One Song Away (2 page)

Chapter Two

The back seat of my car is packed with boxes of various shapes and depths. If someone had told me before today I’d be able to fit my life into such a small space for the second time in four years, I’d have laughed. Vodka and determination fueled my packing, and the ass chewing I unleashed on Mara, when I came to the conclusion I couldn’t afford to stay.

Leaving feels surreal. Not even turning in my notice at work made it feel real. Sure, there were times I considered it after hellish week–times when I was broke or discouraged. Times when I chased after a contact, hoping for an audition. I always convinced myself to stay a little longer. Told myself the dream would happen for me.

So going home because my roommate kicked me out and I couldn’t find anywhere else to stay feels less like a dream and more like a nightmare. Like giving up deliberately. Being here always felt like I was where I was supposed to be, even when I missed Martinville the most. Even when the bills coming in my name felt overwhelming.

I grit my teeth as I swing into the drive-through at a Starbucks. My mood is plummeting faster than a Billy Ray Cyrus comeback attempt, and if I want to be in one piece when I get home, I need caffeine. I order a venti caramel macchiato and a cinnamon swirl coffee cake. If coffee and cake can’t salvage my mood, I’m a lost cause.

Drink in hand, I merge onto the interstate. Despite the relatively short distance between Martinville and Nashville, I’ve always felt like I left one world for another when I moved. I went from knowing everyone to working to make connections and friendships. I earned my small successes while living in Nashville, and leaving all that behind feels
wrong
.

The truth is, Nashville was a gamble. I moved at eighteen, and even though there have been times recently when I still wasn’t sure I was ready, I always thought I’d roll a winner one day.

I tune the radio to my favorite station. I’ve made this drive a dozen times in the last few years, but this feels different. I feel as if I’m running away, but I also know my options were limited. I blew my savings on rent, gas, working songwriter circles, and my Starbucks addiction. I don’t have the income for anything better than the apartment Mara and I shared, and I don’t have the energy to fight her. I was never on the lease, so she’s within her rights to ask me to leave. I just never thought she
would.

At least Mama was truly sad for me when we talked. Mara practically held the door wide open. She invited her
new
roommate over while I packed, apparently feeling the need to add insult to injury. I usually give people the benefit of the doubt, but I won’t miss Mara. I looked forward to my period more than I ever anticipated seeing her.

I sigh, worrying at my bottom lip. I always thought living with her would be temporary, but here I am years later, no better off in some ways than when I first moved. Close calls, missed opportunities, chances taken, mistakes…all of it equals my current situation. I’ll never know what I could have done differently, or not at all, so there’s no use dwelling.

My odometer ticks away the miles as I go along with the jet-stream-traffic. Going back isn’t the worst thing that could happen. There’s no Mara there, and no Gideon. I’ve been gone for long enough that
hopefully
living there will be a fresh start. Martinville is a different way of life than Nashville, but it holds more good memories than bad for me. And right now, maybe that’s what I need. A safe place to land.

I press harder on the gas. I need to put Nashville behind me while I still have the strength.

___ ___ ___

The texts from my mother start about an hour outside Martinville. Her name on my screen brings a smile to my face. She knows I don’t text and drive, but I’m sure she’s levitating from excitement. She’s never outright asked me to move home, but I know she always hoped I would. She couldn’t hide the hum of happiness in her voice when I told her I was coming home.

After I fill my tank at a gas station, I groan inwardly as I swipe my debit card, knowing I’ll have to supplement my dwindling cash flow. I’m not sure what jobs there are in my hometown for a failed singer-songwriter. Maybe I can be the town troubadour.

My exit appears before I even realize I’m close; when I take it, I try to ignore the tickling in my stomach. There’s no reason to be nervous about moving back home. I’m not the first person to come back, and I sure as hell won’t be the last. I’m in touch with a few people I went to school with, and while some took the traditional college route, not everyone did. Some traveled the world. Some got married and are parents now. Some never left.

I wonder what they’ll think of me. I’m not the Sophie-Claire who left. That girl was mischievous, friendly, but definitely immature. I’ve grown a lot since then, and for the better, I think. I guess we’ll see.

