Chapter 32
EVERETT
Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
I thought I’d experienced every stage of grief.
That was five minutes ago.
Before everything fell apart.
I picture Brian’s face stuffed through the sound hole of my guitar. Calluses rubbing off my fingertips with the pressure I’m strumming the strings. Pretending to punch the guy when I had my chance earlier this week.
That bastard threatened her because of me.
Anger and speed—a volatile combination—build in equal measure.
“Take five,” Steven says, halfway through the first verse.
Drums, bass guitar, piano all fade from the background.
No. No. No. Why are they stopping?
I lift an index finger, rotating it in an aggressive fashion above my right shoulder. I got caught up in the moment; I’m fine, the gesture says.
Prolonged silence follows.
Denial.
“Rh-e-tt.” My one-syllable name chops through my IEM in three.
I toggle on the talkback switch of my beltpack to respond. “Play it again!” My music director gets a warning through gritted teeth.
The audience gets a smile. They hear nothing.
Anger.
Millions of dollars in funding. Months boiled down to this moment. I’m not spoiling it on another false entrance.
I cross the stage in confident strides. Make it look intentional when my purpose is to confront Casey whose drumsticks are frozen in his lap. He’s thinking the same thing I’m sure every other person in the crowd is—What is going on right now?
He knows the drums open this song. He’s the one I need to make listen to me.
“Play it again, and I’ll give you a solo at the end of the set,” I barter.
Casey is cocky. I put up with his ego because he’s the most talented drummer I’ve ever come across. A guy who would jump at the chance to perform in the spotlight for a crowd this size.
Bargaining.
A whisper breaks out and carries in a wave across the U-shaped stadium.
Casey’s still staring at me. Challenging me with a look that says he’s not going to do this. He doesn’t care about a solo. His reputation is already on the line with the spectacle this long pause is causing.
Reality sinks in.
This is it.
This is over.
This is the end of Rhett Dawson.
The pressure in my chest is so tight now there’s nowhere else for it to go but up. Up, up, up. Until it’s stinging my lower lash line. Pain choking every last shred of hope I had left.
I’ll never do this again.
I wasn’t enough.
Depression.
I turn and face the crowd one more time. The rush of euphoria, the sound of their praise, all gone.
My steps slow as I leave Casey’s side, weighed down by defeat and loneliness. I don’t know where I’m walking. I don’t know what to do now.
Before I realize it, I’ve crossed half the stage. Settled on a barstool that wobbles when I sit. It feels fitting to end this concert in the same place it was supposed to start—under a bright light and a sky full of stars.
I glance to my right. A ways off the stage, I spot Todd. He’s clutching his headset, one foot in front of the other like he’s waiting for the call from the MD to end this whole thing. I nod at him. It’s okay.
It’s time. I can’t hide anymore.
The standing microphone is a few feet from where the stool ended up. I drag it closer. With zero thought or preparation, I do what I should have done a long time ago.
“Twenty-seven years ago, I fell in love with country music. Right about the same time I was diagnosed with an auditory processing disorder. As a child with a disability, I was called every name you can think of—stupid, worthless, insignificant. Unless I was singing, I was struggling. I hid behind my talent and learned to be someone who was liked for the one thing they could do well instead of everything they couldn’t.
Someone I love recently said: Be yourself and the people who love you will stay, the ones who don’t were never meant for you.
She tried to make me see my disability in a new light.
Teach me that it’s okay to be different.
I owe all of you an apology. I’m sorry for not being honest. For being afraid to show who I really am.
The thought of losing this career I love was not something I wanted to face.
But there’s a little girl waiting for me at home who deserves a dad who can be proud of who he is.
So, no matter what happens tonight, if this is the last song I ever play on a stage, this one’s for Summer and Quinn. ”
I prop my foot on the rung of the stool and seat the waist of the guitar against my thigh. One strum and the soulful chord rings out in the nighttime air. One by one, thousands of flickering dots fill the stadium as the lights dim. A hush spreads as I start to sing.
Used to dream about being somebody else
Changing my name and zip code
Used to worry ’bout everyone finding out
Hiding through a microphone
But the moment we met, I just cared less and less
’Bout keeping everything inside
What kind of harm would it do
If everybody always knew
’Bout the struggles I was trying to hide
It’s easy to show the kind of things we share
Like who we love and how much we care
My favorite car and your favorite flowers
You and I, we can talk for hours
But you’re never gonna open up
If scars aren’t something you’re proud of
The thing about sharing hearts the right way
Be yourself and the good ones will stay
I can hear the words getting all jumbled up
Scared I’m gonna let it all show
Not making sense in my head or my heart
When I’m worried somebody will know
But my time spent with you
Fills my world with something new
A sound I can’t seem to ignore
And the louder it gets I listen to it
Not afraid of showing up anymore
It’s easy to show the kind of things we share
Like who we love and how much we care
My favorite car and your favorite flowers
You and I, we can talk for hours
But you’re never gonna open up
If scars aren’t something you’re proud of
The thing about sharing hearts the right way
Be yourself and the good ones will stay
The final chord wanes as my right hand stills. I stare out at a silent crowd, dusky light illuminating thousands of hands in the air. I don’t know who started it or at what point everyone else caught on, but their wrists are waving—an action in American Sign Language for applause.
