True. Totally.
Mostly.
Kind of.
“What would that do to Bree?” I ask, strengthening my argument. “Could I watch her if there was a chance of someone taking her picture and putting it in the Expose or some other rag magazine?”
“Well, I didn’t think of that,” Dad says.
I sigh, relieved.
“Me either. There are things I didn’t think of that could have a profound impact on our lives. I shouldn’t jump into things, right? Didn’t you teach me that?”
Dad looks at me like he’s not sold on my argument entirely.
“If this is the case,” he says, “then fine. You should wait to jump head-first when you’re sure. Because you should never commit to someone’s heart unless you’re ready to take care of it in every way.”
I nod.
“But if you’re lying to me,” he says, pointing a finger my way, “then when that boy comes for you, you better take him back.”
“If he comes at all, it’ll be a long time from now.”
Probably never.
Dad chuckles. “Bellamy, listen to me. He’s going to come back. You better be ready.”
“How do you know that?”
He grins. “You told me.”
“I did not,” I scoff. “You’re losing your mind. Do I need to order a head examination?”
“No. You don’t. You told me that he’ll come back when you gave him your heart.” He smiles sweetly. “You wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t deserve it.”
Tears well up in my eyes as I try to stay calm. To not cry. To stay strong and hard and unbendable.
Like I used to be.
But it’s harder now. Something has changed. And I think it might have to do with what Dad just said.
I gave my heart to Coy. No amount of staying stoic or going forward or playing hardball will get it back.
So, I guess I have to live with it.
“I’m going to bake those pears,” I say, sniffling. “Brown sugar or white?”
Dad laughs. “Brown.”
“Okay.”
I wipe my nose with the back of my hand.
“Bellamy?” Dad calls.
I stop at the doorway and turn to face him. “Yeah, Daddy?”
“A life without tears is a life unlived.”
I nod, tears flowing down my cheeks freely, as I turn and walk away.
Seems like I’m living life all right. Way too many tears though.
Twenty-Six
Coy
“I look like a monkey.”
No matter how much I mess with my tie, it’s crooked.
That’s the least of my problems.
My eyes are bloodshot. My hair is a mess and refuses to cooperate, no matter what I do. Couple all of that with the fact that I have the temperament of a wounded badger, and you have a very moody artist headed for a meeting with an agent he’s probably going to fire.
Bellamy didn’t take my call last night. In her defense, I wouldn’t have either. A part of me hopes that she just turned it off so she could get some rest, but the other, bigger part of me knows that’s not true.
She hit me with the Fuck You Button.
And I deserve it.
“Meadow,” I say to my reflection in the mirror, “I don’t give a shit what happens today. I’m going to Savannah this afternoon. So fuck. You.”
Holt’s stupid advice—that isn’t so stupid—kept me up last night. Around and around, his words rolled in my head, and I couldn’t quiet them until dawn.
Life doesn’t have to be this way. I shouldn’t be a puppet in some fucked-up puppet show in conference rooms.
I shouldn’t have to give up my life and my rights to make music.
It’s bullshit.
The only way around this mess is crazy and could totally backfire. And, if I’m honest, I’m scared of it. What good would I be to Bellamy if I couldn’t take care of her?
I mess with the tie for one last time before saying to hell with it and heading into the kitchen.
My house feels like a rental. The inspiration I usually find here is gone. The stillness that I typically relish only makes me crave the laughter in a guest house in Georgia.
There’s no part of me that wants to go to this meeting. And, when I think about the reason I’m going, it’s hard to pinpoint it. Sure, Meadow said that I would lose my contract, and I’ve worked so fucking hard to get to where I am.
But … where am I?
Do I even want to be here?
I thought long and hard last night about what here really meant. It’s not just Nashville or in my house or this place in my career. Here isn’t just at this point in this web of experiences and emotions.
Quite frankly, I loathe just about everyone in this particular experience.
I despise lying and that I had to lie—to fake date a woman I didn’t even know—to look like an upright guy. I am an upright guy. Maybe a little wild here and there, but I’m a good person. My parents raised us all to be honest and real and this world here, it’s anything but. And I loathe that.
I take out a glass and pour myself some water from the tap. Just as I’m about to take a drink, my phone buzzes.
I grab it, hoping that it’s Bells.
It’s not.
Meadow: Are you prepared to be responsible for your future today? Tell me that you’re home.
Her words burn through me like a lit match. Condescending, much?
No. I’m not home. I’m here.
The thought speeds through my brain like a train going warp-speed.
I sit the glass down and grip the countertop.
Home.
The word conjures up images of heated, ridiculous arguments and then laughter with Bellamy. sleeping Bellamy Scents of bacon in the morning. My mom’s kitchen, with my brothers packed around—even Wade—and Joe’s living room with his game shows up way too loud.
It’s playing the piano with Hollis and Fourth of July parties on the boat. It’s Bells’s face when I walk in the door and the moss dangling from the southern oaks that line the streets.
It’s knowing that people have your back. It’s knowing that you have theirs. Home is safety and support and … love.
And it’s where I should be.
“Fuck.”
I reread Meadow’s text.
Are you prepared to be responsible for your future today?
A knot twists, and grows, and groans inside my body. It wraps around my heart and yanks it until I pay attention.
Every time I’ve thought about my future in the last week, it was only about Bellamy. It might’ve included this contract, but really only in what way it would affect me not being home.
I gulp.
I stand at the counter and stare into space. Snap, snap, snap!—all of the pieces of my life fall into place.
Except one. Except for the one where I failed my responsibility.
My phone buzzes again, and I look down.
Hollis: Emailed you some lyrics. Tentatively titled Say It. Couldn’t sleep. It’s weird how inspiration hits you.
Say It.
Hollis’s text mixes with Holt’s advice. They slam together in a dizzying revelation.
I grab my phone and type out a text.