I’m in downtown Martinville now, so I drive slowly just to piss off the jacked-up truck behind me. I want to see my town again, and the dude who is
way
overcompensating judging by the size of those tires can suck it up or pass me.

My last visit was just a quick in-and-out for the holidays. Other than the Christmas tree lighting ceremony, I spent the rest of the time with my family or with Sloane, so I didn’t do any sightseeing. There’s a new coffee shop and an indie bookstore, which makes me smile. The familiar restaurants are all thriving, including the Jiffy Burger. I ate my share of greasy cheeseburgers there in high school, and whether it was actually the best food in the world or not, at the time it
felt
like it was.

Maybe it’s because I know I’ll be living here again, but this trip feels different from my visits home. Martinville is going to be my saving grace—it has to be—so instead of seeing it as the trap eighteen year-old Sophie-Claire thought it was, I see it as a pair of arms welcoming me. Hopefully I can put down my tattered roots here.

My hands are shaking by the time I pull into my old driveway. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the house seems the same. It’s the same sprawling brick one-story. The same red shutters. The same sturdy trees in the front yard, and the same chain-link fence surrounding the property. It’s ridiculous, but I have to blink away tears as I open my door and step out of my car.

On cue, the front door swings open, and my mom hustles onto the front porch. She has her hands up in the air waving like she’s testifying at Sunday service, and her blond curls are flying everywhere as she races toward me. I can’t help but giggle at her exuberance, and the fact that some things really
don’t
change. Deirdre “Hurricane DeeDee” Wright is the best mom in the world, but she does tend to get a bit…

“Sophie!” She flings herself into my outstretched arms.

Overly excited.

I’m laughing as I wrap my mom in a hug. She’s a few inches shorter than I am, and I already have to put on heels to be tall. Her head rests on my shoulder and her familiar perfume surrounds me. She’s squeezing me as tight as she can, but I can’t bear to pull away from her. My big brother is away at school, so she hasn’t been able to do enough mothering.

“Hi Mama.” Her expression is adorable, but I shake my head at the sight of the tears in her blue eyes. “Don’t start.” I blink rapidly to keep my own tears at bay. “You’ll have me crying, too.”

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” she says. She lets out the hiccup-snuffle thing she does when she’s trying not to cry and then laughs. “They’re good tears, though! I’m just so happy you’re home, I haven’t been able to sit still all day, and—”

“I can tell,” I say, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Take a breath, Mama. I’m happy to be home, too. Now that I’m here, we’ll have loads of time to catch up and talk.”

She nods, her face coloring slightly, and then takes a long look at me. It’s as if she’s seeing me for the first time. I wonder what she thinks of the nose ring—it’s new since she saw me last. She examines everything, but I don’t feel judged. My parents have always been supportive, even though I know I’m not exactly who they thought I’d be. Each of us Wright siblings has a different role.

Wesley is the solid, steady-as-an-oak-tree one. Cassidy is the good girl. Without trying, I became the rebellious middle child. I’ve never pushed the limits too far, but it’s always gone unsaid that I’m going to make my own path. It’s why they encouraged my move to Nash, even though they wanted me to go to college like Wesley did.

I never minded the looks I got growing up when I did something outrageous, which was as often as I thought I could get away with it. I was a big fish in a small pond. In Nashville, it was the other way around, and ironically, I learned about real bravery while I lived there. Not just bravado to hide behind, like I did as a teen. Now that I’m home, I feel like I need to wrap all my newfound courage around myself to find my place here.

“Well?”

Her dimples appear. “My wild child.” She says the words in a way that makes them feel like a hug. I know she isn’t as okay with my life as she tries to be. She doesn’t like my tattoos, and she continually fretted over the crime rates in Nashville. She’s never held me back, but her biggest dream is for me to make a life here.

While there’s nothing wrong with her hopes, I’ve always dreamed a lot bigger than she does. I never wanted to get married
just
because it felt like the only option. I’ve always longed for adventure, but I also want my parents to approve of me. I pushed their limits growing up, and now that I’m an adult, I want their respect, but I can’t stop being me.

Impulsively, I twirl in a circle. My mom laughs, a sound that conjures family dinners around the table, Christmases with my extended family, hide-and-seek outside until the porch light flashed, and a half dozen other firefly-bright memories.

