The Way Back Home (12 page)

“F
LYING COMMERCIAL, HUH
?”
Adam jokes over the phone the next night as I deplane in Nashville. “Like a peasant?”

“Ha-ha,” I say dryly. “There was some kind of maintenance issue with the label's jet, and I really wanted to get home.” After our second show at Madison Square Garden, the rest of the tour headed back to Nashville while I stayed behind for my
Rolling Stone
shoot.

“Is Anita with you?” he asks.

“Nah, she wanted to stay and visit her family on Long Island. Big Dave is here,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. A string of passengers file out behind me, and I lower my ball cap again, always feeling weird in disguise. “But yeah, I'm so glad I called her. She wasn't thrilled about me losing my cool in that last interview, but she took half the blame for leaving me alone with a reporter for so many days in a row.”

“That's cool.”

“Yeah.”

“Was Jase there this morning?” he asks.

“Yeah, she skirted around the perimeter,” I say, still feeling so stupid and betrayed. “But all the other people at
Rolling Stone
were really welcoming—even the photographer was easy to work with—so I tried to block Jase out and stay focused on how big-time it is to have a feature in their magazine.”

“Good.”

“And while Jase is intimidating, she's no match for Anita.”

“Nobody is.”

“Got that right,” I say with a grin. I follow the signs toward baggage claim and switch my phone to the other ear, hoisting my carry-on bag up higher onto my shoulder. “You happy to be back home?” I ask. “A few days off and then a couple shows at Bridgestone. Feels like a vacation.”

“It does,” he says. “And I have plans.”

I can hear the smile in his voice, and my heart flutters. “Oh, really?”

“I thought
maybe
you could do me the honor of a redo.”

“A redo?”

“Yeah.” He pauses before going on. “The real reason I came up to your hotel room yesterday is because Stella and Dylan had helped me plan this second-first-kiss thing at the top of the Empire State Building.”

“Oh no!” I say, stunned.

“No, listen, no big deal,” he rushes on. “I still got my kiss.”

I can picture his lopsided grin on the other end of the phone. “Yes, you did.”

“But having to leave you in New York killed me. So I want a redo,” he says.

I laugh out loud and say, “You going to kiss me at the top of the AT&T Building?”

“Oh, I have big plans,” Adam says. “I'm going to date you like a normal person.”

“Hey, I am a normal person!”

He laughs. “No! I mean, let's go to the movies, let's crash the bluegrass jam at the Station Inn, or get fried chicken and biscuits at the Loveless.”

“Yes!” I say with a hop. “Let's be normal!”

I feel like skipping, like running through the terminals with my arms wide or riding the conveyor belt at baggage claim singing something from
The Sound of Music
.

But then I stop short, the person behind me nearly running me over, when I see a kiosk to my right with shelves stocked high with Bird Barrett merchandise. “Oh my gosh,” I whisper.

“What?”

“This shop,” I say as my feet, almost as if of their own volition, carry me over to the tiny store. I am stunned by what I see. Obviously, “merch” is a big part of being a performer—I know my label and manager are licensing my image and “brand,” as Troy calls it—but I mostly leave those decisions up to my parents. Of course I've seen the T-shirts, posters, and hats, and I've autographed thousands upon thousands of CDs for sale at my concerts. But as I walk around this shop, letting my fingers graze Bird Barrett souvenirs and tchotchkes—magnets and mugs and pillows and playing cards—I am positively stunned. It's unnerving.

“What is it, Bird?”

“It's just—” I start. “There's all this ‘Bird' stuff. Like, my face and my signature are everywhere.”

“Well, you have to expect that stuff in Nashville,” he says.

“No, but Adam, it's so much more than—” I stop. It's like I'm in a house of mirrors at a carnival. “Okay, the Bird Barrett doll is kind of cool, if a little creepy, and the calendar and the book are okay. But what in the world would someone want with a Bird Barrett robe or my face crocheted on a blanket?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So I should hide my Bird Barrett Kleenex dispenser when you come over?”

I chuckle. “Yes, please.”

“It's pretty cool, actually. You pull the tissues right out of your nose. Could've really come in handy yesterday.”

“Adam, you do
not
have a Bird Barrett tissue box.”

He laughs. “No, but I wish I did.”

Then my eyes fall on a square magnet of me playing my fiddle. It's the only image in this whole shop of Bird Barrett wonders that I recognize as the real me. I snatch it without thinking, remembering some advice I got last year from Bonnie:
It's just very important that through it all, you remember who you really are
.

I place the magnet on the counter and reach for my wallet. “Just this, please.”

“You're buying your own stuff?” Adam asks loudly through the phone.

“Shh,” I say, setting my phone down as I pay.

I glance up at the cashier, knowing she'll recognize me and probably want me to sign a bunch of stuff or snap a picture with her. But she just scans the magnet, takes my five bucks, puts the souvenir in a gift bag, and hands me my change and receipt. Then she says, “Have a good evening, sweetie.”

“You too,” I say, stunned as I pick up my phone and walk away. It's surreal. I am totally separate from the image of me that I'm selling. “Well, Mr. Dean, maybe the normal-person mini-break has already begun.”

