Nashville 3 - What We Feel (7 page)

“Man, with the exception of Sarah, we’d have Barefoot Outlook back together. You were part of what we started here.”

“And I left.”

“And you’re back,” Thomas says.

“For good?” I say before I can stop the question from popping out.

“I don’t really know yet,” Holden answers.

“But what about Sarah and-” I stop and immediately apologize. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

“No. It’s okay,” Holden says. “Sarah and I are…we’re going to be good friends.”

I absorb this explanation the way I imagine a mountainside might work at absorbing a sudden deluge of rain. It is simply too much to take in so unexpectedly, and I nod once as if I understand, when I do not at all.

“Things are different now,” Thomas says, in an obvious attempt to bridge a gap that cannot or will not be clearly defined at the moment. “I want you with us.”

Holden and I aren’t looking at each other. We both have our gazes hooked on Thomas, who’s wearing a stubborn expression I recognize all too well.

“Look,” he adds, “we all came here for the music. We’ve hit a few speed bumps and taken a couple of detours, but it still comes back to the fact that we live it, breathe it, love it. We’re getting a break here with this tour. And we all know how hard those are to come by. We’ll have a far better shot at going somewhere with this if you’re part of it.”

I let myself look at Holden, and it’s clear Thomas’s words mean something to him. I imagine then how it must have felt to be away from all of this for the past year and a half. To put the dream in a drawer and walk away from it, never intending to open it up again. And now. Another chance. Am I going to be the one to stand in his way? If so, what will that really accomplish?

One thing and one thing only. The protection of my own heart. My own pride. Getting over Holden, if I ever did actually reach a point where it qualified as that, took every bit of will I could scrape up from the bottom of my determination to accept something I could not change. I built a wall around my heart and told myself I never wanted to fall like that again. And I don’t. The thought of being around Holden and not letting that happen is more than a little terrifying.

Even so, I remember how Holden had been against me joining up with Thomas and him when we’d first gotten to Nashville. He’d changed his mind, and I’d been grateful for the chance.

How can I be the one to close him out now?

I can’t.

Not even when I’m aware of exactly how high a price I’m going to pay for making this choice.

THOMAS KNOCKS ON my door at seven the next morning. I know his knock by now, and I consider pretending not to have heard it, but I lift up and mumble, “Come in.”

He steps in the room, walks over and sits down on the edge of the bed. Hank Junior cracks an eye open, then puts his head back on my pillow and ignores him.

“CeCe?” Thomas says.

“Yeah?” I answer, my gaze on the wall.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know what.”

“I figure I owe you both for picking me up on the side of the highway.”

“That was no biggie.”

“Yeah, it was. I very well could have turned around and walked Hank and me back home at that point. If I believed in signs, I would have. So we’re even.”

“That’s not a debt I would’ve called in.”

“I know.”

“I guess you also know Holden tried to do what he thought was right in going back to Atlanta to be there for Sarah. He pretty much gave up everything to do that.”

I nod.

“And I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“I’m a big girl, Thomas. And I have someone in my life. What happened between Holden and me is part of our past. That’s all.”

“You sure about that?”

“Very,” I say. “There is one thing though.”

“What?”

“I’d like for you to be the one to tell Beck about Holden. I think it will sting less.”

“Sure. We really do need him, you know. It’s not like we’re creating a spot for him.”

I want to deny it, but the truth is we’ll be lucky to have him. “We should start working today.”

“As soon as we’re done with the recording, I’ll text you.”

“Beck said we can practice at his house.”

“Cool,” he says, standing. “CeCe?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re awesome.”

“Don’t forget it,” I say, looking up at him with an attempt to stay stern-faced, and failing.

He leans over and kisses my cheek. “I won’t,” he says.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Holden

“You know how you’ve dreamed about something for so long that it starts to feel like if it ever actually happened, it wouldn’t even seem real?”

Thomas asks me the question in a low whisper while we are sitting behind Hart Holcomb’s producer and a recording engineer in a Music Row studio complete with every piece of sound equipment I could ever imagine having access to. Hart is warming up inside the booth, going through parts of the song time and again, and it feels anything but real to hear him singing the words I wrote. “Yeah,” I say. “That’s what I’m thinking right now.”

“It really is like you wrote it for him.”

“Pretty sad though, you know.”

“But maybe someone who hears it will think twice about having another drink and then getting behind the wheel. If one person’s life is saved, that makes you a hero.”

“I’m not the one who’ll be selling it to people.”

“No, but they’re your words.”

I don’t say anything else because hearing Hart sing the last line makes my throat close up. With the fade of the final note, there’s a collective breath blown out around the room.

“Wow, Hart,” the producer says. “That’s just plain powerful.”