“Come on. Let’s get a few of your things inside.” She starts toward my car. I cringe because I’m legitimately worried my mountain of boxes might collapse if she tugs the wrong one out of it, so I hurry over to help her. Just as I spot one I deem safe to remove, a roar fills my ears. Mama lets out a shriek. I follow her gaze and gape at the red Mustang pulling into the driveway. It’s a 1972 model, and I think my brother might
actually
love it more than he does any of us.

The engine goes silent as I take a step toward the car, but I’m barely halfway there before my brother covers the space between us. He sweeps me off my feet and into a hug; I leave the ground but I feel safe with him. He spins me without any effort at all, which is comforting considering I’m a good twenty pounds heavier than I was the last time we saw each other. Damn break-up. Damn Ben & Jerry’s.

“Wes,” I say, laughing, “put me down!”

He obliges, setting me down carefully. His green eyes meet my blue ones and he grins at me, his own dimples flashing. “Hey Claire-Bear.”

“
Don’t
call me that. Unless you want
your
childhood nicknames following
you
around.” Swatting at his arm, I raise an eyebrow.

To his credit, my big brother blushes. Actually blushes. Wesley used to watch Doctor Who with our parents when we were kids, and since the main character is called The Doctor, Wes thought he was a medical doctor. He watched all the old episodes, and continued to watch even after he understood the difference between
The
Doctor and
a
doctor. We all thought it was hilarious for a long time though, and called him “Doctor.”

“That was ages ago.” Wes shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah? When did you watch last?” I cross my arms over my chest and raise my eyebrows.

“Last week,” he admits slowly. “Okay, you got me. I’m still a geek.” He shrugs, grinning.

Glancing at my mom, who appears to be struggling not to laugh, I face my brother again. “You can tell me all about the episode while I unload some of my things.” I stride toward the car, but Wes zooms in front of me and blocks my path. “Yes?” I put a hand on my hip.

“Mom told me about you moving home, Sophie,” Wes says. “Why do you think I’m here? I’m not going to let you do this all by yourself.”

Tears flood my vision for the umpteenth time today, but unlike earlier, I can’t hold them back. “You’re here for
me
?” A watery, Wesley-shaped person nods. “Oh.”

My brother pulls me close. “Welcome home, sis.”

Chapter Three

“To being home.”

Raising my shot glass, I tap it against Sloane’s. “To
surviving
being home.” She laughs and we drink; the tequila burns slightly as I swallow, but I don’t mind. It’s been an insanely long week of settling in, so I need this.

“Surviving, huh?” Her dark eyes focus on me with the same intensity she’s always had. “You’re not regretting coming back, are you?”

I roll my glass between my palms, trying to squash the frown tugging at my mouth. “No. I mean, Mama and Dad are excited to have me here, Wes took a day off from school, and Cassidy is excited. So it’s nice, but…”

“But it’s not Nashville.” Sloane supplies the explanation I can’t bring myself to voice.

I can’t hide my frown. It pulls at my lips despite my best attempts to thwart it. “It’s been hard,” I say finally. “I’m happy to be here, because I know my situation could be a
lot
worse. But… Last week I was writing songs and thinking my life in Nash would never end, and now, I’m back at square one. I felt out of place sometimes there, but I have no idea where I belong
here
.” I laugh, but I can’t hear any humor in the sound. “I feel like I’m two versions of myself: the one who lived here before, and the one who lived
there
. I think I’m more lost than I realized, S.”

Hiding won’t do any good, because she’ll figure me out anyway. Ever since we met in seventh grade, Sloane has had the ability to see past my defenses, to see
me
. We were partnered together for an English project because we were the last two students left. It could have been a disaster. Instead, we ended up becoming best friends almost instantly. Sloane was a new student, and I was invisible—except when the kids in my class needed someone to bully.

After that project, we weren’t the lonely girls we’d been before. Sloane and I both learned what it meant to have a friend who always had our backs, and we both embraced who we were. For Sloane and I both, life has always been about going against the grain. When Jake joined our trio, we were hell on wheels, and I always felt complete with them.

She narrows her eyes. “Sophie, you may have had to back up and change your strategy, but you aren’t lost.” Spoken like a runner, always planning the best way to outrun or hurdle over any obstacle. Sloane deals with races and heartbreak the same way—she charges past everything and everyone to the finish line.

