to get on board with whatever the label wants and solidify my place in the music world, or I balk at their demands and potentially find myself bagging groceries next week.
It’s happened to many people before me—people far more talented.
“I have my team working on firing back on your behalf,” she says. “I’m not hanging you out to dry even though it might seem like it.”
“It does.”
“I know it can look that way, but it’s not true.
We’ll have a statement out tomorrow, and we’ll try to set the record straight.
In the meantime, please don’t add any fuel to the fire.
No pictures of you skinny-dipping in hotels or leaving a bar with each arm around a different girl.
Or my personal favorite—no using shoe polish on drive-through windows, okay? ”
I grin. “I’m not apologizing for the skinny-dipping. And the girls at the bar were just friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But that restaurant deserved it. Not selling tacos to a … maybe slightly inebriated patron after midnight. They were very clearly animals.”
“And all of that is not a look that’s becoming of a country music star. Thank you for making my point for me.”
I hate when she does that.
A part of me wonders if our dynamic would be different had I not signed with her when I was so young and stupid.
What does a twenty-year-old know about doing business?
Not much. I didn’t know much about shit back then.
But I’m wiser now and not the fresh-faced, na?ve kid who hired her years ago …
and I wonder now, too, if I’m not just an easy paycheck.
“You behave, and I’ll work my magic. Okay?” she asks.
“It’s about time you did something,” I half-joke.
“You’re hilarious. Now relax and write some music. Use this frustration to pen some lyrics.”
“Sure. Call me tomorrow after you talk to the label,” I tell her. “I want to know what they say.”
“Will do. Good night, Coy.”
“Night, Meadow.”
I end the call and then put my phone back in my pocket.
A breeze rattles the leaves on the tree in front of me.
The sound reminds me of being a little boy.
Boone, Larissa, Bellamy, and I would come out here and play tag or hide-and-seek until it got too dark to see.
As teenagers, we would make a fire in the pit in the back and sit around drinking beer we would convince—blackmail—Oliver to buy for us.
We always knew something about our second-oldest brother to hold over his head.
He’d cooperate as long as we gave him our car keys and promised not to leave.
Life was good back then. Easy. Uncomplicated.
Maybe it’s that way for everyone. Life’s complications might just come with getting older and successful.
“Or, maybe not,” I say out loud.
I wonder what my life would be like here as an adult. Would it still be as fun as I remember? Would it feel as simple as it did back then?
I look at the Davenport house. The light in Bellamy’s old bedroom is off.
Would we still be friends? Could I trust her?
I can’t imagine Bellamy pulling a stunt like Willa. There’s no way I can see her making me wonder about her loyalty like I do with Meadow.
Granted, I’m not exactly friends with Willa and Meadow, but I’m not sure I’m really friends with Bells anymore either.
And that realization stings.
“I want you to know that I hate you.”
I glance at the gate that separates our side yard from theirs. I’m tempted to walk over to it.
“Do you hate me, Bells? Or are you just fucking with me like you usually do?” I ask quietly.
She has to be messing with me. There’s no reason for her to loathe me.
If there’s one thing I’ve never done in my historic career of messing things up, it’s wronging Bellamy. I’d never do it. I’d never hurt her.
Not even when I break a guy’s nose for fucking around on her because she “won’t put out.”
Bellamy still thinks that was some screwed-up form of jealousy. She’ll never learn from me that I broke the guy’s nose for hurting her and that I didn’t tell her what he said to save her from hearing what he said.
He was twenty. Bellamy was seventeen.
He’s lucky my friends pulled me off him before I swung a second time.
A light switches on in her dad’s bedroom, and my stomach drops.
I hate that Joe is sick. He was always so full of life and a little piss and vinegar—just like his daughter.
We always had some weird connection, especially when it came to Bellamy.
He’d tell me to keep my eye on her, and I always did.
I probably would have anyway, but it felt different knowing that her dad counted on me.
It made me feel … trusted. And I always appreciated that.
I went to see him the last time I was home, but he wasn’t there. The woman who opened the door said he was undergoing a hospital procedure and would be gone for a few days. When I saw Bellamy the next day, she shot me a dirty look. She then refused to answer the doorbell that afternoon.
So I stayed away. I had other shit to worry about anyway.
But maybe that was a mistake too.
With a final glance at the gate, I tear myself away and go back inside. I’m just starting to replay my conversation with Meadow when my dad walks into the kitchen.
He’s a big man—bigger than any of us boys. He’s like my eldest brother, Holt, with his sandy-colored hair and way of staying composed no matter what. No matter what we did growing up, Dad didn’t lose his cool. Not even when Boone lit a kid’s hair on fire at school his junior year.
Mom? Panic. Dad? Cool as a cucumber.
“Were you taking out the trash?” he asks with a laugh.
“Yeah, well, laugh away, but I’m not about to piss Mom off.”
“Excellent plan,” he says as he passes me. “Want to play poker with me tonight? We were supposed to play Tuesday, but one of the guys is getting audited.”
I make a face. “None of that sounds fun.”
“You’re welcome to join us.”
“Thanks. I think I’m gonna hang out at Boone’s.”
He nods. “I’ll send your mother a text so she doesn’t hurry home to an empty house. I bet she forgot my poker night got moved.”
I sit at the table and watch him rummage through the pantry for a snack.
“What does Mom do while you play poker?” I ask.
“I don’t know. She works or sometimes has dinner with her friends.”
“Oh.”
I pick up a piece of paper on the table and fold it in half. And then in half again.
“Why?” Dad asks, looking at me over his shoulder. “Do you think she just sits here alone? Because I can assure you that she doesn’t. She has a life outside of me.”
I believe that. She always told us that you were responsible for your happiness, so I imagine that Mom does ensure her life is full independently of my father.
Something about that makes me smile.
“Pick a woman like your mother, Coy Boy,” Dad says. “If you ever pick one.”
“Eh, I don’t think I’ll be settling down soon.” I look up to see my dad smiling. “Or ever.”
He laughs. “I always thought that too. But there will come a day when you just know. And then it’s over.”
I hum. And then it’s over. Well, shit. That doesn’t sound like much fun at all.
“You’ll see,” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “I’ll be back late. If you and Boone want to come play a few hands, we’ll be at Roger Petticoat’s.”
“Cool.”
“All right. See ya,” Dad says and walks out of the kitchen.
I look at the space my father just occupied and think about what he said.
“Pick a woman like your mother, Coy Boy.”
I fiddle with the folded-up paper.
If I ever would pick a woman to settle down with, I would prefer someone like my mom.
Someone feisty and determined. Someone sweet and kind.
A woman who doesn’t need you at their beck and call all the time.
One you don’t have to make too many compromises in your life to make them happy.
A woman who was all of those things and would have your back no matter what.
I blow out a heavy breath.
I’ve only ever met one woman who comes anything close to all of those things.
And she says she hates me.
I grin.
“I guess I’ll just be alone forever,” I say and get up from the table. “That doesn’t sound like a bad plan at all.”