Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
LOU
“ Y ou know I have songs, Nash,” I hear Patty say. “Songs you want.”
My stomach drops, and even though I’m sitting on the floor, the hallway seems to spin. I have to grip the wall to keep from falling. But the world keeps tilting, keeps spinning and spiraling.
He has songs?
Not … not our songs, right?
The thought slams into me, brutal and raw.
No. Of course he wouldn’t sell our songs. I know him better than that. He must have other songs. Songs that he hasn’t mentioned or even hinted at. I haven’t been … I haven’t been lying to myself the whole time.
Right?
I lean closer, holding my breath, straining for something, anything to make this make sense.
But I hear nothing.
And that silence feels too much like confirmation.
My ears start ringing, a high, piercing sound that feels like a needle through my head. Betrayal rocks me—a punch to the gut that makes me feel like I’m gonna be sick. I’m unmoored. A kite whose string has been cut. But instead of floating away, I crash—hard and broken.
That album is precious to me. Those songs mean so much more than money. They’re a piece of me, a testament to finally opening my heart and trusting someone. I let Patty in, and now he’s offering up our songs to Nash for what? More money?
I stand up—unwilling, no, unable—to listen for another moment. I run into my dressing room and throw myself onto the couch, pressing my hands over my face, squeezing my jaw, my temples, the pressure points in my hands, anything to stop this pain.
But my sorrow is deeper than a well and wider than the Grand Canyon. Yet I can’t cry. I’m too shocked to cry. Too confused, too. I try to piece together their conversation, but none of it makes sense. It’s like trying to complete a puzzle without ever having seen the picture. I can’t even find the edge pieces—I can’t tell the sky from the water.
What happened?
How did it happen?
How did Patty and I go from having a plan to him betraying me so swiftly?
I’m such an idiot. I had one overarching rule for this tour—no distractions. And yet, what did I do? I found the biggest, grumpiest distraction of all, and I made him my person. My solace. My home.
What was it the exec said the other night?
“ I thought you came from the industry? Do you really not know how this works?”
She was right. I’m not smart enough for this industry. Just because I’ve managed to create a tour environment free of the vices that trapped my dad doesn’t mean I actually know how to navigate this world. I know how to write songs. I know how to play them.
But this?
This is a different battlefield, and I don’t have the armor for it.
“I have songs. Songs you want.”
That’s what he said. But is there a chance he meant something else? Does he have more songs he’s been keeping back from me? But if they’re songs Connor wants, what else could Patty be talking about besides the ones we just sent to the label—the ones they want for Nash?
Maybe there are other songs. Songs he was keeping from me because he always meant them for Nash.
That’s possible, right?
Not likely.
But possible.
I put my head down on the cold leather. Cold. I feel so cold. My skin prickles with chills, like my blood has been replaced with ice. But I don’t have the strength to even grab a cardigan or a blanket.
How did my parents ever manage to trust each other?
How did my sister learn to trust her husband?
How have my friends opened their hearts so completely, especially when there were so many bumps in their roads?
The answer doesn’t come to me. I can’t ask them. Not when I have to go to sound check in a few minutes. Not when I need to focus on giving the best performance of my life so my label gives me another contract.
Maybe I should kiss Nash?—
Never.
The cry isn’t from my head but my heart. My heart that beats for Patty.
For the way he takes care of me, whether it's tea or slippers or carrying me to bed at night.
For the way he pushes me to be a better musician … and a better friend.
I think about how he’s always the last person to leave the stage, making sure everything is set up perfectly, safely.
Because he doesn’t only care about me.
He cares about everyone on the stage and crew, whether he knows it or not.
I think about the truths he’s told me and the ones he’s still clinging to.
I think about the way Connor’s voice sounded when they were talking, oily and too smooth.
Everything Patty has told me about their dynamic was unhealthy. Patty’s under so much pressure to pay for his dad’s surgery. To save his bar. To finally let Sean have a chance to shine.