I’ve never been like her. I take the scenic route, preferring to have adventures and make mistakes. I’m not as single-minded as she is, and I probably have more scars, but it’s how I’ve chosen to live my life.

“I’m not?”

My best friend grabs my hand then gently turns my arm so I have no choice but to look down at my wrist. Even though my first tattoo is one of several now, I always look at these lyrics from “A Little Bit Stronger” by Sara Evans, when I’m sad. They remind me of where I’ve been, of where I’m going, and that I can always get stronger. I smile when Sloane places her own wrist, tattooed with the next line in the song, against mine.

“Okay, okay. So my word choice was obviously poor.” I glance around her living room, taking in the furnishings. She’s made this place her own in a way I was never able to with Mara. “I just want what
you
have.”

“Deadlines and constantly smelling like newspaper print or sweat?” Sloane grins to take any heat out of her words. She adores her job, even though her boss rarely notices her. And she gets a freakin’ natural high off of running, plus volunteering as a track coach at the high school.

“Well, I’ll leave the sweating part to you,” I say, cackling so hard that I snort. Normally, I’d want to die from embarrassment right now, but I’m with the one person who has never judged me. “But I want to be stable so I can continue singing and writing. I can’t just give up on my goal.”

She nods. “And you
shouldn’t
. You’ve never given up on anything as long as I’ve known you. You make your dreams happen, Soph, and that’s what I love about you. We may have different ways of achieving our goals, but we both
get
there.”

“Yes, we do.” I fiddle with the charm bracelet Gideon gave me, unsure why I’m even still wearing it. It’s the nicest thing he gave me, adorned with various music charms. I was wearing it when my latest song sold, and since then, I’ve thought of it as a good-luck charm. Now I’m realizing I need to make my own luck. Opening the clasp, I slip the bracelet in my pocket.

“So.” Sloane clears her throat. “What’s step one?”

I cut my eyes at her but she chuckles. “Step one is finding a place to stay. I’ve been looking at apartments, and I think I’ve got enough for a deposit and first month’s rent as long as I can find a job soon.”

“You know you’re always welcome
here
,” she says. “I may be sort of neurotic but I’m not a
bad
roommate.”

Before I can rethink it, I give her a hug. It's second nature to me, considering my upbringing, but it took Sloane a while to be comfortable showing affection. She returns the embrace, and I remind myself that we’re both adults. We may still make mistakes from time to time, but we’ll be okay because we have one another.

“I won’t even bring too many girls home.” Sloane’s eyes are practically twinkling with amusement.

I can’t contain my merriment. “I don’t want to cramp your style,” I say between giggles, but I sober after a few seconds. “I love you forever. Thank you, but I think I
need
to be on my own for now. I had a roommate the whole time I was in Nash, so I’ve never really lived alone. I’ve never decorated my own place, made it feel like mine. I feel like I owe it to myself. Does that make sense?”

“Of course!” She squeezes my hand briefly. “I totally respect that. I’ll help you apartment hunt. We’ll find you a great place and decorate it with cheap vintage thrift store finds.”

“You’re the best friend pretty much
ever
.”

Sloan turns on the DVD player and the menu for
Steel Magnolias
—our favorite film—appears. Then she presses play, flashing me a smile. “You’re the best friend pretty much ever, too.”

___ ___ ___

I’ve barely made it to my seat when I lower my arms onto the table. My head follows. This day has been the longest in creation, and it’s barely noon. If I have a snowball’s chance in hell at making it to tonight in one piece, I’ll need the large coffee I just ordered—and maybe a miracle on top of that.

Letting out a soft groan, I raise my head, scanning the coffeehouse. Freshly Ground is nice on the inside. The outside needs some work, but now that I’ve done more than drive past, I can appreciate the interior. The tables are all big enough that two or three people could sit together and not feel crowded, and the stools at the bar are comfortable. There are several overstuffed recliners scattered throughout the open dining room, plus there’s a whole upstairs that I scoped out briefly. The barista told me they have live bands and karaoke here on the weekends. Overall, the place feels friendly. Any other time, I’d be thrilled to be here. Any other time, I’d be celebrating, if I weren’t still jobless and in the biggest pickle
ever
.