They care.
Relief. That’s what blooms in the space where tension and fear once existed inside of me. I did it. I made it through the song without falling apart.
A few months ago, I wasn’t sure I’d ever perform again, let alone like this. It’s proof those lyrics aren’t some fantasy.
Before this moment, I believed acceptance was coping with the necessary evils of APD. I was wrong.
It’s found in facing the great unknown with valor and embracing what comes because of it.
Acceptance.
The next two hours I deliver my best performance yet with the weight off my shoulders. When I give my final wave, it’s Todd who’s the first to find me offstage.
“Wallace scheduled an emergency meeting. We have a Zoom call with the label in thirty minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there,” I tell him, eyes on Summer. She approaches me slowly, uncertainty warring in her eyes.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I reply.
“You were amazing out there.” She points to the stage I left before she’s back to twisting her hands like she was doing in my dressing room.
What is she thinking? Is there more she has to say? Would she be okay if I reached for her? are all questions I’m ruminating on. “Thanks” is what I actually say.
“I’m sorry if you felt pressured to do that.”
I stop thinking and grab her hand, clutching it between my palms and looking deep into her eyes. “I should have done that a long time ago.”
This isn’t her fault. Brian did me a favor.
“You’re meeting with the label? I overheard.”
I glance over my shoulder to find Todd giving us space but waiting for me. I don’t even try to hide my concern from her over the conversation I’m about to have with them. I have no idea how it will turn out. The show didn’t exactly go off without a hitch. “Yeah. I have to go.”
This wasn’t the lengthy explanation I’d hoped to give, but I plan to give her more time.
“Okay,” she says, sounding disappointed.
“I’m staying at the Four Seasons. The spare hotel key is in my jacket pocket in my dressing room. 304. Wait for me?”
She smiles. “Of course. I’ll be there. Good luck.”
When I lean in to kiss her, I expect it to be tentative.
There’s tension between us that won’t unravel without a deeper conversation.
But the longer I linger, the more she starts to melt into me, and the harder it becomes to pull away.
It’s reassurance for the both of us that we’re going to be okay.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say, before a group of security guards escorts me away from her and out of a discreet service entrance to a black SUV. When I duck inside, Todd is already in the vehicle.
We apologize at the exact same time.
“No, I should have seen it.” Todd stares at the roof of the car, shaking his head. “Every time I’d talk to you, and you’d ask me to repeat what I said. The quiet dressing room request. The stage.”
“No. Come on, man. You couldn’t have known. This is on me. I should have trusted you with the information. I’ve put everyone through a lot in the last few months. All I can do now is be honest and see where things land.”
He barks out a laugh. “That’s your big plan with the label? No wonder you hired me.”
“I hired you to stand by my side at this meeting as a middleman for my career. But I want you there as my friend. I couldn’t have done any part of this without you, and I don’t want to start now. Don’t give up on me, okay?”
“You think I’d walk away? I’m your biggest advocate. You know that, right?”
I nod.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to start by explaining to me what you need from them. And then, you’re going to leave the talking part up to me.”
I cringe, knowing this request is a lot to ask after already signing a new contract. If I’m going to move forward, I need them to understand my daughter takes priority over my music.
“First, I need to be flown back to Idaho after next Friday’s tour date. Quinn has a talent show, and I’ve agreed to sing with her at it. I imagine the school would be open to having our performance filmed if that sways the label toward good publicity.”
He only responds with one question. “Can I come?”
I give him my answer in the form of a smile.
“What else?” he asks.
We spend the rest of the drive prepping a list of important rider requests moving forward. Most of the time, that consists of me explaining why I need what I do. When we’re in the silence of the hotel’s conference room, Todd launches the video call.
A group of label executives seated at a rectangular table are projected on an empty wall. Wallace, the executive head of the label, starts the conversation. “Gentlemen, thanks for meeting with us on such short notice. Rhett, it’s good to have you back.”
The positive lilt to his voice is a good start. I try not to roll back my shoulders to appear put together. There’s no pretending. The line between Rhett and Everett has merged. I’m an imperfect person who will need all the help I can get moving forward.
“You can call me Everett, and thank you. It’s good to be back.”
“Listen, Everett, it’s about time we address the elephant in the room. We’re here to back you as an artist, and I’m sorry if you haven’t felt that from the beginning, but we just have one question.”
I swallow. “I figured.”
“How can we support you?”
Todd and I share a look of surprise before he screen-shares the new rider with the group. I’ll either fly or die with this list of demands. But this time, I’ll do it as me.
It’s past midnight before I make it up to my hotel room.
Summer’s asleep in the king-sized bed, sprawled out like a starfish in a pair of shorts and a tank top.
I don’t want to wake her, but I can’t stand being away from her another minute either.
Not touching her and making sure she’s real and still here.
I strip down to my boxers and pull the covers over us.
She stirs with the dip of the mattress and scrunches into the fetal position.
I slip an arm around her waist, spooning her.
She lets out a sigh but doesn’t wake. My world feels right again.
Fatigue seeps into my limbs but evades my mind. That part of me is racing with thoughts of everything that transpired today.
I did it. After years of hiding and coping and struggling and trying… I accepted it. In front of an arena full of people, I learned that APD doesn’t define me.