And the truth hits me:
I can’t imagine why Patty would sell songs that are sacred to me. But if I’ve learned anything over the last three months, it’s that I trust him with parts of myself I don’t give away easily.
Even if he has sold them, I have to believe he had a reason. That he felt he had no other choice.
And that has to be enough. For now.
Because the alternative—that I’ve been lying to myself this whole time, that I betrayed myself when I let someone in—makes my throat go dry and my stomach twist, like I might cry, throw up, or curl into a ball and never recover.
Maybe I’m being naive. Again. Maybe this tentative trust is misplaced, and I’m setting myself up for even more heartbreak.
His mom’s words come to me now?—
The lie she told herself.
If I stopped, it would all mean nothing.
I think I know what she means now.
I’ve opened up to him, shown him pieces of my soul no one else has ever seen.
If I close myself now …
It all meant nothing.
I finally see Patty at sound check, and something catches in my chest to see him so stoic and unreadable. A moment later, Connor walks out from backstage, smiling comfortably at everyone. Looking at both of their faces, I can’t tell who got the upper hand in their… what was it? A discussion? An argument? A stare-down?
Greer is standing next to Manny, watching us like a hawk when Connor comes over. Something about the way Connor’s eyes flick over to Patty—like a cat who just cornered a mouse—sends a jolt through me.
And Patty just … ignores him.
But there’s a tension to his dismissal. Something charged hovers in the air, making me feel like my hair is standing up.
Connor greets me with a hug and a smile so sincere, you’d never guess the label is the one pushing us together. His arms around me linger, just like Patty’s eyes linger on mine the whole time I’m in Connor’s arms.
“I’ve followed every minute of your tour,” Connor says. “And I’ve never seen someone do what you’re doing.”
I laugh as he releases me. Is he serious, or is this just his angle for the label’s PR stunt? “You’re jokin’ me, right? I’m only driving down the road you paved a long time ago.”
“Me and Duncan ,” he corrects, emphasizing his bandmate’s name.
“Yeah,” I say, surprised he’s willing to give anyone else credit. “But your career continued. His stopped.”
Connor studies me like he’s trying to crack a code I don’t even know exists. His gaze flickers past me offstage, where Patty is. Did they talk about Duncan after I left? I feel like I’m missing something.
He leans in, lowering his voice. “Have you talked to the label?”
“Plenty of times,” I say, playing dumb.
He takes my hands in his, and all I can think about is Greer watching us. Does she like what she sees?
I can feel Patty watching. Even though I don’t look for him, I know he’s there.
And Connor’s hands—they’re lukewarm. Like they can’t tell if they’re hot or cold.
I should pull away, but maybe it’s the exec’s eyes on me, but something tells me to see this through.
Connor’s eyes flit to Greer. “You should know, they may have all the schemes in the world, but I don’t. I’m interested in you , Lucy. I’m not saying we’re soulmates yet, but I’d love to grab a coffee sometime.”
I wrinkle my nose, wishing Patty wasn’t so close. Wishing he was closer. “Actually, I hate coffee. Tastes like headaches.”
Before I can respond further, our stage managers interrupt, calling us for sound check. A moment later, Patty appears and fits me with my in-ears. I could do it myself, but I don’t stop him.
I feel like I’m being split apart. I love the feel of his hands on my skin—soft yet firm, capable. But I don’t know if I’m mad at him or if I’m trusting him or both. He told me he was holding back, that I had to trust him to make the revisions on his own. But it turns out, I hate everything about actually doing it.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice quiet. We’re close enough to kiss, but neither of us does.
“I should ask you the same thing,” I whisper. “We missed you in the green room.”
“I got caught up with something. But it’s all resolved now.”
“Is it?”
His eyes flick between mine, and for a moment, I wonder if he knows I overheard. But no, that’s impossible. No one would guess that Lucy Jane would stoop so low as to press her ear to a door just to hear a conversation not meant for her.
It’s tacky. It’s obtrusive. It’s not how adults act.
