16. Bailey
bailey
. . .
August presses down on everything, with heat that doesn’t let go after the sun sets. It clings to my skin, follows me backstage and onto the bus and into hotel rooms that smell faintly of detergent and air conditioning working too hard.
Sweat drips down my spine as I step offstage in Phoenix, lungs burning, voice raw in the good way.
The crowd is still screaming, the sound vibrating through the concrete beneath my feet.
A towel gets pressed into my hands, and someone else hands me water.
Rachel’s voice cuts through the noise, already talking about tomorrow’s call time, my next interview, an artist who would like to collaborate, a brand who wants me to be the face of their next campaign, a band who wants me to join them on their tour...
I nod, I smile, and I keep moving. Movement is everything right now.
The days blur together. I measure my life in cities played, set lists completed, how my voice feels when I wake up and whether my fingers cramp during the encore. I don’t linger anywhere long enough for silence to settle in. Silence is dangerous.
My notebook is always open. In the bus or propped on my knees in hotel beds while my hair dries in damp curls against my shoulders. Lyrics come fast now, loud and insistent, like they’ve been waiting for permission.
I don’t edit much.
I don’t soften anything.
I don’t ask if a line is too much.
I write what shows up.
Some of it scares me. Not because it’s sad, but because it’s honest in a way I haven’t let myself be before. There are songs in here I never would have written while I was still trying to be careful. Still trying to make sure someone else didn’t feel threatened by how loud I could get.
I think of that only briefly, then I turn the page and keep going.
Jackson and I text almost every day.
Jackson
What if the chorus drops instead of lifts?
voice note sent
This one needs grit.
How about like this?
Attached audio file
I hear this as stripped first, then full band.
Send me that melody again... the second one.
Sometimes a voice note comes through late at night, him humming something half-formed, laughing when he messes it up. Sometimes I send one back, raw and unpolished, recorded in a dressing room while people knock on the door asking if I’m ready.
We talk about September, how he will join my bus so we can write when we don’t have time to stop in a city, if we want any additional writers and how we'd manage that. Oddly there is no pressure with him. Just work. The love of music and song writing. It’s the cleanest creative space I’ve ever been in.
My new phone stays quiet most of the time, very few people have the number. Rachel. My team. My family. Jackson. That’s it.
There’s no social media on it, no news apps or alerts. The only thing that buzzes regularly is the pregnancy tracker Sadie shared with me. A little notification every few days. Some of my happiest moments come when I get the baby size updates, when I get a bump picture from Cole.
I read those updates slowly, sometimes twice.
Noah is back home now. I offered him a job on my tour when I heard what happened with Luke and the band. But he told me he needed to be there. With his parents. On the property. Doing things that don’t involve stages or schedules or the toxic energy of being under a microscope.
I didn’t push, I understood.
Some days I picture him out there, fixing fences or hauling lumber, the quiet settling back into his soul. It helps more than I expected it to.
The tour keeps selling out. Cities that weren’t supposed to sell out do.
Fans start bringing signs with their version of 'no place I'd rather be than here with you Bailey' and lyrics from songs I haven’t released yet, lines I sang once, off-the-cuff, that Rachel posted online.
She now has someone managing my social media full time.
She says that with the brand deals coming in and the collaborations, it makes sense that we take my marketing more seriously.
I don’t look, I trust Rachel and she trusts Brandy so they share what is important, and I focus on the music.
I was told that people were excited about the idea of me playing with different artists, so Brandy polled them, asking who they would like to see most. And we started to make it happen when we could. Now every city has a new guest. It’s loose and playful, like the music can breathe again.
For the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m trying to fit beside anyone. I take up space, and I start to find the joy in my music again.
Dave gets past security in Dallas. I don’t even know he’s there until Rachel’s hand tightens briefly at my elbow backstage.
“He wants five minutes,” she says quietly.
I laugh, but there's no humour in it.
“What does he want?” I ask.
Rachel’s mouth flattens. “He says he’s concerned about Luke and needs to talk to you.”
I don't want to see Dave or hear his voice. He has caused me so much pain over the years, so many issues in my marriage that he had no respect for. I step into the hallway anyway.
Dave smiles like we’re old friends.
“Bailey,” he says. “I’m glad I caught you.”
“Why?” I ask.
He launches into it immediately. How Luke’s struggling. How this doesn’t have to get ugly. How things are shifting, and deals are back on the table, and maybe it’s time to show a united front.
I let him talk, let him get it all out. Talk in circles around what he is actually here for.
“You aren’t here because you care about me or Luke or our marriage,” I say evenly. “You’re here because the optics changed.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off.
“No! You weren’t worried when you pushed him to miss dates with me, miss anniversaries and birthdays.
You weren’t worried when he missed the award show or my sister's wedding. You weren’t worried when I was protecting him all while you were pushing him for more, feeding the narrative that he had to do this without me.
” I step closer, voice still calm. “But now you've realized there are consequences. So suddenly I’m useful again.”
His smile falters.
“Is this about us,” I ask, “or is this about the deal you’re negotiating that doesn’t look as good without me attached to it?”
He doesn’t answer.
I nod. “That’s what I thought.”
Rachel steps in beside me. "The conversation is over."
I go onstage thirty minutes later and sing as if nothing touched me.
September creeps closer, where Jackson will join me for the last leg of my tour.
We’ve already started carving time into the schedule, mornings for writing, afternoons for rehearsals, nights for shows.
There’s talk of bringing in another producer, maybe two.
The words album of the year gets said out loud more than once, and we haven't written anything officially yet.
I just keep moving, the next day, next show, next thing to keep me busy.
In Chicago, Rachel tells me Luke hasn't responded to the divorce petition and keeps calling, leaving voicemails. She tells me I shouldn't listen to them.
I nod. Drink water. Go over the setlist again. I tell Brandy I do not want to do viral dances and that anything I actively participate in social media needs to be authentic and real.
I video chat with Sadie as much as I can and check in with Rose and Thomas once a week to reassure them that everything will be ok, that nothing has changed where they are concerned.
I keep moving, pushing forward, looking to the future so the past doesn't catch up with me.