Hart clears his throat and takes a swig of water from the bottle next to him. “Thanks. And I’d like to thank Holden for writing it, y’all. He’s never lived the story of this song but the way he wrote it would make you think he has. That’s the mark of a great writer. I expect we’ll be seeing you in big places, Holden.”

Everyone is looking at me now. I don’t have any idea what to say. Thomas claps me on the shoulder, and I finally manage, “Thank you so much. If this is the only song of mine that ever gets cut, I’ll be all right with that. This is an honor. Really.”

Hart smiles at me and through the sadness in his eyes, I glimpse a man I hope will one day know happiness again. Tragedy has clearly taken its toll on him. It’s nice to think that maybe in putting out a song that might stop one person from causing the kind of pain he’s known, there could be some renewal of purpose for him.

They play through it one more time before the producer says, “You ready to do it for real, Hart?”

“Ready,” he says.

The studio is pin-drop quiet throughout the entire song, and I’m amazed that both Hart and the band hit every note perfectly and don’t stop even once.

“Whoa,” Thomas says when they’re done. “Pretty impressive,” I say.

By the time they lay the background vocals, it’s after four o’clock. Just as the producer declares it a wrap, a guy in a jacket and jeans walks into the studio, speaks for a moment with Hart and then comes over to where Thomas and I are getting up to go.

He says hello to Thomas and sticks his hand out to me. “You must be Holden. I’m Andrew Seeger, Hart’s manager. I hear things went incredibly well today.”

“It was amazing to watch,” I say.

“I’m glad it’s all worked out.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a folded pack of papers. “Sorry I didn’t get this over sooner but this is our standard contract. I believe you’ll find the terms extremely appealing. As I’m sure you’ve already figured out, Hart really wanted this song.”

I unfold the papers and glance through the first page, my eyes widening at the numbers there. “Wow. That’s…thank you.”

“We’re expecting big things from this. Get ready. I think you’re going to be amazed by the number of knocks you’ll be getting on your door.”

“Thank you,” I say again, because I have no idea what else to add. I sign my name on the places he indicates I should sign. We shake hands and then I walk over and thank Hart again.

Thomas and I say nothing until we’re in his truck and pulling out of the parking lot.

“Did that just happen?” Thomas asks.

“As far as I can tell, it was real.”

“Dang.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna be famous.”

“Shut up.”

Thomas grins. “Don’t go all modest. You earned it. It’s a great song.”

“Thanks, but luck has to play some part in it. You think I ever imagined something like this?”

“No,” Thomas interrupts. “I don’t. You still deserve it.”

“You’re a good friend, Thomas,” I say, suddenly serious and wishing I knew how to say how much it means to me that any success either one of us has is never ruined by resentment or jealousy.

“Speaking of which,” he segues, “I called Beck when you were talking with Hart after we first got to the studio.”

“How’d that go?” I ask, suddenly sure I know what the answer will be.

“He was totally cool with it,” Thomas says. “I gotta say, it’s not what I was expecting.”

“That’s kind of a surprise.”

“Just so you know, I don’t think he’s worried about you sweeping CeCe off her feet.”

I consider this, weigh my conflicting responses and decide on, “He doesn’t need to be.”

“Doesn’t he?” Thomas asks, looking over at me, dead serious.

“No.”

“Can we have an honest moment here?”

“Thomas, I-”

“Hear me out, okay. I think it needs to be said.” He taps a thumb against the steering wheel and then goes on with, “It took a long time for CeCe to start acting like herself again. You put a pretty big dent in her heart, friend.”

There’s no criticism in the statement, just flat truth. “I never meant to hurt her,” I say.

“I know. If we’re playing together, maybe it really would be best for things to stay the way they are. Everybody knows it’s difficult for groups to stay together. And for whatever reason, Case wants Beck in on this gig. War between you two would pretty much dump the whole thing in the landfill.”

“Thanks, friend.”

“You can’t deny it, can you?”

I want to but I actually don’t think I can. “No,” I say.

“It seems like Beck is good to her,” Thomas says, clearly not enjoying this.

“That’s good.”

“It really is.” He looks out the window as if thinking twice about what he’s about to say. “You two could have been really good together. There’s a lot of water under that particular bridge, and I’d hate to see either one of you-”

“Drown?”

“Something like that.”

“You don’t need to say anything else. I get it.”

“Then why do I feel like such a jerk?”

WE GET TO BECK’S place just as an enormous storm cloud breaks open and dumps rain so fast and hard that the driveway looks like a small river. We pull in at the front of the house behind a BMW. Beck slides out of the driver’s side and runs around with an umbrella to open the passenger door. CeCe gets out and ducks under it, laughing as they run inside.

I watch them with a sense of loss that I know I have no right to feel. But it’s there anyway, like a kick to the gut.

“You sure you’re gonna be able to do this?” Thomas asks.