I hit the ground running this morning after the pep talk from Sloane last night, and spent a few hours handing out résumés to anyone who would talk to me. I don’t have any leads so far, although old Mr. Parker who runs Corner Market Produce implied that he could use a “pretty face” to “liven things up” around the store. After I hauled ass out of there before I could knee him in the balls, I kept driving until I ended up here.

Unfortunately, it’s too early in the day to drown my sorrows in anything but caffeine, and I
definitely
have some sorrows to drown. Not only am I unemployed, but I also lied to my mother. In my long history of sneaking out and being grounded, I’ve never lied to her about something like this.

It
must
have been a moment of temporary insanity. After a week of hearing about
all
the guys my age who my mom knows would be “so happy” to meet me, I snapped. Between trying to acclimate to being back home, reworking my résumé to make it look like I’m qualified for
anything
, and Mama’s matchmaking, when she told me that she had invited our neighbor’s son over to dinner, I lost it. Before I could stop myself, I heard myself telling her not to bother—because I already had a boyfriend.

The only problem with my story is…it isn’t
true
.

Sure, I
want
it to be true. But my mom’s idea of the perfect guy and my idea… Well, let’s say we usually agree to disagree in that area, and leave it at that. We’ve had some disastrous failed attempts, like the time she set me up on a blind date with “the perfect boy”, a guy who turned out to be way into puppets. Like,
way
into them. So into them he brought some on the date. Needless to say, there wasn’t a second date.

I want to find Mr. Right on my
own
terms, but considering that my mom is insisting on inviting my “boyfriend” over for a family dinner, I need to hurry up and find someone. Or he needs to find me. Pronto.

I’m already shaken enough as it is from moving home. The
last
thing I need is to have to ‘fess up to my mom that I lied to her. I don’t want to see pity join the sympathy I already see in her eyes when she looks at me. I don’t want her to think she has to take care of me. I want to be able to do that for myself.

“Sophie?” The barista sets my drink on the counter and I go claim it. Settling in my chair, I let the coffee warm me. Summer doesn’t like to let go of Tennessee, so when we
finally
get fall, I cherish it. I love summer and thrive during warm weather, but the cooler months really bring out my creativity. I wish they lasted longer.

Shoving the folder with my résumé copies back in my ginormous purse (seriously, some days I’m not certain there isn’t a hamster or something living in there), I open my writing notebook. I turn to the last page and stare at the crossed-out lyrics. At this point, I’m starting to wonder if they are as bad as I remembered, or if I hated them purely based on the fact that they were written about Gideon.

Rolling my eyes, I take a long drink of coffee and look down at my lyrics, but I suddenly have that creepy-crawly feeling that I’m being watched. I glance around the place, but no one stands out as anything more than vaguely familiar. There’s a
seriously
smokin’-hot guy standing at the counter, but, I doubt he’s actually looking
at
me, even though his head is turned this way. I get attention from males, sure, but
he
should be modeling.

Or at least starring in all my daydreams.

“Claire?”

Everything stops, at least in my mind. I think my heart even skips a beat. I know that voice. It’s impossible, but I
know
it. Only one person in my life has
ever
been allowed to call me Claire regularly and get away with it, but there’s no way
he
could be standing here. The last time I heard anything about him, he was supposedly halfway across the world, doing whatever trust-fund kids do when they reach the age of debauchery and general “I’m an adult. What the fuck do I do now?”-ness.

When I peek out from around my Lorelai-Gilmore-approved giant coffee cup, my mouth drops open. Actually drops open. It’s the built guy from the counter, jeans riding low on his hips, dark hair falling adorably into his eyes—but not so much that I can’t tell they’re brown with flecks of gold. Honey-tinged chocolate. I should know, because I spent hours staring into them and dreaming about them. Only one person in this world has those eyes.

Ohmygod
.

My next breath isn’t really a breath so much as a gasp or a wheeze. There’s no way. No
freaking
way. He
can’t
be here.

“Claire?” He’s right in front of me now. I can’t pretend I don’t see him.

With no other option left, I stand, my traitorous heart pounding like a snare drum, and face the first guy I ever gave my heart to.