“I think assault rifles hadn’t been invented when it was written. I think the right to bear arms and a well-regulated militia have no place in school buildings or college campuses or hospitals or cemeteries or grocery stores or churches or any of the hundreds of other mundane locations where people, completely innocent and nonthreatening human beings, are going about their right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That’s what I think.”
Jen has her head in her hands, but I can’t make myself care. If this is the only way back to music, I guess I don’t want it. I’ll return to my classroom and sing to my third graders every day for the rest of my life before I offer one more lie to appease these people.
I shake my head, feeling the weight of the headphones over my ears, and lean toward the mic one more time, feeling more myself than I have in months. “I sang a song. That song, the one you just played, to a stadium full of people years ago. My heart was broken, and like a thousand times before, I sang that broken heart into a crowd where other people could share it. That’s what music is supposed to be about. A shared experience. A transfer of emotions and understanding. Empathy.
“I sang that song because I couldn’t let one more minute pass without saying it. And I was told to shut up. The proverbial mic was stolen from my hands and the lights were shut off. Because of me. One tiny woman singing a song that wasn’t even mine. I don’t know why that scared y’all so much, but I’m done apologizing for it. I’m taking my sorrys back. I’m not sorry. I’d do it again in a second. Just watch me.”
And with that, I remove my headset, my hands steady and my breathing calm. I scoot back in my chair, whisper my thanks to the production team, and walk out into the waiting area.
Jennifer is pale and shaky. She looks like I kicked her puppy, and that won’t do. Clearly I’ve outgrown her.
“I just got off the phone with the Square network. They canceled your interview for tonight.”
“Already?” I quip. “That was fast. Well, I think we can officially call this apology tour an epic failure.”
Jen straightens, running her trembling fingers down her pencil skirt. It’s fascinating to watch. She reminds me of a cartoon Transformer, reconfiguring herself back together.
“I’ll get on the horn with the Colter team.”
“No,” I say, my voice soft but strong.
“What do you mean, no?”
“Jen, I’m releasing you. Be free of my bullet-train-off-the-rails of a career.”
“It’s not as bad as all that. I’ll have to sweet-talk Marty, but he’s always had a soft spot for you. You know what? Even better.” She’s nodding to herself and brushing her manicured fingers down her fitted jacket. “Let’s head on over there together. He won’t be able to turn you down to your face. You won’t have to even say a word…”
I blow out an exasperated breath and hitch my purse higher on my shoulder. “Fuck’s sake, Jen. I’m firing you. I don’t want Drake’s tour; I don’t want an apology tour, and I don’t want whatever plan you’ve cooked up next.”
Jen gives a pitying sigh. “You’ll never sing in this town again, Lorelai.”
My smile is sad, I know, but it’s also genuine. “Maybe not. But that’s no longer your concern.”
Which brings me to now. Sitting on the balcony, under heavy cloud cover, my bare feet propped on the railing and a half-empty bottle of Two Buck Chuck sitting on the side table next to me, Taylor Swift’s Midnights soothing my prickly feelings and filling me with female righteousness.
In my lap is a well-loved spiral notebook filled with pages of thoughts and lyrics. I’m not writing for me right now, but there’s comfort in the familiar process. I’ve been collecting words since I was a lonely teen in my bedroom while my parents worked through their bitter divorce. The unlikely but all-too-real contrast to my head cheerleader and weekend bridal model persona. Lines from poems, stanzas from songs, pages out of books, copy from glittering magazine ads. Thoughts borrowed from strangers that feel like connections. A stunning web of like minds, all carefully collected and copied down in blue ballpoint pen.
Whenever I’ve felt my craziest, I’ve gathered my courage from these pages.
You’re not alone, they’d whisper to me over and over. You’re one of us.
As of tonight, I have no recording contract, no credibility in country music, no tour with Drake Colter, and no agent. I’ve nearly run out of my savings, and I have no source of income to speak of. I have notebooks of songs, but they’re all pure country, so that’s a bust.
I could return to Michigan—to Shelby and Cameron, Maren and my students. There’s a pang in my gut, however, at the mere thought of leaving Nashville, and I’m not sure if it’s only about the music or if it’s something more. Someone more.
A light drizzle starts to fall and with it, the smell of an impending storm. I slap my notebook shut and collect my bottle and pen just as the drops start to fall heavier and closer together and jog down the metal stairs and into my apartment, sliding the glass door shut behind me.
I turn on the light from the kitchen, putting away the rest of the wine and pulling out a jar of kalamata olives from the fridge. I grab a fork and then flop on my couch, pulling my tablet onto my lap, figuring to find a good serial killer doc to distract me from my current state. I’ve been avoiding email and social media since I left the radio station earlier, but I’m just tipsy enough to face them, so I make a detour from Netflix and click on my Instagram. I bypass all the DMs, since I already know that way lies madness. My notifications are so chaotic, I can’t even keep up, but from skimming the tagged posts, sound bites, and clickbaits, I have to say, it feels fifty-fifty on the hate scale. Which, honestly, isn’t terrible. There’s a clear separation between national coverage and conservative coverage, but at least no one is telling me to shut up and sing this time. I’m trending on Twitter, but it’s just my name, so I’ll take it.
My eyes snag on another trending name. WhoIsCraigBoseman and “Jonesin’。”
Huh. What?
I revert back to Instagram, and there on the home page is a face dear and familiar to me. He’s posted a video. He never posts videos. I click on the link and turn up the volume. Huck rarely sings. His voice isn’t really anything extraordinary, but I have to admit, the low, kind of growly tone of it sends little spasms of attraction through me, anyway.
He’s strumming a guitar, and if I didn’t know him, I wouldn’t be able to tell it’s not his instrument of choice. Not even the top three, but he plays smoothly.
But that’s not what everyone is talking about. It’s the song he’s playing. His song. I’ve heard it a million times. Everyone has. Drake made it famous, but this is different. It’s as though Craig is playing it the way it was meant to be played—the way it was meant to sound. Drake’s version is polished and precise. Manufactured in an expensive studio with the best, highest-quality equipment available.
Craig is playing it in a tiny, dark space. The sound quality is more than fine, but it feels intimate. Uncut and raw, somehow. Like he’s playing it from his bedroom the morning after. Like I just left.