It’s how neurotic, paranoid girls in love act.
Patty’s thumb slides over my cheek after fitting my in-ears. “I’ll tell you about it tonight.”
“Promise?” I ask.
His eyes soften, almost smiling. “Promise.”
I forcibly push my worries aside, but they lurk around the edges of my mind.
How am I going to perform with all of this worry? All of this heartache?
All of this …
Distraction.
“Well, howdy, Memphis! How y’all doing? I’m Lucy Jane!”
The crowd goes wild.
Hot Strings Hall is legendary, a venue with history stitched into its walls, a place where country music giants have left their mark. Playing here, on my very first tour, is a dream. And it reminds me that no matter what the label wants from me, I have accomplished something. I do matter.
But why does it feel like I’m about to fall apart?
I glance side-stage, where Patty is standing, hands on his console, eyes on me.
And I don’t know if I need him closer or farther away.
Either way, the music is the only thing keeping me from unraveling.
But is it enough?
Am I?
That’s the eternal question, the one that’s haunted me since the first time I uploaded a song to my channel.
I strum the opening chords of Double or Nothing —the song that started it all. The crowd erupts, their screams filling the space between my beats. I turn to my band, lifting my hand high, ready to bring the song to life.
And then, I let go.
And we’re off.
I’m singing into the mic with everything in me, trying to channel every ounce of ferocity I’ve ever had on stage. But by the third song, I’m running on empty. My voice still works. My hands still move. But I feel like a wounded bird flapping in vain, desperate to stay aloft.
No mental pep talk helps.
“I didn’t realize Queenie was takin’ the night off,” Patty says in that flat, needling voice that always riles me up.
Except tonight, it doesn’t just rile me.
It cuts.
My grip tightens around the neck of my guitar as I switch my mic to his channel during one of Bailey’s fiddle solos.
“I heard you and Connor.”
A beat of silence.
Then—too careful—“What did you hear?”
“You offering to sell him our songs.”
The words leave my mouth like glass. Sharp. Already slicing.
Patty exhales through the mic, the sound low and rough in my ear. “I wasn’t offering to sell him our songs. I was?—”
He stops. Because I have to sing.
I force the words out, keep my voice steady for the crowd, even though my entire world is tilting beneath me.
I don’t know if I want this song to end or stretch forever—because the moment it’s over, I’ll have to hear the rest of what he was about to say.
The final chord rings out. I step back. The band transitions to the next song.
Patty’s voice is waiting for me.
“I think it’s time I tell you something.”
The air between us tightens.
He’s unraveling, and I can feel it.
But Patty’s too in control to unravel by accident. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Do I?
“The songs I told Nash I’d sell him weren’t ours,” he says. “They were his. Well, mine .”
The word slams into me like a blow. I’m breathing so hard, I feel dizzy.
“Yours?”
Patty has always been a locked door. But now, for the first time, he’s opening it. And something in me wants to slam it shut before I hear what’s on the other side.
“He stole that first album from me, Lou.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s dragging the words out of himself. “And after years of thinking I lost it, my dad found a flash drive that proved it. It must have been on me when I had my accident. That’s what I sold Nash.”
The world doesn’t tilt this time.
It shatters. And the crash rings in my ears.
I blink fast, trying to piece together what he’s saying, but nothing fits. “How did he steal them if you had the demo?”
“He overheard me recording them one night in our hotel.” His voice is clipped now, the words rushing out. “I was so dumb, I actually emailed him a copy. I thought he’d support me in going solo.”
Going … solo …
The arena around me shrinks and expands at the same time, like I’m trapped in a space too big and too small all at once.
Patty clears his throat. “I know you think I ran sound for them. And I did, in a way. I made sure the mixes were up to his standard. I was the one double-checking the stage every night. But it’s not because I was the sound tech.”
The air between us is so electric, it’s dangerous.
Every muscle in my body is braced.
Patty swallows hard. Then, his voice quiet but unshakable, he says:
“I’m Duncan.”