“She didn't recognize you?” he asks incredulously. “And she's surrounded by your face all day long?”

“I took a page from the Adam Dean Pro Disguises Handbook,” I joke as I pass through the security checkpoint. “I'm in sweats and no makeup. Nobody suspects a thing.”

“Well, I'd know you anywhere,” he says, and suddenly I feel strong arms wrap around my back and his face appears next to mine.

“Adam!” I scream.

He spins me around to face him, and I don't even know what to say. I just stare at him, blinking, with my mouth in an
O
.

Adam is here.

I know he wants to kiss me as badly as I want to kiss him, but I can also see that he is aware of the people all around us. So he just takes my bag, and as if floating on a cloud, I follow him through the airport. Like a normal person.
WELCOME TO NASHVILLE
, a sign says near the baggage area, and with Adam at my side, there's nowhere else on earth I'd rather be.

“So this is our redo?” I ask as Adam parks his truck at Percy Warner Park.

“Consider this whole week in Nashville one giant series of redos,” he says, getting out.

I step out of the truck as well, taking in the gorgeous October day and my handsome hiking partner. “This will be fun.”

“Yeah, and Yelp said this place is romantic”—he stops and makes air quotes—“‘yet public enough in case you still don't know if your date is certifiably insane.'”

I laugh. “I know your brand of insanity isn't certifiable, so I'm not worried.”

He grins. “Maybe I was worried about yours.”

I swat his arm, and he grabs my hand, squeezing it as he leads me toward a hiking trail. We walk a little ways and are soon hidden from the world, under a dense overhanging of trees with leaves just starting to change colors. I hear the buzz of forest life, so peaceful and yet so alive with birds chirping and twigs snapping beneath our steps. “I do kind of love that you researched your redo date,” I say now.

“Hey, when you go and botch something as epic as the Empire State Building, a guy has to dig.”

I smile and we walk. I trail behind him when the path gets narrow, and he helps me up when things get steep. About twenty minutes in, I've definitely worked up a little sweat and it feels good to be outside and free, the very opposite of being cramped on a tour bus. “This is awesome,” I say when we walk past a bunch of wildflowers. “Adam, look. They're so pretty.”

“They really are.”

“Wildflowers remind me of you now,” I admit, linking my fingers through his. Ever since I told Adam I was named for Lady Bird Johnson, a First Lady of the United States from the sixties who was crazy about wildflowers, he's gone out of his way to get me flowers. Twice I've gotten handpicked bouquets, and he even sent me wild poppies when I moved to California.

“You know,” he says, “I used to hike around Lady Bird Lake in Austin all the time.”

“Really?”

He nods. “It was so crazy because we had just, um, left things alone between us, and I'd moved to Texas to work on my music and, you know, free myself of any distractions. And then bam! There you were smack in the middle of the city I moved to.”

I chew on my lip and start walking again, thinking back to that time and how heartbroken I was when he moved away. I liked Adam so much, thought about him constantly, dreamed of going out with him; then it finally happened and he dropped me faster than a hot potato.

“Anyway,” he says after some silence. “Made me think of you every time I was downtown.”

“I thought about you a lot after you left, too,” I say, letting go of his hand.

“I wish I could say I shouldn't have left, but I think it was good for me,” he says. “Got my demo, met some cool people, signed with the label. All good things.”

I nod, feeling my throat constrict, surprised by the sudden emotion rising up in my chest.

“You okay?” he asks as we walk over a wooden bridge.

I nod and step ahead of him.

“Bird, wait,” he says, pulling me back. He stares at my face while I look beyond the bridge, watching as the water from a small creek flows over the smooth rocks below. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, swallowing hard. I do not want to get emotional right now. We're having a fantastic day on our first “normal” date, so the last thing I want to do is ruin it by hiking down a dark patch of memory lane. “Just tired. Might rest a sec.”

I squat, sitting down on the bridge and letting my legs dangle over the edge, studying my sneakers as they swing back and forth over the water. The rushing sound is so soothing. I stare at a feather caught in a little whirlpool, wondering how long until it frees itself and carries on. Adam waits a bit and then sits down next to me, cautiously, as if feeling me out.
Ugh, I've already made things weird.

“Hey,” he says. “Talk to me.”

I sigh, closing my eyes.

“What is it?” Adam asks softly. He squeezes my shoulder. “You know you can tell me anything.”

I open my eyes and watch the ripples dance in the stream, deciding to be honest. Even if it's painful, I'll just be honest. If it goes badly, maybe I'll get a chart topper out of the deal.

“This might sound crazy, but when you brought up Austin and how you left…” I glance up at him and then back down at my hands. “It just—that was a hard time for me. I was really into you, I was crazy about you, and then it seemed like the minute things got hard, you left. Sayonara. Peace. The end.”

He looks puzzled. “You had a lot going on.
A lot
. And I wasn't really sure you were all that into me, to be honest.”

I stare at him. “Are you serious?”

“Bird, we only went out one time,” he says. “And you squeezed me in at, like, six thirty in the morning.”

“I had to finish my album!”

“Right, and you had to do publicity stuff all the time, like that date with Jason Samuels—”

“That was
not
a date,” I interject.